One day in 2013 I met the Grim Reaper but did not realize I was in his company. This seems peculiar to the uninitiated but its quite a bit more common than one might believe. In the Summer of 2013 I was in a strange quagmire - admittedly entirely of my own grotesque devising. I was hopelessly addicted to Heroin and I was making a living (primarily to support my deviant habit) by pulling heists on other non-humans. Primarily the hoppers who’d deploy on the corners to push dope on the open street. This was a more involved process than it may appear at first glance - one must take care to be reasonably certain that his target/victim is NOT in fact packing a gun. Most corner-boys do NOT because they are shaken down by the Police CONSTANTLY, and being in possession of an illegal weapon equates to very serious criminal charges. At the same time, these kids no doubt CAN rapidly call upon armed reinforcement if they are in fact under assault - and they often ARE by enemy sets.
The second challenge in casing such a target is discerning exactly WHERE his supply of drugs is located and determining if in FACT the target is slinging Heroin. Crack cocaine or cannabis obviously is of no use to an opiate addict and frankly would be worth little as an illicit fence as it would obviously have a bounty on it and ANYONE willing to buy it would be running risk of inheriting such liability, among other things. If the hoppers had their product stashed in an actual TRAPHOUSE or abandoned residence (the latter being eerily ubiquitous in Chicago) it precluded moving on the target - a TRAPHOUSE is a literal as well as figurative ‘‘TRAP’’ - it is not feasible to pull a score of one without being willing to commit cold blooded murder if necessary AND to have basic confidence in one’s infantry skill set in order to accomplish such a raid. I was neither willing, nor able in other words.
Eventually, this particular strong-arm hustle ran its proverbial course - I could NOT continue on this course without running profound risk of being murdered - or being captured and suffering things I would prefer not to elaborate nor speculate upon prior to being unceremoniously put down. Thus, desperation being the Mother of a certain type of industrious motivation, I realized that I had to begin DEALING Heroin if I was going to be able to sustain my habit and NOT place myself in constant mortal danger. I was incredibly deluded and foolish.
It came about ultimately that I convinced my regular Plug - who had come to trust me sufficiently that he would allow me to come to his home in order to score Heroin - to introduce to me to his distributor. The distributor in question was a man who went by the name of ‘‘Heavy’’ - not merely because he was a LARGE man (he indeed was - resembling nothing if not a fatter version of Michael Clarke Duncan or a heavyweight prizefighter long since retired who had packed on weight - but because he was known to ‘‘come HEAVY’’. The story I had heard about him was that years ago in the ‘90s, he developed his ‘‘heavy’’ rep when as a teenaged corner-boy another ‘hood rat of some reputation had insulted him - Heavy proceeded to kick the shit of the guy, smash his car windows, and tear of the antennae - proceeding to whip the guy with it in the company of multiple witnesses.
I was told to meet Heavy at a ‘‘self serve’’ Car Wash that had no surveillance cameras in use, located on a main drag in K-Town. I arrived somewhat early - having borrowed a running partner’s Chevy Volt, and parked it in one of the four car wash stalls. I loaded three golden dollar coins into the machine and began hosing down the Chevy. After about ten minutes, a white Dodge Charger arrived, slowly pulled into the adjacent stall. The windows were entirely blacked out with post-production tint - I stopped washing the Chevy, and walked around the front of the adjacent stall so I would be visible to the driver but not from the open street.
As I did so, the driver’s side window rolled partway down, and a huge hand extended, indicating, ‘‘Halt’’. Then the hand firmly pointed to the back lot beyond the stalls. I nodded and walked to the place indicated. Being weak from withdrawal, I leaned on the Quonset style structure abutting the car wash stalls in the lot. I lit a Pall Mall and fought down my nausea. I unzipped my hoodie to expose my white tank top underneath so it would be clear I was not strapped. I heard the Charger door slam and moments later I saw Heavy ambling over to me. He had a loose gait - it would have looked corny if a White man had tried to affect it - but Heavy could pull off that kind of flagrant swagger that Black guys seem to be able to do for reasons that aren’t immediately discernible.
Heavy eyed me up and down. ‘‘You Shane’s guy?’’ he asked? ‘‘Yeah. You Heavy?’’. He didn’t say anything, just slightly nodded. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a package, threw it at my feet - purposefully and contemptuously. ‘‘Don’t you want the cash?’’ I asked as Heavy turned to walk away. ‘‘No muthafucka - you pay Shane. Pay him extra too - I was fittin’ to kill you but he say no you his man - he say he got yo debt you don’t come correct. You pay him. You don’ never pay me shit.’’ I picked up my pack and shoved it down my pants. I waited until I heard Heavy engage the engine of his Dodge before I threw up.
Not only did I meet the Grim Reaper, I set up a formal appointment with him. Is there a point to this story? I dunno. You tell me…
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One day in 2013 I met the Grim Reaper but did not realize I was in his company. This seems peculiar to the uninitiated but its quite a bit more common than one might believe. In the Summer of 2013 I was in a strange quagmire - admittedly entirely of my own grotesque devising. I was hopelessly addicted to Heroin and I was making a living (primarily to support my deviant habit) by pulling heists on other non-humans. Primarily the hoppers who’d deploy on the corners to push dope on the open street. This was a more involved process than it may appear at first glance - one must take care to be reasonably certain that his target/victim is NOT in fact packing a gun. Most corner-boys do NOT because they are shaken down by the Police CONSTANTLY, and being in possession of an illegal weapon equates to very serious criminal charges. At the same time, these kids no doubt CAN rapidly call upon armed reinforcement if they are in fact under assault - and they often ARE by enemy sets.
The second challenge in casing such a target is discerning exactly WHERE his supply of drugs is located and determining if in FACT the target is slinging Heroin. Crack cocaine or cannabis obviously is of no use to an opiate addict and frankly would be worth little as an illicit fence as it would obviously have a bounty on it and ANYONE willing to buy it would be running risk of inheriting such liability, among other things. If the hoppers had their product stashed in an actual TRAPHOUSE or abandoned residence (the latter being eerily ubiquitous in Chicago) it precluded moving on the target - a TRAPHOUSE is a literal as well as figurative ‘‘TRAP’’ - it is not feasible to pull a score of one without being willing to commit cold blooded murder if necessary AND to have basic confidence in one’s infantry skill set in order to accomplish such a raid. I was neither willing, nor able in other words.
Eventually, this particular strong-arm hustle ran its proverbial course - I could NOT continue on this course without running profound risk of being murdered - or being captured and suffering things I would prefer not to elaborate nor speculate upon prior to being unceremoniously put down. Thus, desperation being the Mother of a certain type of industrious motivation, I realized that I had to begin DEALING Heroin if I was going to be able to sustain my habit and NOT place myself in constant mortal danger. I was incredibly deluded and foolish.
It came about ultimately that I convinced my regular Plug - who had come to trust me sufficiently that he would allow me to come to his home in order to score Heroin - to introduce to me to his distributor. The distributor in question was a man who went by the name of ‘‘Heavy’’ - not merely because he was a LARGE man (he indeed was - resembling nothing if not a fatter version of Michael Clarke Duncan or a heavyweight prizefighter long since retired who had packed on weight - but because he was known to ‘‘come HEAVY’’. The story I had heard about him was that years ago in the ‘90s, he developed his ‘‘heavy’’ rep when as a teenaged corner-boy another ‘hood rat of some reputation had insulted him - Heavy proceeded to kick the shit of the guy, smash his car windows, and tear of the antennae - proceeding to whip the guy with it in the company of multiple witnesses.
I was told to meet Heavy at a ‘‘self serve’’ Car Wash that had no surveillance cameras in use, located on a main drag in K-Town. I arrived somewhat early - having borrowed a running partner’s Chevy Volt, and parked it in one of the four car wash stalls. I loaded three golden dollar coins into the machine and began hosing down the Chevy. After about ten minutes, a white Dodge Charger arrived, slowly pulled into the adjacent stall. The windows were entirely blacked out with post-production tint - I stopped washing the Chevy, and walked around the front of the adjacent stall so I would be visible to the driver but not from the open street.
As I did so, the driver’s side window rolled partway down, and a huge hand extended, indicating, ‘‘Halt’’. Then the hand firmly pointed to the back lot beyond the stalls. I nodded and walked to the place indicated. Being weak from withdrawal, I leaned on the Quonset style structure abutting the car wash stalls in the lot. I lit a Pall Mall and fought down my nausea. I unzipped my hoodie to expose my white tank top underneath so it would be clear I was not strapped. I heard the Charger door slam and moments later I saw Heavy ambling over to me. He had a loose gait - it would have looked corny if a White man had tried to affect it - but Heavy could pull off that kind of flagrant swagger that Black guys seem to be able to do for reasons that aren’t immediately discernible.
Heavy eyed me up and down. ‘‘You Shane’s guy?’’ he asked? ‘‘Yeah. You Heavy?’’. He didn’t say anything, just slightly nodded. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a package, threw it at my feet - purposefully and contemptuously. ‘‘Don’t you want the cash?’’ I asked as Heavy turned to walk away. ‘‘No muthafucka - you pay Shane. Pay him extra too - I was fittin’ to kill you but he say no you his man - he say he got yo debt you don’t come correct. You pay him. You don’ never pay me shit.’’ I picked up my pack and shoved it down my pants. I waited until I heard Heavy engage the engine of his Dodge before I threw up.
Not only did I meet the Grim Reaper, I set up a formal appointment with him. Is there a point to this story? I dunno. You tell me…