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Note: the characters and events in this story are based on real people and events, and real places.
Matamba raised himself up off the ground, and dusted off his hands
nonchalantly as he looked over his shoulder. His rastafarian braids twirled
around as his head moved, the beads clicking together. The fall and the
beads didn't attract any more attention than Matamba was used to getting.
Standing at 6'5", being black, having rastas, and dressing in baggy
non-conventional clothes earned him stares no matter where he went in this
South American city.
The tall 20-something, satisfied with his survey of the area, started
walking again. His long paces took him quickly into a small jewelry shop,
where he turned his back to the street and began speaking to the salesgirl,
"How much does that chain over there cost?", stepping further into the shop
as he spoke.
After the girl started rattling off prices and how cheap and wonderful the
item was, Matamba looked up to a mirror behind the counter,and smiles as he
saw the reflection of two green-uniformed cops passing by down the street
in a hurry.
He said a quick thank you to the salesgirl, and peeked out the shopfront,
down the sidewalk in the direction the cops went. Matamba jumped back onto
the sidewalk, and grinned at the streetside vendors, starting on down in
the opposite direction. One of the middle-aged indian vendor ladies shook
her head and commented to her friend next to her, "Damn potheads."
The long-haired youth moved through the noisy, and sometimes smelly,
marketplace with the ease that only comes with years of walking the turf.
His turf.
Soon his long strides brought him to a quiet residential street only two or
three blocks from the market, and a few more from the town square, known as
the Plaza.
Matamba strolled on up the steps of a high porch, and took a seat on the
stoop of an abandoned house. He smiled to himself, and looked out over the
intersection from his elevated viewpoint. People and cars passing on the
streets could not see him unless they looked way up from across the
street.
Across the street was a lower spot on the sidewalk, right in front of a
restaurant. The place was closed now, since it was late afternoon.
The sight of the restaurant brought to Matamba's mind memories of many
nights spent there, drinking with friends. It also brought back memories not
so peaceful.
Matamba swept all this aside, and pulled an empty cigarette carton from his
pocket, as well as a lighter. Removing the tinfoil from inside the carton,
he wrapped the foil around the lighter, and with an expert hand, began to
form the tinfoil into a little pipe. The word was that smoking tinfoil
pipes did irreversable damage to the lungs, but such pipes were disposable,
small, and easily made. And free, of course.
Taking his time to make it properly, Matamba glanced up ocassionally to
check for people passing by. Just as he finished and was reaching into his
shoe, someone came strolling down the street and headed directly for the
stairs. Matamba instinctively covered the pipe and lighter in his hand with
a discreet motion, and squinted, studying the approaching person. A smile
came to Matamba's lips again. Now leaping up the stairs was a guy perhaps
fours years junior to Matamba. He wore the typical rapper outfit, though
the brands were all obviously ripoffs. His skin was tan, not nearly as dark
as Matamba, but still dark enough to show his lower class, indian
heritage.
Matamba extended a hand to the kid, and they executed the simple handshake
that those of the group normally used with friends. "How's it goin', bro?"
Matamba said as the other took a seat next to him on the stoop. "Its all
good, man. I was coming down from the Plaza to... fly a little." The
younger grinned and elbowed Matamba. Matamba only smiled, and nodding,
pulled a bag out of his shoe. He passed it to the kid, and said, "Here.
Get it ready." Matamba then watched the kid take out a handful, and begin
to pick out the seeds, one by one.
A few of the many seeds that had been previously disgarded had sprouted in
the thin layer of sand that had collected on the porch area.
Matamba ran a hand through the leaves of one, and passed the pipe to the
kid. "Who is up at the plaza, Cheeks?" Matamba used the kid's nickname. He
had no idea what the kid's name was, just as few knew that his own name was
Alejandro.
Cheeks shrugged as he stuffed the green material into the pipe bowl with
his thumb. "A few of the guys." Cheeks looked up. "And there are lots of
girls out today, bro." He winked, and then started digging in his pockets
for a lighter.
Matamba deftly grabbed the pipe, and leaned back against the door. "Women
come and go, kid. Don't worry about them so much." He then plugged the pipe
into his puckered lips, and cupped his hands over the lighter and pipe,
puffing until the bowl's contents were glowing red. Matamba sucked on the
pipe for a few moments, covering it up with his hand as he glanced around
again. Meanwhile, Cheeks was anxiously scooting closer and holding out a
hand. Matamba at last passed the pipe slowly to the kid, and sat there,
holding his breath. Every little bit he would take in a short breath, while
still not exhaling. Then, with a long series of coughs, he finally let the
smoke go. Matamba looked over to Cheeks, his eyes bloodshot, and grinned a
slow, lazy grin as he leaned back further into the doorway.
"Yeah..."
Matamba thought back over the day. He had woken up late as every man
should, and whipped up something to eat in the empty house his woman had
inherited from her grandmother. Small yet comfortable, and out of the way.
Leticia, his woman, had been off at work, and that was just as well with
him.
He had then watched a bit of TV, while cleaning his gun. It wasn't anything
special, just an Argentine brand revolver which was at least twice his age.
Matamba had acquired it when an acquaintance had been strapped for cash and
left it in Matamba's care for 50 bolivianos.
He didn't have but three bullets, which came with the gun. That wasn't
going to be a problem, Matamba thought.
That afternoon, he had met with a few of his closest friends. Two, more
precisely. Gaucho and Nene had been with him since childhood. They had
started the local Latin Kings gang with him, along with others. They had
split off from the gang years ago as it filled with 'cholos'; lower class
dark-skinned guys with mostly indian blood.
Many had seen them and their unique style at the Plaza, and started to
imitate. Cheeks was a perfect example. The newbies knew their place,
though. Respect that approached fear was what Matamba and the other older
people in the group had earned.
Matamba, Nene, and Gaucho roamed a residential neighborhood, for once
quiet. They weren't but 20 blocks from the plaza, but this was a
higher-class area, and not their turf.
They came to a street corner, and spotted a moustached man with a
briefcase, locking up the gate to his walled-in house. Gaucho pointed, and
the other two nodded, walking quickly to close the distance before the man
turned....
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