Sir Dyno's book "midst of my confusion"

[kayvee]

After this can you do green eggs and ham by dr seuss

i love that book!

~k.

 

[potpot]

I can't seem to find a good pic of it but it's in this pic I took. It's on the bottom right corner of the secong pic in my post in this thread.... http://siccness.net/vb/showthread.php?t=277176&page=2 Just so you can see what the cover looks like.

THnx homegirl.... imma c if I can find it somewhere

 

[MzLooNey]

We cruised on for ten minutes without either of us saying a word. I felt so humiliated for letting the pig bully us like that and hitting the hat off my head. Crusing wasn't much fun after that, so we just headed back to the barrio. Vince dropped me off at home. I went straight to bed. I wanted to crash out and forget the whole night.
The next day everyone at school was talking about a new gang in town that was taking over, and anyone that wouldn't join them would be beaten. They were called Varrio Side Locos or VSL. They were from the opposite side of town, so I didn't even think much about it. I was from Barrio Apache, far from VSL. During the next few weeks I kept hearing about VSL jumping vatos at the park, at the school and even at the hamburger stand. I was never really around because Vince and I would just go out of town everyday during school and cruise other high schools. I couldn't figure out why anybody would want to start a gang in such a small town. We'd always gotten along with all of the Raza, so I never saw the need for a gang.

 

[MzLooNey]

One Saturday afternoon I was sitting outside listening to the radio. I heard tires screeching as Vince turned the corner and pulled into my driveway. I knew something was wrong. He wasn't driving his primo's ranfla. He had an old cutlass, painted with grey primer. He jumped out of the car with his shirt ripped and blood coming from his mouth.
"HEY BRO, THEM VATOS JUMPED ME AT THE CAR WASH!" he said.
I already knew who he was talking about. I didn't have to ask.
"For what ese, what were you doing?" I asked not understanding why anybody would jump my camarada, my homie since we were kids.
"They said I was in their barrio and that I didn't belong there.I've lived in this town, and in this barrio toda mi vida, ese! I'm not going to let anyone tell me I can't be here. They tried surrounding me so I hit the closest vato to me. Then I got hit on the side of my jaw. They started kicking me! Then I jumped into my ranfla cause I knew I couldn't fight all of them. They even broke my side window trying to punch me as I drove off. Chale with that, vato! If that's how they want to play, then I can play right back!"
All of a sudden I felt my blood rise with hate. I loved this homie, and here he was standing in front of me bleeding. I didn't even think about the consequences as I ran into my room and grabbed my wooden baseball bat. It was hidden under my bed in case I ever needed it. There was no hesitation as I jumped into the ranfla.

 

[JxCentralCali]

books dope as fuck

 

[TRAJIK1]

more!!!!!!!

here's a pic of the cover on the right side of the pic

 

[MRTHECOSE]

Originally Posted by MzLooNey (Post 3642040)
Paragraph 1
I hear gun shots echoing in my head, as if they were shot in the distance, like a dream where the faster you try to run, the slower you are. The cold air of the night is piercing my face as I run to no certain destination.I realize the gun shots are coming from the pistol in my hand. i watch as the flames of each bullet scream in slow motion looking for their victim. It feels like a nightmare I can't wake up from. I'm bleeding from a bullet shot to the stomach. I feel the burning of the bullet inside. I hear screams from frightened women, and yells from men dying. It's a yell I never want to hear again. I can sense the evil and death in the dark moonless night. Bullets whiz by so close I can feel them as they pass me by. It's nothing like the movies. When these bullets hit, there is no turning back. I find my ranfla, get in and hit the gas, almost forgetting to turn the headlights on. I can't believe I'm shot. I don't want to believe it. Deep down inside I know I had it coming.

Paragraph 2

I reach into the backseat to make sure my camcorder I bought in Mexico is still there. I don't have much time, but there is so much I want to say. I drive toward the country, looking for a place to park. I know that if I go to the hospital, I'll go to la pinta for life. And that is no way for my story to end. I finally pull into an old abandoned barn. There's nobody in sight as I slowly step out, holding my wound with one hand. Blood is on my shirt, my hands and steering wheel. I reach into the back seat and pull out my bag with blank video tapes and camcorder. I can hardly stand the paralyzing pain in my abdomen with each step I take. As I walk towards the back of the barn I notice a small room. I quickly glance around and see a small kerosene lamp and a sink. I check and there is enough fuel to illuminate the small room. I light the wick with my lighter. I let the sink run for a few minutes until the water runs clear.



Chapter one
Paragraph 3

I never knew how thirsty a vato could get after getting blasted. Drinking the water gives me strength to hold on a little longer. I rip my shirt to clean my bullet wound as best as I can. It's not as bad as I had thought, but I'm losing a lot of blood. I search the room and find a first aid kit with just enough bandages and gauze to hold back the bleeding. I sit on the old dusty couch and think of everything I've done in my life to build up to this point. I grab a new video tape and put it into the camcorder. I reach into the bag and find a fully charged battery. I want no interruptions while I tell my story. I take a long breath as I sit back and try to relax on the couch. I prop the machine on a small table facing me and push the record button.


Chapter One
Paragraphs 4 and 5

This vida is so crazy. I guess I could try to justify all my actions to you. But instead, I'll let you be the judge of it all. Sometimes there is no right or wrong en esta vida. It all depends on the situation. Let me start from the beginning of my story, even though it's a beginning much like every Chicano I've known. Please be patient with me....I'm not a storyteller. I'm just a Crazy Vato doing what I can to survive. Let me introduce myself. I was born with the name Joaquin, but the homeboys call me Loco.

"Viva Zapata! Viva Pancho Villa!" my father would yell to me when I was a child. I would laugh and shoot into the air with my old western cap gun. I never grew up playing cowboys and indians. For me, it was playing revolutionaries against soldiers. I loved to hear my father tell me stories about Pancho Villa.


Chapter One
Paragraphs 6 & 7

"Pancho Villa was a big man mijo! He would take on anybody that got in his way." Then he would pick me up and hug me. And as he sat me down, he would look at me very seriously.
"That's how you have to be when you grow up, mijo. Los hombres like Zapata and Villa helped our Raza. They were men of honor and respect. They fought and died for what they believed in."

Chapter One
Paragraph 8

I would imagine a big man with bullets across his chest with a big sombrero and boots, riding across the mountains of Mexico helping familia's and kids. My father also told me stories about my great grandfater, about how he was killed during the Mexican Revolution of 1910. My great grandfather was bringing our familia to safety to the United States. Once he brought them to Texas, he went back to fight for freedom and land that the rich had stolen. He never made it back to Texas. My familia heard rumors and stories that he was killed and thrown off the train that was heading back into the U.S. Some say he died in the battle of Leon, Guanajuato against the Federales.


Chapter One
Paragraphs 9 & 10

As a child, it was exciting to think that my great grandfather was involved in that struggle. I used to tell myself that when I grow up, I was going to be like my great grandfather. Or maybe even like Villa or Zapata. I was confident that I would make a difference.
"Jefito, when I grow up I'm going to be just like them! I'm going to make it better for us," I would say. My father would just smile. How serious could he take me? I was only 5 years old. Now that I think back, I don't think he ever realized that I meant to do what I said. As a child I didn't need comic book heroes or cartoon heroes. I had real life heroes, men not afraid to die, men that stood for our Raza, that stopped at nothing to make it better for Mexicans. All of that changed though, once I started first grade in a predominately white school.


Chapter One
Paragraph 11

"Beaner!" is what I heard as I was getting off the bus at school. I remember looking back at the kids and not even knowing that they were putting me down. I had never heard that word. But by the fourth grade, I knew I was different. I was raised to be proud of being Mexican, but I was never taught to hate any other race. These kids didn't know about Villa or Zapata. They didn't know about the struggles my Raza had gone through. In class we would study about men like George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Christopher Columbus, about the great things they had done. Not once did I hear about my heroes. It made me feel as if my people hadn't done anything great.

Chapter One
Paragraph 12

In fourth grade I learned about "American" history in school. But I was learning my own history, from my father, about Vatos like Cesar Chavez and Rodolfo "Corky" Gonzales. My father named me after Corky's poem titled 'Yo Soy Joaquin.' I was taught about the Chicano Movement during the 60's, when brown berets were worn proudly with fists up high. Raza fighting for their rights. I learned about Cesar Chavez and the UFW march from Delano to Sacramento the capitol of Califas. Once I asked my fourth grade teacher if she could teach the class about Cesar Chavez. She acted as if she didn't know who I was talking about. I never brought it up to her again.

Chapter One
Next Paragraph

As I entered fifth grade I began to notice other Mexican kids in my school constantly getting picked on. For some reason Mexicans became an issue to white kids, the same white kids that had been my friends since kindergarten. I too began getting picked on. But what could I do? I was always outnumbered. One day as I was walking to my class after recess, I saw three white boys chasing a young Mexican kid calling him names. No teachers were around because everybody was already walking back to their classrooms. I tried to ignore it but it burned me up inside. One of the boys tripped the Mexican kid and they all began laughing. I just looked down and went to class.

When I went home I talked to my dad about it.
"Papa, were you ever picked on cause you were Mexican when you were young?" He looked at me then sat down . I could tell that he was trying to figure out what to tell me. "Where I grew up, all I knew were Mexicanos," and paused for a second.
"Are you having problems at school mijo?"
"Oh no, I was just asking. I just saw a Mexican kid being bullied around today."
I was lying. I was ashamed to tell him that I was being picked on almost everyday.
"Mijo, don't you ever let someone make you feel lower than them because of the color of your skin. I will never tell you to fight! But there is a difference in fighting and defending yourself. Don't ever shame our family blood by ever letting another put you down. Your great grandfather brought his family to Texas hoping we would make a better life for ourselves. And he never let another man put him down."

PoLLo LoC831 05-13-2008 12:00 AM
Here's da rest of Chaper oNe

I agreed and didn't say anything else.
The next day during my lunch recess I walked to the bathroom. It was between a classroom and the cafeteria, so there was hardly any teachers or anyone there. As I was walking out I was stopped at the door by six white kids.
“What are you doing, Beaner? Eating tacos sitting on the toilet?” He looked at his friends to get approval, feeling better as they all laughed. When he saw that they were enjoying it he laughed harder.
“At least he knows where he belongs,” said one of the other boys.
Then the tallest of them stepped up and pushed me against the wall. I looked down the hallway hoping a teacher would come. I only saw the Mexican kid from the day before watching.
I pushed him back and said, “Don’t you ever push me!”
They were all eating sunflower seeds and they began spitting them at me, pinning me against the bathroom wall. My heart was racing, my hands were sweaty. I was scared. Then I remembered my father and what he told me. My great grandfather would be ashamed of me for not standing my ground. I had sunflower seeds stuck to me with spit. I could hear them laughing. But it felt like a dream where the faster I tried to move, the slower I became. I began to fight the tears I felt coming. They noticed I was scared and laughed at me even more.
“So what are you going to do about it, you little burrito eating wetback.”
Then, just as one was going to call me a sissy, I attacked.
“Don’t ever call me a Beaner! I’m Mexican!”
I attacked with all my strength as if it were a fight for my life. I punched the taller one right on his mouth. I kicked two other boys and I pushed two more against the wall. I could feel Zapata and Villa fighting along with me, inside of me, in my blood. I felt the rage of my people inside of me, wanting justice for over five hundred years. We had been beaten, raped, killed and mocked. I refused to stand for it any longer.
The first one I hit grabbed me from behind and kicked me. I could hear a teacher running toward us blowing her whistle. I punched one more kid in the stomach and he lost all wind. He fell on his knees, his mouth open, no sound coming out. What seemed like a minute later, he screamed and tears were coming down his cheeks. I laughed as the teacher took us all into the office. I was raging mad, and I didn’t even feel where I had been punched and kicked. I knew the spirit of my heroes were flowing in my blood during that fight. After that day, after that fight, I knew in my heart that I would never let anybody put me down or my Raza.
The next day I gathered they only six Mexicans from the fourth and fifth grade during lunch.
“We can’t let them push us around anymore. If we stick together and take care of each other nobody will never mess with us again,” I said as they kids were sitting close together. Also with us was the only Black kid in the fifth grade. He too was always getting picked on. Now there were seven of us, and I knew we would never be picked on again. I liked the feeling of power our group gave. We had started a gang. I guess they get started that easily. I never did let my Jefito’s know about the racism at my school. I never let my Jefito’s know about my gang either. Every morning we would meet by the sandbox before class started. Then we would meet for recess and lunch.
None of this ever affected my grades though. I would get all A’s on my report card. I think that’s one of the reasons I was never liked by the white kids. They couldn’t stand that fact that I was smarter than them. But we were never harassed again. They wouldn’t even pick on us when we were by ourselves. They knew that if they did something to one of us, they would have to answer to all of us. The little Mexican kid that saw the whole incident from the bathroom told everybody. He told all the kids that Joaquin had stood up to the white kids. He saw me punch, saw me kick. It had earned me respect from all of other kids.
Now, I remember that first time my father let me shoot his gun. We took a ride out to the country, and I anticipated every second. He loaded the bullets into a .38 revolver. Then before he let me shoot it, he said that I had to respect the gun. I should never aim at another man unless my familia was threatened. I remember holding the gun and aiming toward an old beer bottle. The rush of hearing the cracking sound as the gun kicked was so powerful that it made my entire body shake. My father would laugh as I missed every single shot. When it was his turn, he aimed wit precision, never missing his target.
I didn’t mean to go on so long about my childhood, but I felt that it was important to my story. Maybe it will give you a better understanding of me. Everything that happens to us as a child reflects on our adulthood. It’s the mold that shapes us into what we become.

MzLooNey
Chapter 2

Six years had passed since that incident in school with the white boys.
"HEY LOCO! What's up for tonight, ese?" yelled out my homeboy Vince from across the hall at school.
"I don't know. Let's just go for a cruise in your primo's ranfla. I heard it's gonna be packed tonight, bro." I yelled back.
"Simon ese, I'll see if he'll lend it to me," as he walked into class.
Vince was my closest camarada since the fourth grade gang. We both lived on the same block. We never actually kept up with the gang. It was all just kid stuff. But no matter what happened, Vince was always there for me, no matter what the situation. He was dark with a solid build from working out all the time. His hair was always slicked back with Tres Flores. He was the kind of vato that loved to joke around, always laughing about something. But when he would get drunk, he would get into fights, especially when he was out with his primo. He lived with his mother and little sister in a small apartment. His father had passed away when he was ten years old. His Jefita would always invite Vince and I to church, hoping someday we would accept her invitation. For one reason or another we always found an excuse not to go.

We were now in the tenth grade at the only high school in town. That meant that every teenager was there. Chicano's were deep. When I was a kid, the school was surrounded by a mostly white neighborhood. Most of the Mexican's and Blacks lived on the opposite side of town. Now the barrio I grew up in was full of cholos y cholas. We called it Barrio Apache. Even though all the Chicano's were from different barrios and district's in town, we all got along at school. Sometimes we would fight against other vatos from nearby towns, but that was it. After school all the Raza would hang out at a hamburger stand across the street from the high school, or at the park that was only a block away. During lunch you would find all the Raza playing handball in the back of the high school against the high walls of the cafeteria. We knew about gang warfare, but that happened in the surrounding towns. We were a small town with a population of about 50,000. I should have realized the disease of gang warfare would seep into our little town soon..

I was now fifteen years old and wearing khakis two sizes too big with the sharpest creases anybody ever saw. I wore a white t-shirt, also baggy, with dark shades for the finishing touch. My hair was combed back, short with a small growing moustache. I was thin with thick arms from push ups every morning. I wasn't getting good grades anymore. It would be surprising If I even got a grade since I was never in class to begin with. School became a drag. I hated the teachers, the principal, the classes and the stupid bell that rang. Everybody would hear it and run into class like stupid little sheep. Maybe I just hated discipline and the fact that everybody wanted to tell me what to do. Sometimes Vince and I would ditch class the whole day and just cruise around listening to oldies in his primo's '64 Impala. Vince loved smoking bud. Every single morning he would light one up. But that wasn't for me, chale. It never appealed to me. I always like to stay on my toes, always fully alert.


Finally it was Friday night as I dialed Vince's number.
"Pick me up in 30 minutes ese....I'll be ready," I said to Vince on the phone. I was at my chante. It was small but my dad owned it. He was always doing something to the house, fixing the yard, painting over old paint.
I still needed to finish my creases; they had to be perfect for the cruise that night. I pushed play on my cassette player and let Mary Wells sing to me. There is nada like some tight oldies. Rap y todo is firme, but there's just something about those old songs that make 'em last forever.
My little brother walked in. He was five years younger than me. His name was Angel, but we called him Angelito. I guess because he was the youngest.
"Where are you going Joaquin?" asked my carnalito. "Can I go with you?"


"No, you can't go with me, I'm going out. Your too little to go," I said as I kept ironing. He just sat there and watched me. My carnalito always wanted to spend time with me. He used to always ask if I could walk him to the store for ice cream. I wonder what would go through his head as he stood there and just looked at me. I think he wanted to be like me, always asking me questions about everything I did. Sometimes he would ask me to crease his pants for him. If I had time to crease them, I would. Sometimes our mother would get mad and say, "I don't want another little cholo in the family." I wished I would have spent more time with the little vato. But I was a teenager and the less I was at home the better. I knew that deep down inside he needed me around, but at fifteen years old, I guess I didn't care.


"Your friend's here, mijo!" yelled my mother from the kitchen. I quickly changed and was out the door.
"Be careful mijo, Don't be home late. You know I can't sleep when your out," she yelled out the door as I was stepping into the ranfla.
"I know, I'll come home early....we're just going for a cruise."
I watched her close the front door as Vince hit the switches and the car dropped to the floor. Then he hit the switch again and raised the front. This ranfla was tight, all white with red pearl, two twelve inch woofers in the trunk and lifted front, back and side to side. I never understood why Vince's primo would let him borrow it. If it was my ranfla I would never let it out of my sight. Vince shook my hand Chicano style and didn't say a word as he put up the volume on the stereo. Old school N.W.A. was bumping loud. Simon, this music was firme, pump anyone up for a fight anyday. This was how it was for us every Friday evening. We'd bump the sounds as loud as we could and go straight to the cruise spot. Sometimes we would go to the car wash first and I would help him wash and dry the ranfla.


Just as we were cruising for about five minutes, we saw patrol car lights behind us.
"Damn!" said Vince. "I can't believe these pigs. They never leave me alone."
Vince drove another half block and pulled into a gas station parking lot. The patrol car pulled up right behind us. I could hear the cops as they walked up, handcuffs and keys rattling.
"Let me see your drivers license and registration," asked the cop on Vince's side. he other cop stood on my side, but back toward the rear bumper. I could feel his stare. I knew he was waiting for trouble.
"What am I being pulled over for?" asked Vince as he was taking the license out of his wallet. Then he reached over into the glove compartment to get the registration out.
"Don't worry about why I pulled you over!" said the cop sounding angered.
"Look officer! I got my license and you know it. You pulled me over a week ago. The ranfla....I mean the car belongs to my cousin."
The cop grabbed the license and registration and walked back to his patrol car. He would run a check on Vince just about every week. It never made sense to me. Everytime they pulled him over they acted as if they didn't know who he was. After five minutes of silence between Vince and I we could hear the officer walking back toward our car. I didn't want to look back because then he would think I was nervous.
"Have you been drinking? Is that marijuana I smell in the car?" asked the officer.


"No we haven't been drinking." I said, "and I don't even smoke marijuana."
"DON'T GET SMART WITH ME YOU LITTLE PUNK CHOLO! Get out of the car NOW!"
I couldn't believe this was happening. We couldn't even have a good time crusing without these pigs constantly bothering us. I slowly opened the door and stepped out of the car. Vince did the same.
"Both of you, stand over here against the car. You wanna get smart with me boy? Let me see your I.D.!"
"I don't have one. Why are you harassing us anyway? Because we're Mexican?" I was so pissed off I could feel my teeth grinding down on each other. Just as I said that, two more patrol cars pulled up. Now we had six officers searching the ranfla, looking at me, and looking at Vince.
One of the officers stood two feet from my face and said, "You got a problem punk?" as he flicks the hat off of my head. I tried to bend down to pick it up and the officer yelled, "GET UP! I DIDN'T SAY YOU COULD PICK THAT UP YET, DID I?"


I stood back up and tried my hardest to hold my anger in. My blood was boiling. If I had a gun I would of killed all of them. There's no way Zapata would ever let Federales treat him like this. He would have pulled out his sword to fight to the death. A crowd of Raza began watching. I could see the helpless looks on their faces. Why were these cops acting like this if we had done nothing wrong? Then I realized what was bothering the cops so much. They stopped us hoping Vince's license was suspended or something. Second, when they couldn't find any alcohol or bud, they were pissed, so they were trying to provoke us so that they could bust us for fighting with them. I remembered what my father had told me. The cops and judges wanted all of the Raza on probation or in jail. It was a way to oppress and control us. I mellowed out and let my anger simmer down.
"You got a problem Mexican? You think you tough?" yelled one of the officers in my face, spraying me with spit.
I looked him straight in his eyes and said, "No sir, I got no problem with you."
The pig didn't know how to react, surprised by my answer, not knowing if I was being serious or sarcastic.
"NO GUNS, ALCOHOL OR DRUGS!" yelled the officers that were searching the vehicle. The pigs had no choice but to let us go. I picked my hat up and brushed the dirt off of it. They all slowly walked back to their patrol cars, yelling for everyone to disperse. As Vince and I sat back into the ranfla, one of the patrol cars pulled up next to us.
"It's just a matter of time till you do something wrong. And when you do, you better believe I'm going to be there." said the officer on the passenger side. Then he smiled sarcastically and drove off.


We cruised on for ten minutes without either of us saying a word. I felt so humiliated for letting the pig bully us like that and hitting the hat off my head. Crusing wasn't much fun after that, so we just headed back to the barrio. Vince dropped me off at home. I went straight to bed. I wanted to crash out and forget the whole night.
The next day everyone at school was talking about a new gang in town that was taking over, and anyone that wouldn't join them would be beaten. They were called Varrio Side Locos or VSL. They were from the opposite side of town, so I didn't even think much about it. I was from Barrio Apache, far from VSL. During the next few weeks I kept hearing about VSL jumping vatos at the park, at the school and even at the hamburger stand. I was never really around because Vince and I would just go out of town everyday during school and cruise other high schools. I couldn't figure out why anybody would want to start a gang in such a small town. We'd always gotten along with all of the Raza, so I never saw the need for a gang.


One Saturday afternoon I was sitting outside listening to the radio. I heard tires screeching as Vince turned the corner and pulled into my driveway. I knew something was wrong. He wasn't driving his primo's ranfla. He had an old cutlass, painted with grey primer. He jumped out of the car with his shirt ripped and blood coming from his mouth.
"HEY BRO, THEM VATOS JUMPED ME AT THE CAR WASH!" he said.
I already knew who he was talking about. I didn't have to ask.
"For what ese, what were you doing?" I asked not understanding why anybody would jump my camarada, my homie since we were kids.
"They said I was in their barrio and that I didn't belong there.I've lived in this town, and in this barrio toda mi vida, ese! I'm not going to let anyone tell me I can't be here. They tried surrounding me so I hit the closest vato to me. Then I got hit on the side of my jaw. They started kicking me! Then I jumped into my ranfla cause I knew I couldn't fight all of them. They even broke my side window trying to punch me as I drove off. Chale with that, vato! If that's how they want to play, then I can play right back!"
All of a sudden I felt my blood rise with hate. I loved this homie, and here he was standing in front of me bleeding. I didn't even think about the consequences as I ran into my room and grabbed my wooden baseball bat. It was hidden under my bed in case I ever needed it. There was no hesitation as I jumped into the ranfla.

....thnx mzlooney

 

[MzLooNey]

....thnx mzlooney

no problem!

 

[MzLooNey]

“Let’s go!” I said as Vince was getting back into the car. He was spitting blood from the mouth. He headed straight to the car wash. It felt like hours to get there. All I kept thinking about was hurting these vatos, these punks. I couldn’t believe they had the nerve to hit Vince up. He was born in this town. I didn’t want to get involved with these vatos from VSL, but Vince was my camarada. Any assault on him was an assault on me.
“Pull over around the back of the car wash. Just go through the alley. We’ll walk behind the building and catch them vatos slipping.” I said to Vince. We parked across a small side street and quickly walked behind the old red brick building next to the car wash. I could feel my heart pounding crazy. I was surprised that Vince couldn’t hear my heartbeats. Vince was right behind me. He wore a pair of brass knuckles he got from his tio awhile back. He kept them stashed in his glove compartment. I looked around the building and saw three vatos from VSL. They were only about four feet from me. I could smell bud, so I knew they were blazing. I could hear them laughing about what they had done to Vince.
I ran toward the closest vato and said, “YOU WANNA TRY TO JUMP VATOS WHEN THEY’RE BY THEMSELVES ESE!” and I took my first swing with the bat. I felt the impact through my whole body as I him on his shoulder and back. His eyes showed terror as I hit him over and over on his body. Vince grabbed the second vato and hit him with the brass knuckles straight in the face two times before the fool knew what hit ‘em. I was already on the third vato beating him with my bat and kicking him in the head. The first vato I hit was still on the ground holding his face, hoping I wouldn’t hit him again.
“DON’T YOU EVER TRY TO JUMP ME AGAIN, CHAVALAS! THIS IS OUR TOWN AND WE GO WHERE WE WANT!” yelled Vince as he kept punching the vato in the head and face. Blood was everywhere, on his knuckles and shirt. But this time it wasn’t Vince’s blood.

 

[MzLooNey]

“Ya no mas! Let’s go vato, before the pigs get here,” I said as I gave the first vato I hit one last solid kick in the jaw. Vince wouldn’t stop punching the vato. It was as if he was in a trance. I could hear the vato whimpering. He was curled up as Vince stood over him. I had to pull Vince away and practically pull him back to the car. I could already see a crowd gathering so I figured it was just a matter of minutes before cops would be all over the car wash. We jumped into the ranfla and headed straight to my chante.

 

[MzLooNey]

Chapter 3 coming soon!

 

[TRAJIK1]

MOOOOOOOOORE PLEASEEEEEEE

 

[AztecaCV]

^^ Yessss Morreeeee

 

[ChuckTaylor84]

yea 4real more

 

[TRAJIK1]

more!!!!

 

[MzLooNey]

Chapter 3

“What’s going to happen now?” asked Vince as he cleaned the blood from his hands and arms. I just sat there, realizing that we had just started a war, a war we had no chance of winning. VSL had at least 30 members in their gang, and that wasn’t counting all their older brothers, cousins and vatos that just hung around trying to get into the gang. I knew we had to do something, but didn’t know what.
“I guess all we can do is wait to see what happens. We just gotta stay trucha from now on,” I said as I looked out my bedroom window. I was just waiting for car loads of vatos to pull up into the driveway with bats, or worse, with cuetes. We stayed up almost all night and to our surprise nobody from VSL ever drove by my house that night.
The next morning as I woke up, I couldn’t believe what had happened the night before. I got up and took a quick shower. I ironed real quick, not really trying to get perfect creases this time. I just wasn’t in the mood for it. All of the great men that died for the Raza. All the thousands of lives that were forever ended. Villa, Zapata, and soldados that bled the ground. What was it all for? So vatos could go around beating each other up? Cops were always harassing Chicanos. I had never shoplifted, tagged on walls or got into fights. I had no criminal record whatsoever, but I was still treated like a criminal.

 

[MzLooNey]

My parents were eating my favorite breakfast, chorizo mixed with papas.
“How are you doing mijo?” asked my father noticing my anxiety.
“I’m doing good. Just going to school,” I replied. I didn’t want to worry them about what had happened.
“Are you sure?” asked my father concerned.
“Yeah, I’m ok, I just stayed up late last night,” I answered.
No matter what problems I had, it always felt good to sit with my parents. I don’t know how my father kept us together, even through the bad times. We didn’t always have money but I can honestly say I never had to go hungry. We always had a roof over our head and a meal on our table. I sat and ate with them feeling better, knowing that they would always be there for me. I served myself a second serving and finished it quickly. Then I kissed my mother on the cheek and left.
I decided to walk toward the corner store that was only two blocks away, thinking nothing would happen. When I got there I saw some homeboys next to the payphones.

 

[TRAJIK1]

MOOOOOOOOOOREEE

 

[MzLooNey]

“Hey Loco, come over here, ese,” said Chuey as he hung up the phone. I lived in the Barrio Apache, so I had a lot of vatos grow up with me. We would never hang around as a gang together because like I said, everybody got along in town. Chuey was a couple years older than me and he had done tiempo in C.Y.A. for breaking into a gun shop. He had tattoos on his back, neck, chest and stomach. The most recognizable was Apache in Old English across his stomach.
I walked over to him as we gave each other a Chicano handshake.
“What happened yesterday homie? I heard about a fight from some jaina this morning,” said Chuey.
Tobo and Big Ed also walked up to shake my hand. These three vatos were always together. I’d known all of them since I was a kid.
“How did you know about that?” I asked, surprised that it had gotten around already.
“Everybody’s talking about it. You vatos went off on them fools, huh? Don’t trip though, bro….we got your back.”
I didn’t expect him to say that, even though we were all from the same barrio.

 

[MzLooNey]

Big Ed was a big vato. He sold all the bud in Barrio Apache. He was the vato that always had feria in his wallet. Tobo was the crazy one, the one that would fight dirty to win. One time he got arrested for fighting with a cop. The story was that the cop called him a wetback. It took four cops to finally cuff him. Then they beat the living crap out of him. Up until this point, these vatos were just guys I grew up with from around the block, and I felt better being at the store with them around. It felt good to know that somebody was on our side. Yet I knew that this wasn’t the end of it, but the beginning.
Two days had passed without a single incident. I actually thought that everything was just going to blow over. So after school Vince and I decided to cruise by the high school. Everybody was getting out and we wanted to see some jainas. It was all firme at that point. I saw a homegirl I knew, so I called her over to the ranfla. Just as she walked up to my side of the car, I heard a yell, “VSL RIFA!”
I turned around and couldn’t believe it. We got caught slippin and they were surrounding us. I tried to analyze the situation. They had two ranflas in front of us, locking us in. On one side was a wall, and the other side some cars. The first vato to get out of the ranfla was the one Vince had hit with the brass knuckles.