Sidewinder began by welcoming the newest homies. Although my Crip name was Lady Lightning, I was introduced as Cupcake. At first I was pissed that they refused to call me Lightning. I'd got my ass kicked for that name and wanted it used. Besides, Cupcake was so wimpy. Nobody wants to get struck by lightning, so everyone's afraid of it. Who the fuck's afraid of a cupcake?

After Sidewinder acknowledged me, the homies began hugging me or giving me the Gangsta sign or whoopin' and hollerin' our famous hoo-bang: "Gang-sta Ca-rips!" It was then I realized that I didn't care what they called me-as long as they considered me one of them.

After the welcoming, Sidewinder began the business portion of the meeting. He warned that Fly, Monster, Crazy D, and Tray-Ball had recently beat down some 60's. For payback, the 60's had threatened to hoo-ride. And, several nights previously, some Pirus (Bloods) had blasted on the set, badly wounding one homie and killing another. At this announcement, everyone performed the usual ritual for displaying respect for the dead: pouring a few drops of whatever liquor you were drinking onto the ground. I hated this ritual because I felt that any booze I poured out wasn't gonna do the dead any good; it would do much better in my stomach. Hell, every little bit counts.

I didn't personally know the two homies who'd gotten blasted, though Fly said I'd met them my first night on the set. But he reminded me that that didn't matter. They were homies. And any homie killed was like a brother or sister being killed. So like everyone else, I poured out a little of my Thunderbird for the fallen homeboy. These rituals helped instill a profound sense of loyalty and dedication in all the members. It trained us to love the gang more than our family, friends, even ourselves.

Sidewinder announced the location and time of the funeral, and everyone started to discuss who was going to stand watch. I turned and asked Fly what that meant. He explained that the ultimate sign of disrespect to a fallen gang member, his family, and his surviving homies is for his killers to storm the funeral and turn over his casket. The rival gang would rush the church-either "blued" down or "red" down (dressed entirely in red or blue), shouting their set and tossing their signs. They'd make a mad dash to the casket-creating terror and complete chaos as the dead boy's or girl's family and friends ran for cover-snatch the casket, and ferociously toss it on its side, the dead banger and flowers flying every which way. Then, they'd casually stroll out of the church, throwing up signs and hoo-banging all the way.

"Casket-turning" was the final fuck-you to the entire set of the dead gang member. So whenever a Gangsta was killed, homies stood watch in front of the church, packed with firepower, waiting-and hoping-for enemies to show up and try to turn over the casket. Fly said that although Gangstas had been known to turn a few caskets, we'd never had one turned on us. We refused to be dissed like that. And, if anyone would have, there would've been additional bodies for the mortuary to bury that day.

After discussing the funeral, there was the issue of who was going to avenge the set. Whenever a rival gang hoo-rides, retaliation is required-and fast-which usually means we hoo-ride the same night. But since our homie had been shot, the "po-pos" (police) had been riding on the slobs pretty hard because the same night they rode on us, they'd shot a cop. We sure couldn't ride while the police were riding, so we had to wait a few days. Those few days were now up and it was time to ride. We were gonna bust on some slobs.

Sidewinder proudly announced that I, with Fly, Dob, and Bones, would be doing my first hoo-ride. I tried not to look surprised (or scared) about Sidewinder's announcement. I glanced toward Fly, thinking maybe he could do or say something to get me out of having to shoot someone. But the wide-ass grin on Fly's face, showing nothing but teeth, removed any ideas I might have had of him offering help. He was clearly looking forward to my first hoo-ride.

So that's what Huck meant by my "being up." Shit, could I really shoot someone? Hell, I was a druggie and a boozer, not a killer. Besides, I hadn't been banging a month yet. I'd thought they'd give me time to work into it.

I was busy thinking of how to get out of the situation, when Fly sneaked up from behind me and gave me a long, hearty, bear hug.

"Don't worry, lil cuzzz," he said in his legendary sexy voice, "I'll be wit' ya and I got yo' back."

The love and pride that beamed on his face quickly removed my doubts. I was surrounded by all the homies, everyone drinking, smoking, cussing, and Crip-walkin' to the funky sounds of Cameo, Bootsy, and Parliament. As I looked around me, I was reminded that Fly and the homies loved and accepted me-just as I was. All I had to be was down.

It was then that I decided I'd do anything for them. Anything. I tossed up my three middle fingers to show our beloved Gangstas sign, snatched the Thunderbird from Fly's hand, and gulped till the warm liquid traveling down my stomach turned my fear into courage, and then into anger, and then into rage.

- We were in Dob's blue Impala. Every window was tinted pitch-black, which made us invisible to the outside world when the windows were rolled up. But we generally kept the windows down because when you're hoo-ridin' you don't want to conceal your identity. You want your enemy to see you. It's imperative that they know who blasted on their set. It was this type of unfettered violence, the straight-out, in-yo'-face bloodshed, murder, and mayhem carried out without the slightest thought of the lives that would be forever touched, that earned a gang its rep for ruthlessness. And Gangstas were notorious for ruthlessness.

Dob was driving. Fly was in the front with a .410 gauge. I was in the back holding a .38. Bones sat next to me. He didn't have a "gat." His job was to coach me along and, if necessary, take over in case I punked out. But I wasn't worrying about punking out. I'd drunk quite a bit of Thunderbird and Old 8, and smoked half a sherm stick. In fact, the sherm was telling me that it was those fucking slobs that had paid Pete to rape me and they deserved to die. I was ready to kill!

We rode around the Pirus' hood for a while. The word must have gotten out that we were riding that night because there wasn't a soul in sight. Just as we were getting ready to call it a night and return to the set, Fly spotted some niggas sitting on a porch.

We were about a block away. We quickly rolled up the windows, turned off our lights, silently pulled over, and checked them out. We wanted to make sure they were bangers.

Back then, when hoo-ridin' on a rival gang, you were considered a pussy if you shot nongang members. It wasn't like it is today: total chaos. Back then, there were certain unwritten rules: babies, kids, parents, and squares were off-limits. Of course, accidents did happen and were even expected. So to shoot into a crowd that included some bangers was acceptable. But to intentionally shoot into a crowd where you knew no one present was in "the game" was seen as weak, the action of a punk or a mark, and it would lose you respect.

Fly and Dob recognized two of the niggas from the N-Hood set. They weren't Piru but they were slobs, which was close enough. Hell, we were high, pissed, and revved up. We had to blast.

"You ready, cuzzz?" Fly asked me as we turned on the lights and slowly headed toward the house.

"Yeah, cuzzz, I'm straight," I replied.

There were four of them on the porch. I saw the red ember from what looked like a joint and the familiar shape of a 40-ounce. It didn't occur to me that they were just like us, living mirror images of our own lives. Dob's car was so quiet as it cruised up, and they were so busy smoking and drinking that they never saw us coming-till it was too late.

As we got closer, Fly and I rolled down our windows just in time for the slobs to see the barrels.

"Duck, Blood!" one of them screamed.

Everything happened in a flash.

"Gangstas!" Fly yelled as he let off the .410.

"Ca-r-i-ps!" I shouted as I shot my .38.

The kick was stronger than I remembered. Besides, I wasn't that big. The kick threw me back into Bones who was sitting up behind me, not wanting to miss any of the fun.

"Blast, cuzzz! Blast!" he ordered, grabbing my shoulders and shoving me back up to the window.

And I did. I blasted two more shots as the car sped off. One of the bullets struck the porch light, turning everything black so that I could no longer see who was still standing or what was happening on the porch. Just shoot in their direction, I told myself. I didn't want to stop shooting till Fly did. I tried to get off a third shot but the jerk from Dob's speeding off threw me back into Bones again.

As we pulled off laughing and hoo-banging, I didn't have a care about what I'd just done. I didn't have a worry as to who might have been hurt. If anyone had any doubt before, it was gone now. I was more than down. I was down.

We went to Crazy D's house to get the hooptie off the streets and chill. D's would become one of my favorite hangouts because not only was his house close to ours, but he was one of Fly's closest homies, and his sister Peanut was one of mine.

Crip Karen, Peanut, Hunchie, and several other homies were already there.

I walked in expecting everyone to bombard us with questions. No one did. I was goin' crazy with excitement. I wanted to tell them all about my first ride. But I had to be cool and wait till the appropriate moment. No one said anything for a while. We all just sat around drinking 8-ball and Night Train and smoking sherm and Gunji (Jamaican weed).

Out of the blue, someone asked about the night's activities.

"What's up, cuzzz?" Hunchie asked as he passed me the sherm stick he'd just hit.

Finally!

Everyone got quiet, waiting for a report on my first hoo-ride.

"I got at least two of them!" I proudly declared.

"Damn, cuzzz," he slurred, the sherm already taking affect. "This shit is live!"

I hit the sherm and passed it. Everyone was so into the sherm, no one was paying much attention to me.

"I said I got two of them!" I stated again, irritated at being ignored.

"Cuzzz, yo' ass ain't hit shit!" Fly teased. "Wit' yo' nonshootin' ass!"

"Yeah," Bones chimed in, "that thirty-eight kick was so tough, if I hadn't been holdin' her up she'da spent all her time layin' down in the backseat!"

Everyone broke out laughing-even me. But I knew that, although they were teasing me with love, they were giving me a subtle message: I needed to bone up on my shooting, or rather my aiming. Missing wasn't allowed.

We later learned that no one was killed from our hoo-ride, though we did hit three of them: two seriously. One was paralyzed from the waist down and would be in a wheelchair for life. Everyone wanted to take credit for his injury. I swore it was one of my bullets. I was hungry to have been the trigger person and didn't think twice about the consequences. But Fly swore it was the pellets from his gauge.

Even though no one was killed, I still earned respect for doing the drive-by. It was the start of developing a reputation. But there would be more lessons to learn before sealing my rep. One of my favorites was learning to Crip-walk. Crip-walking was a popular dance among bangers, done only by bangers. The dance itself is hard to describe, and it has changed over the years, though the basic steps remain the same; a combination of skiplike steps and other fancy footwork. The OGs Crip-walked so sexy, cool, and smooth, it was a real delight just watching them. True Crip-walkin' was an art. Real Gangstas could Crip-walk while simultaneously hoo-bangin' and throwin' up various forms of their set's signs, positioning the fingers and thumb to form a gun, tossing the middle finger up to "the man," etc., all to the funkiest, hippest beats of favorite songs. One of the Gangstas' favorite songs was "Freak of the Week" by Parliament. We always took songs and replaced the words with Gangsta phrases. So instead of "freak of the week," we said "Crip of the week." Another phrase in the song, "never learned to swim," was replaced with "never learned to Brim" (the Brims were a rival Blood gang).

I also learned how to Crip-write and, in perfect Crip style, tagged my name anywhere and everywhere: on bus seats, on the walls of houses, apartments, and businesses. I kept a blue Magic Marker with me at all times. My favorite tags were "Lady Cupcake, Slob Killer"; "Lady Cupcake, 60's Killer" (to denote "60's Killer," I'd write "60's" and then mark a giant X over the 60's); or "Lady Cupcake-Gangsta Ca-rip Cuzzz."

Gangstas also taught me how to make money by "working a store." A whole group of us would go into a store, and since the shopkeeper couldn't watch ten to fifteen people at once, several homies kept the sales clerks occupied (or uncomfortably nervous), while others quickly stuffed shit down their pants, under their shirts, in their jackets, or wherever it would fit. All we were usually interested in, though, were things we could quickly sell: clothes, cigarettes, and booze.

I also learned how to rob people. We called it "jackin'." Sometimes we used weapons, but a lot of times we didn't. It's not that we were above using guns to make people give up what we demanded; it's just that it often wasn't necessary. Most times our sheer numbers, blended with the Gangstas' violent reputation and the ferocity on our faces, were the only weapons we needed. I didn't have a problem with jackin' folks face-to-face when I was drunk or loaded. But when sober, I still had sort of a conscience, which sometimes slowed me down.

But don't get me wrong, I loved the look of fear on the victims' faces. It gave me a sense of power and supremacy. But the problem was that while I knew that I wasn't going to seriously hurt anyone (I mean, I'd beat your ass or try to shoot or stab you in a nonfatal part of your body, but that's as far as I'd go), I couldn't say the same for my homies. They were really ruthless and would kill yo' ass in a heartbeat-drunk or sober. So when I was rolling with the kind of Gangsta whose extreme violence was unscheduled and unexpected, I'd stick to my favorite type of jackin': robbin' folks on the bus.

We'd find some unsuspecting sucker draped in gold, sitting near the rear door of a bus. Back then, flaunting gold was the thing and even a lot of squares did it. Anyway, after spotting our victim, we'd ring the bell to be let off at the next stop. As the bus pulled over to let us off, one homie would hold the door open while the others snatched the gold-all of it-necklaces and earrings (leaving big holes and blood where the earrings used to be) and whatever else we could snatch off the person-and run off the bus, laughing and hollering, "Gangstas!" all the way.

The poor stoolie-if he had the balls to try to chase us, he usually got stopped by the bus door slamming in his face. The homie whose job it was to hold the door would let it go just after we'd slipped through it-and just as the victim reached for it. Or the bus driver, unaware of what was happening, would pull off heading toward his next stop.

In fact, it was best if the victim didn't catch us, because if he did, he'd soon regret it. For us, it would be a free-for-all beatdown-we'd beat dey ass like dey stole something!

These jacks were my favorite 'cause they always paid well. Unlike face-to-face robberies where you didn't know what you were going to get (sometimes the victim wouldn't have more than five dollars on them), with gold jackin's you almost always got a good payoff. Pawnshops and dope dealers always took gold. Always.

- I celebrated my fifteenth birthday with the Gangstas. The homies gave me a jammin' party with plenty of booze, dope, and Crip-walking.

There was a school in the hood-Washington High. I had missed so much school, no one was sure whether I should be placed in ninth or tenth grade. No one could make any real sense out of my muddled, incomplete records, so the school decided the tenth was close enough.

Aunt Becky didn't know Fly and I were bangers, even though a variety of homies were always at our house-especially Dob, Lep, and Huck, who lived down the street. Nor could their personalities have tipped her off. Around her, they didn't act like the violent, vicious thugs that they actually were. They were always extremely courteous and well mannered. In fact, all of the homies were respectful and courteous to, and around, one another's parents and family. You'd get yo' ass kicked for dissin' somebody's momma. Because of Fly's (and now my) membership in the Gangstas, Aunt Becky was safe all over the hood. So although she walked everywhere she went (she couldn't drive), she was never jumped or attacked-even when she was coming from the bank.

Fly and I got extremely close during those years. Once I was no longer "in training," we did a lot of our crimes together. We spent so much time together that we decided I shouldn't sleep in the living room anymore. He had two twin beds in his room, so I moved into his room with him and slept on one of them. We were so close, a lot of the homies, and all his girlfriends, swore we were screwin'. But we weren't. We were just extremely close. We shared a special bond and it showed. He was like the big brother I'd never had, the father I'd tragically and suddenly lost, and the protective, caring boyfriend I secretly desired. Fly never made an inappropriate move toward me. Never. Still, no matter how strongly we denied the rumors and inquiries about being intimate, no one ever really believed us.

I loved being in South Central. Aunt Becky, really too elderly to be raising young, robust, active kids, pretty much let us do what we wanted. I loved having four brothers and, for once, not getting my ass beat regularly. (During my years as a Gangsta, I'd been jumped on by rivals and beaten up during gang fights, but in my mind, that was different.) Although I didn't have to, I continued turning tricks-but that's not what I called it. I was now calling it a "business arrangement." I never really went looking for my "business partners"; they always seemed to find me. One night the po-pos had swooped on Gangsta Park, gathered up a few of us homies, threatening to take us in. I was given to a young rookie who was supposed to call in and run a check on me. Licking my lips and giving the sexiest smile I could muster, I propositioned him about a little cheerleading practice. Thinking with the wrong head, he found the offer hard to pass up. He became a regular. Soon, he hipped me to one of his friends who was also a cop and who also became a regular. Whenever one of them heard my name come across the radio, he'd show up and say, "I'll take care of this one." It didn't happen often, just enough to prevent a couple of trips to juvie with the others. They took care of me and I took care of them. And, as I did with Mr. Bassinet, I viewed their "taking care of me" as a form of affection, protection, and security. So I saw nothing wrong with what either of us was doing.

My homies thought I kept just missing going to jail because I was a fast talker and a good bullshitter. They thought I had "game." Boy were they wrong.

My other regular "business partner" also came by happenstance. Early in my banging, one of my closest homegirls, Peaches, lived in the 107 Hoover territory. (How she was able to claim Gangsta while living in a Hoover's set, I never knew-and never asked.) Peaches and I were really tight, so I spent a lot of time over her house. Her boyfriend was a Hoover named Devil. Devil also spent a lot of time at Peaches', and often brought along Looney, one of his homeboys. Soon, Looney and I were going together. We didn't go together very long, but it was long enough for me to meet and get to know his dad.

One night, I'd dropped by Loon's house for a surprise visit, but he wasn't home. His father invited me to wait. While waiting, we had a couple of drinks, got tipsy, and well . . . he propositioned me with a monetary offer. I didn't have to think long about whether to accept. And I figured what Looney didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Our business arrangement provided me with a quick way to make money when jackin', robbin', and thievin' were slow. Looney seemed to like the fact that his father and I were so close. He never knew how close.

Unfortunately, my friendship with Peaches didn't last long-that silly girl started going out with Fly. I told her he was a dog, but she didn't believe me. She couldn't get past his fine looks, tight body, streetwise attitude, and irresistible charisma. She fell in love, caught him with another woman (he was always getting caught with other women), and was devastated. She said that her broken heart wouldn't allow her to be around Fly. And, because he and I were so tight, she said I was "guilty" by association. So, just like that, my "ace-boon-coon" was gone. Fly didn't care that he'd come in between me and one of my best friends. He just shrugged and moved on to the next victim.

But losing the friendship with Peaches was rough on me. I still had my other homegirls whom I loved dearly, especially Peanut and Yokey. In fact, it was Yokey who'd, unknowingly, assisted me in finding a new favorite color. I'd been trained, taught, and brainwashed to hate, despise, and abhor anything and everything red. (Back then, I wouldn't even admit it had once been my favorite color.) Then one day while hanging out, Yokey gave me a book.

Bangers were some of the most intelligent people I'd ever met. Some of them read regularly; others had a natural talent with numbers and thus were exceptional at math; still others liked art, were good with their hands, etc. Because Yokey liked to read, as I did, we often exchanged books and had deep discussions about those we'd read.

It was during a discussion about that book that I decided purple would be my new favorite color. There was a line in the book that said the color purple just wanted to be loved like everything else, like me. It would take over eighteen years before I would be able to uncorrupt my brain to allow red to return as a favorite color.

Our mutual love for reading was one reason Yokey and I became so close. Still, I missed the extra-special bond I'd shared with Peaches. She'd been my downest, tightest "homegurl." Her sudden and seemingly effortless dismissal of our friendship increased my lack of trust. I didn't think I would ever get that close to another girl again-till I met Rabbit and Trish.

Rabbit and Trish were sisters who claimed 74 Hoover. We'd met at a Gangsta party that'd been given to celebrate my homie Bam's release from jail. At the time, the 74's were allies, so many of them came and partied with us. The party was in the backyard of one of the homies' pads. Gangstas and Hoovers were smoking, drinking, and Crip-walking all over the place. I was standing at the side of the house, smoking a joint with Crip Karen and Lady B.B., when Rabbit, Trish, Yokey, and Pokey came walking by. They had to walk single file to be able to pass through the narrow walkway that led from the back of the house out to the street.

"We making a run for more forties," Yokey said to me as she passed. "You down, cuzzz?"

"Straight that, cuzzz," I replied.

As we headed for the store, Yokey introduced me to Rabbit and Trish. Although they were sisters they didn't look alike (probably because they had different fathers). Rabbit was a tall, thin dark-skinned girl, with thick, full lips that opened into a friendly smile. She said "Rabbit" was short for "Jack Rabbit," because she was fast with her hands. Trish was much shorter, with cocoa-colored skin. Though she was thin, she had a full face with chubby chipmunk cheeks. Trish said that "Trish" was her Crip name.

"So you Lady Cupcake?" Rabbit asked me. We'd returned from the store and were sitting around downing the 8-ball we'd just copped. "I heard you pretty down."

"Down enough," I replied. "What about you?"

"S-h-i-t, dis all Hoover here," she said in a slow drawl, while throwin' up four fingers-the sign for 74 Hoover.

Trish quickly joined her. They were hoo-bangin' "H-o-o-v-e-r C-a-rip!" I couldn't just let 'emhoo-bang on me, so I started hoo-bangin' back: "G-a-n-g-s-t-a Ca-rip!" We hoo-banged and Crip-walked till we ran out of breath and fell to the ground, panting and laughing. That was the start of our friendship. We quickly became best friends. Rabbit and Trish were already tight-they just let me into the circle.

Rabbit and Trish lived within walking distance of my house. So almost every day I was over at their house or they were at mine. Unless you saw us from the back (my shirt had three creases, theirs had four), or unless you saw us hoo-bangin' (I threw up three fingers and they threw up four), you couldn't tell we were from different sets. We were always "blued" down-even to the blue curlers in our hair and blue polish on our nails. We ditched together, fought against rivals together, hoo-rode together, and jacked together. Rabbit loved bus jackin' just as much as I did-which really sealed our alliance to each other. You had to have each other's back while jackin', because you never knew when you would have to beat down a mothafucka.

I still have a scar on my right finger given to me when Rabbit accidentally cut me instead of the sucker we were jackin'. But that was only one of many jacks that had gone wrong. We never considered stopping, though; we just tossed it up to an occupational hazard.

Rabbit, Trish, and I became inseparable. But then Fly had started "goin' wit' " Rabbit. He'd already ruined one special friendship, and I didn't want it to happen again. Luckily, I quickly found a love of my own to take my mind off them. Five fine-ass brothers-Egg, Beat-Down, Hoover Rick, B. Killer (Blood Killer), and Insane-lived in a big house directly across the street from Rabbit and Trish. They all claimed 74 Hoover. Trish was going with Egg. I liked Hoover Rick the moment I saw him. He was thin and brown-skinned, with the cutest smile. He must have dug me too because we started goin' together.

Rick had a nephew named Timmy. Timmy was only five years old, but they called him a "lil Hoover-in-training." His mother was Rick's only sister. And she, like a lot of parents, was ignorant of the signs of banging: the clothing (she thought khaki pants and shirts with four creases down the back were the current style), the colors, the lingo. She thought it was cute that Timmy was always donned in blue like his uncles. She had no clue that when little Timmy would announce that four was his favorite number, he was talking about 74 Hoover. Because her brothers used "cuzzz" all the time, she thought nothing of it when Timmy used it regularly. In fact, most of the homies's little brothers and sisters were always thought of as lil homies-in-training. It wasn't hard. Little kids, like big ones, wanted to be accepted and loved. So they loved hanging with the big homies. They felt the same unconditional love, safety, and power we did and quickly wanted to become a permanent part of it.

Trish, Rabbit, and I were becoming tighter and tighter, though I didn't realize how tight till Fly and Rabbit broke up. I was afraid she'd pull the plug on our friendship like Peaches had done. But Rabbit was a player too. Shit, she shook him off just like he did her. Our friendship never missed a beat. In fact, we got closer.

- I also experienced the dark side of the love we shared as a set: I got to bury many homies who'd been killed. One was Bam. Bam was an OG who, when he wasn't in jail, stayed shermed out. He smoked so much sherm that a lot of times he didn't know where he was or who he was. But, when he wasn't shermed, he was a down mothafucka!

Anyway, one night Fly and I were comin' from a party. We saw Bam lying on a bus-stop bench across the street from a donut shop that had a giant donut as its sign. We tried to wake him up and get him to go home because we knew lying around like that would only bring trouble. But try as we might, we couldn't get Bam to move. In fact, he started fightin' us, yellin' at us to leave him "the fuck alone!" We tried for a while longer, pleading with Bam to come with us. He refused to budge.

"Fuck it," Fly finally said. "He ain't movin'. Come on, cuzzz, let's go."

So we left Bam lying there, singing to a tune only he could hear.

Several days later they found Bam. He'd been beaten, shot, and run over. Rumor was the LAPD did it. I wasn't surprised. The LAPD was known for gathering a few homies, taking them off somewhere, beatin' the shit out of them only to bring 'emback and toss 'emfrom the car as a warning to the rest of us. We never bothered filing any complaints. Shit, we knew that complaining would never do any good. They were cops (the good guys) and we were thugs (the bad ones). Who would believe us?

Anyway, the LAPD hated Bam, because he was always talkin' shit to them.

"Take off that badge," he'd tell them, "and I'll whup yo' ass!"

Rumor was that they'd had enough of his talking shit and decided to teach him a lesson.

But, another homie said it was the Rollin' 60's not the LAPD who'd done it. Still another said it was the N-Hoods. Whoever Bam's killer was, the cops certainly never found them. Killers of Gangstas, hooligans, and thugs weren't very high on society's "most wanted" list.

Fly's best friend, Lucky, was also killed. He'd been set up by his brother's girlfriend who, for a payoff, told the 60's where he lived. They beat him, shot him, and left his body lying at the side of his house for his mother to find. That was the first time I'd ever seen Fly cry. Two weeks later, the brother's girlfriend mysteriously ended up dead.

These were just a few of several funerals I got to attend as a Gangsta. Funerals and death were a part of Gangsta life. I chalked it up to just part of "the game." I was never really concerned about dying because I never thought it could happen to me-I seriously believed I couldn't die. I figured the homies who had gotten killed ended up that way because they weren't down enough, fast enough, cool enough, tough enough.

And the brainwashing helped. Gangstas convinced me that dying wasn't a bad thing. They used to say, "Gangstas don't die, they multiply." They convinced me that there was a special heaven just for Gangstas-Gangsta heaven-and no matter how many people you killed, robbed, or beat, if you were a Gangsta, you'd go to Gangsta heaven where all the other fallen homies were, and we'd all party forever.

So I had no fear of dying and continued working on earning a rep for being a down Gangsta bitch: robbing, thieving, shooting, stabbing, fighting. I put in work to earn the respect and admiration of my homies. During this time, I'd been in many gang fights and hoo-rides. I got my ass whupped, and whupped some ass. I got hurt and hurt others. All of my bangin' activities were done while loaded; most were done while in a blackout. I enjoyed, even welcomed, the blackouts because they allowed me to have no clue as to what atrocities I'd committed. However, the next day my homies would always be more than happy to inform me about everything I'd said or done. Every now and then my conscience would rise up and I'd begin to feel bad about the way I was living and the things we were doing. But then I'd get around the homies. Between their love, the booze, the drugs, and the blackouts, my conscience was shut down. Besides, there was no time for guilt-I was becoming a ghetto star.

A ghetto star is someone who's well respected in the gang. They can fight, shoot, rob, steal, and have a rep for being ruthless, callous, and down. Several of the homies were already considered ghetto stars: Fly, Sidewinder, Monster, Huck-A-Buck, Crazy D, and numerous others. Several of the Gangsta-lettes had also earned that coveted title: Peanut, Big Lynn, Mooney, Crip Karen, Yokey, and others. I was on my way.

I decided I wanted to die a ghetto star-that is, till those bullets hit my ass.

18.