THUGLIT Issue Nine by Conley Jen & Hart Rob & Sheridan Max & McNamara Eddie & McFarlane Adam & Smith Stuart & Zippili Stephen & Martin R.J. & St. John Harry

Author:Conley, Jen & Hart, Rob & Sheridan, Max & McNamara, Eddie & McFarlane, Adam & Smith, Stuart & Zippili, Stephen & Martin, R.J. & St. John, Harry [Conley, Jen]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Thuglit Publishing
Published: 2014-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

Everyone knew about the bike wars, but nothing was ever done to stop it. It was as if the cops just allowed it to play out because to them, every kid involved was a piece of trash. Every weekend, the ones who lived on the other side of the park would ride, two or sometimes three to a bike: one on the seat, one standing on the back pegs and maybe one sitting on the handlebars, and go 'shopping' until they all went home on a bike of their own. They would look for the softest kids, the ones who would hand over their bikes without even putting up a fight. More often than not, bystanders playing softball, jogging, or drinking in the park would intervene during the robberies and a three-on-one fight might turn into a seven-on-three or a five-on-ten brawl, producing the kind of violence that most people believe only happens in the movies.

Devs continued rallying his ragtag army in his quest to avenge Rory: "OK, so what we do is, we send one of you little shits out on the GT Pro Performer. When they see you looking like a scared little white boy on a $250 bike, they're gonna be on you quick—so you better be able to pedal your ass off." Devs looked at the excited and nervous faces in front of him and asked, "Which one of you is the fastest?"

Most of the kids turned their heads and looked to the same eleven-year-old. Luca Giordano, a gangly kid who looked much younger than his age and wore the same Don Mattingly t-shirt every day, sheepishly raised his hand.

Devs smiled. "Good, the little greaseball's gonna be our bait. Make sure they chase you to the fieldhouse where the rest of us are gonna be hiding. Don't fuck up. We got bats, hammers, chains, all kinds of shit that'll teach them that they can't come here and disrespect us in our neighborhood. Bash their heads in, knock their teeth out. Take their bikes, their money, anything they got. Throw them a beating so bad that when they even think about our park, they should have nightmares about us. We're the fuckin' monsters that will haunt their dreams. They'll remember us forever. All of you be here at the fieldhouse Saturday and bring your boys."

The next day, I drifted into the park with the Riordan brothers at noon. We were greeted by about a dozen anxious kids milling about behind the fieldhouse sharing cigarettes and drinking whatever bottles of malt liquor could be bought at the Arab store with pocket change, speaking boldly about what they hoped would happen that afternoon. Tommy removed a can of Krylon from his backpack and hit the freshly painted red field house with a DEVS mpk tag. He looked more intense than usual. His hair was newly shorn in a high-and-tight military style and his eyes weren't blinking.

Rory kept one hand in the pocket of his denim jacket touching the Rambo-style