"I t's all there, vato," the short, stout Mexican man proclaimed to the tall, dapperly-dressed Black man standing before him. "That's ten kilos of pure snow; same as last month, homes."
"Now you know damn well you ain't gotta tell me no shit like dat, Gordo," the Black man responded in a deep voice. "How long we been doin' bidness together, man? What, twenty years now?"
"That sounds about right, Diamond," Gordo answered with a proud smile on his pudgy face. Diamond handed his old friend and business associate a briefcase as he took the brown backpack from his grasp. "This ain't counterfeit money in here, is it, amigo?" Gordo asked before breaking out into hearty laughter.
"If that's counterfeit dough in that briefcase, a whole bunch of folks got a whole hell of a lot of explainin' to do," Diamond responded while checking the time on his Cartier. "Well, it's about time for me to be hittin' the road, amigos. I got places to be and people to see, so I'll catch you vatos on the rebound, homes," Diamond announced in his best cholo imitation. The smooth street hustler gave everyone in the room a friendly nod and then made his way out the front door.
"That fucking Diamond, he's a good vato, aye," Gordo proclaimed to his youngest brother and three protégés, once Diamond was out of the house. "He's the only miyathe that I trust enough to bring into my pad." Every teenager in the room quickly agreed with him the same way that everyone else in the varrio did whenever Gordo spoke.
Before anyone could utter another word, the door swung open with a loud boom. The doorknob slammed so hard into the wall that it penetrated the stucco. "Lay the fuck on the ground — right now!" demanded the light-skinned teenage boy who appeared in the doorway brandishing the ominous MAC-10 assault weapon. Two more African-American teenagers immediately made their way through the door, ordering the Hispanic men to lie on the floor.
One of the Mexican boys made the fatal mistake of reaching for the piece he had tucked into the waistband of his baggy Ben Davis slacks. Before he could aim his pistol, he was struck in the chest by three hollow-point slugs from the silent MAC-10. The boy's eyes slowly went blank as he slid down the wall, leaving a dark red trail of blood behind.
"Any of you other enchilada-eatin' mothafuckas wanna die today?" the stocky, light-skinned boy asked, before firing one more shot, this one directly into the head of his already lifeless target. Blood, bone, and chunks of brain oozed from the young boy's head. This prompted the other men to cooperate right away by lying face down on the floor. "What the fuck you waitin' for, Psych? Tie deez bean-bitin' son of a bitches up, blood." With a devilish grin and evil laugh, the young assailant produced a roll of silver duct tape from the pocket of his black, hooded sweatshirt.
"Don't nobody else wanna be a hero or what?" the teenager invited as he began stripping the duct tape. The first person the young gangster went for was Gordo himself.
The street lord asserted, in the toughest voice one could muster up with two guns pointed at him, "I'll give you whatever you want, homes. You don't gotta tie us up, esse."
The young thug quickly dropped the roll of tape onto the floor, and with his right hand he drew a chrome, silencer-equipped 9mm Desert Eagle from his waistband. He reached down, grabbed a handful of the chubby Hispanic man's hair in his left hand, and used it to yank his head backwards. Staring into Gordo's eyes with the same evil disposition as the young hoodlum who had just murdered his little brother's best friend, the teenager pressed the barrel of his pistol against Gordo's left nostril and made it clear to him who was in charge. "Check dis out, Paco," the youngster scoffed at the Mexican gang leader. "The only thing I gotta do is stay Black and rob your ranchero ass for every single tortilla you got up in this mothafucka, comprende?"
Gordo was not used to taking orders from any man, and his pride would not allow him to answer such an insolent question. His only response was to stare the young gangster straight in his eyes. "I ain't scared to die, homes, but if you kill me, you don't get nada."
After a brief stare-down between Gordo and the boy, the third teenager, who had been quiet up to this point, opened the briefcase that Diamond left behind, which had been lying on the coffee table. "It's enough cash in here for us to kill all four of y'all and be happy with," said the clean-cut robber. "It's fucked-up what just happened to ya lil homie, and I know ain't nobody else tryin' to go out like that, so just give us what we came for and we up out this dump. This shit is strictly bidness, dog."
This boy appeared to be a lot more rational than the other two hoods who looked and behaved identically evil. Even in the compromising position he was in, such respect went a long way with Gordo, for he himself had once been a stick-up kid, and just like this calm young robber, Gordo had never made his holdups personal. "Just do what you gotta do, aye," the boss swallowed his pride and spoke in a macho voice. "We don't want no more problems."
The boy in the black hooded sweatshirt tucked his pistol back into his waistband and then began taping each cholo's wrists tightly behind their backs. The teenager performed like clockwork, with such precision that it was obvious he had performed this task on many others before them. He taped the wrists and ankles of the three remaining teenage boys before lifting semiautomatic pistols off of two of them.
"Now, where you keep all da clavo at, tubby?" the heavily-tattooed killer toting the MAC-10 asked with a smug look on his face.
"Wait! Hold up, dog!" the comely, cool-headed teenager explained. "Kill all dat bullshit, Sick! Let's just get this loot and shake da mothafuckin' spot." He helped the Hispanic head honcho to his feet and demanded that he take him to the stash.
"All I got is fifty thousand cash and about ten kilos of coca in here right now, homes," Gordo warned the bandits, as if this were a bad thing. This was like music to the ears of all three young gangbangers. In fact, this was about to be one of the biggest hits they had ever pulled off. The clean-cut teenager ordered the savage teen with the MAC-10 to stay and keep an eye on the young Mexican boys, while Gordo escorted him and the hooligan in the black hood up the stairs.
Once they reached the master bedroom, the Mexican boss pointed to a large solid oak dresser. "Push that to the side and you will see a little rope hanging from out of the carpet under there. Just pull on that rope."
The young gangster quickly obliged this request and found a hollowed out space beneath the thick, black carpet. One by one, he reached down into the floor and pulled out eighteen well-compacted bricks of white powder before producing an Oakland Raiders gym bag. He unzipped the gym bag to find several rubber banded stacks of cash. "Jackpot!" blurted the obnoxious young criminal without making the slightest attempt to conceal the taunting tone in his voice.
Gordo could feel his blood boiling. He could not believe that he was being robbed by these three young street punks. He struggled with his instincts, attempting to dismiss the thought that his good friend Diamond had set him up like this for a few crumbs that he knew would not even amount to one week's profit. He would have gladly fronted Diamond double this if he needed it. Right then, the street boss shuddered when he came to grips with the reality of what was really going on. Just when he figured it out, his thought process was interrupted.
"Where all da guns at, fat boy? And I know you got some heavy artillery up in this bitch, so don't test my patience, aight, Pancho Villa?" the young thug demanded.
"Hey, you fucking little putho," Gordo responded without thinking. "There is a duffle bag under my bed with a couple of bullshit rifles and two pistolas. That's all there is, so take that shit and handle your business before my lady comes back with my kids."
A bulb lit up in the mind of the young hoodlum. "I think this fat piece of shit is holdin' out on us, Lil Ricky," the young savage said with a grin, realizing that he had just gained a lot more leverage over his victim.
Lil Ricky could read his comrade's mind. He was far too familiar with the demented minds of his two favorite crime partners, Psycho and Sicko. They were ruthless and relentless in their every beastly endeavor. Lil Ricky needed this balance, because he was very much the opposite.
Gordo's heart skipped a beat and then began to pound hard when he realized that he had probably just made the biggest mistake of his life. "I gave you vatos everything," Gordo proclaimed in an agitated voice. "I already told you guys what I had; that's it, homes."
"Well, I guess we'll just have ta wait till ya senorita shows up wit the little bambinos to find out where the real stash is at, huh, big drawz?"
Gordo dropped his head while shaking it with regret. A tear rolled down his cheek as he visualized his wife being tied up and raped while his children were bound and tortured, all due to his own stupidity. Gordo loved his family more than life itself, and he knew that his only chance of saving his family was in the hands of the teenager to whom the other two referred as Lil Ricky. With the face of a desperate man, the powerful gang leader looked the young gangster in the eyes and begged for mercy without having to say a single word.
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