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Fanon:For my little brother: Difference between revisions
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I looked at my hands. A plastic jug, otherwise intact except for a small tear near the spout. I placed it gently into a bag filled with my total finds for the day and resumed searching, digging, "scavenging".
It's a life nobody wants to live. Nobody came here because they loved the smell and sight of garbage. They came because they had a choice, a very simple one:
I looked up. The sun was beginning to set, staining the clouds in the sky with a dirty yellow. I gathered my findings into my arms and began to descend the hill. "Smokey Mountain", they called it, named for the smoke that frequently arose from the hill as tires, copper, wood, even coal, were burned by the locals. The air is toxic. Every minute I stand breathing it kills me a little bit inside. But I would die faster if I avoided the hill altogether, for the hill meant money. Money to buy food. The hill often provided us with food itself. Food, discarded food, from the various restaurants and food courts across the city. It is cleaned and cooked, and then eaten. We call it ''pagpag'', and if it's cleaned and cooked properly, it is safe to eat.
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Father was gone the next morning, leaving behind my brokenhearted mother to care for her three sons. Money became tight, and we barely had enough on the table to feed half of us. While a few local schools offered free classes, my mother felt that our education was less important than our very ability to survive, even if it meant working at Smokey Mountain for the rest of our lives. So we forwent school, and all three of us instead became scavengers, gathering recyclables from the mountain of garbage to be resold. Without our father's strength and guidance, we together were only able to provide just enough money to feed everyone. None of us had time to study or do anything else.
A year later, Julio became sick of scavenging. Early one morning, as we were leaving for the mountain, he turned in the opposite direction and, with a small, almost insignificant wave, walked away from us. He didn't come back that evening. My mother became distressed, wondering where her son went. She asked our neighbours, asking if they had seen him, but he had seemingly vanished. About a month later, he came back a completely different person, as if aliens had abducted him and altered his personality. My mother was relieved... and relief turned to anger as she questioned my brother. Julio gave her — and us — the cold shoulder for a few days. He did not explain to us where he got his gold necklace or the tattoos on his arm until one evening, when he finally broke his silence. He had joined a street gang, specialized in the production and transportation of
I stared at the money before my feet. Money meant food, schooling, a future. I bent down to pick it up, but my mother slapped my hand away. "I will not use money from the Devil!" She swept the money into a big pile outside and, much to my surprise, set it on fire. All the neighbours came running, trying to beat out the flames, get their hands at the money, accusing my mother of "wasting what we could all use to eat!" My mother had no response. She retreated to her room, and from her closed door, I could hear her cry.
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I looked to my left. My mother had busied herself with housework, cleaning the floor, the table, the furniture. With so little space in the house, she'll be done in no time. I looked at my older brother and shrugged. ''Who cares about him?'' I thought. ''He's doing just fine on his own.'' I got up, splashed my face, and then my hair, with water. Water was such a precious commodity that even a shower was far too wasteful. We supposedly had running water, but service was erratic and whatever came out of the sink was often murky and filthy. Some say that those in the government housing buildings used all of the water, leaving none for us. All of our water had to be bought from reservoirs and hauled by hand in large jerrycans, which didn't come cheap. And without our father, water was our gold. The most we could do to keep clean was a sponge bath, which left the washcloth black from all the grime. Eventually, I forwent the cloth and scrubbed myself the best I could with my bare hands. I looked somewhat clean after that, at least.
<!-- Note to self: You may want to consider replacing the bunk with just the three sleeping on the floor. Might need some rewriting, but it makes more sense. -->The bedroom was dark. My brother had already gone to sleep, or at least, I thought he
My younger brother slept in the bunk under mine, my older brother getting the floor. My elevated position in the room, combined with the fact that heat rises, meant that I had to wallow in my own sweat every night. On the plus side, it meant that I didn't have to be kicked every time someone got out of the bunk, which my older brother had to endure, as our bedroom was very, very small. My younger brother had the best position, and by unanimous agreement, was permitted to sleep in the "king's bed" indefinitely. When my older brother wasn't here, I could have gone down to enjoy the coolness of the floor, but always found myself longing for the top bunk again.-->
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''Well, at least you did something, Julio. Used to.''
Then, the shopkeeper made a mistake:
As soon as he did so, my hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of the chicken pagpag. Didn't have time to put it in a bag, could only snatch and run, getting grease all over my hands. The hot oil began to sear my skin; the chicken was still hot.
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He looked around, as if to check for any unwanted eavesdroppers. "I figured I could trust you enough to join my gang."
I was silent. My mind immediately raced back to Julio and what he had gotten himself into. He had also joined a gang, a street gang, involved in the
''Evan... I just need to think about him!'' I knew my older brother fell into a pit that he never got out of, the pit being the very gang he joined, the new lifestyle he chose. He thought about the gang, and how the gang could benefit him, bring him all the riches that we and the garbage dump never could. He was sick of being poor, and the gang opened the door for him to get out, escape from poverty. He never went back, except maybe as the odd tourist to his own family and his old home.
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I had no idea how far I'd fall.
==Diablo Wingz==
Cigarette smoke drifted around and above my head. It stung my eyes, my lungs, and my throat slightly. I wanted to bat away the fumes, but was afraid of what Dodger would say. "You weak or something?" I could almost hear him saying.
We were in an alley, surrounded by walls of corrugated metal and concrete covered with graffiti. A few had obscene symbols and images sprayed on. The path was illuminated by sodium vapour lamps, casting off a ghostly yellow glow. The light made me tired and sleepy; I could never understand why this was the colour of "urban nightlife."
"Stay close to me," Dodger whispered into my ear as we turned a corner. Immediately I was hit with the strong stench of marijuana. I had smelled the drug before, had seen my older brother smoke it on occasion, but never before in this quantity and in such concentration. I blinked, almost toppling over. The smell emanated from an old, narrow door leading into a building that had its windows shuttered and barred. Dodger turned me towards that direction; with every step I took, my heart rate increased, beating faster and with greater intensity. The two of us were stopped by a tall, teenaged male. He was shirtless and barefoot, toting a large aluminum bat behind his head. "Who's this, Dodger?" he asked.
"His name's Garrett," Dodger responded, pointing to me. "He's a good one from what I can see. He's strong. Tough. Determined. Give 'im a chance."
The boy got up and close to us. I trembled before his presence. He was monstrous, at least two heads taller than I was, and he seemed ready to attack, dispose of anyone he didn't agree with. He wasn't looking at me though. He was looking directly at my escort.
"Last time you brought someone here they flipped out and almost brought the cops to our doorstep. How are we supposed to know this isn't another screwup by you?"
"Gimme one more chance," Dodger pleaded. "Look, I know I f*cked up last time. I was younger though, younger and naïve. Just give him a shot; if he's no good, you can beat the tar out of me."
The boy snorted. He turned to me. "Don't go snooping around in places where you're not supposed to be in." And with that, he stepped out of the way, permitting us entry into the dilapidated building. Dodger kept a hand on my back, guiding, almost propelling me in the direction he wanted to go in.
"Don't wander in this place when nobody knows you, else they'll have your *ss tarred and feathered."
Even without that warning, sheer fear would have contained me, locked me in, unable to escape. He kept pushing me, directing me through a dimly-lit, narrow corridor. We passed by several people, each one of them looking at me. Combined with my fear, I felt like an animal being paraded around the streets in a cage. Was I really that exotic, or were they just suspicious of me?
"Zippo!" Dodger shouted. "Zippo, where ya at?"
A head popped out of an open door, a lit cigarette in its mouth. Around his neck he bore a silver chain and a silver Christian cross. In his right hand was a glass filled with ale. "Sup?"
"Zippo, meet Garrett. Found 'im in a dumpster this morning—"
"You brought us ''another'' trashy clown?" Zippo remarked, interrupting his friend. "''Literally''."
Dodger shook his head. "Nuh-uh, Zippo — you haven't seen what he can do. He learns fast; got him to successfully clean someone's pockets within an hour of meeting him. We did a couple more after that, and then we took out a store. We got separated and I got cornered, but he actually ''came back'' for me!" I felt a rewarding pat on my shoulder. "I know he's the one."
Zippo shook his head. "Look, Dodger, he's too small. You said you found him in a dumpster. What, his mother abandoned him?"
"He's a scavenger..."
"Knew it!" Zippo straightened up and blocked the doorway. "Can't see a use for someone who's spent their entire lives digging through piles o' sh*t. You've barely even known him for more than 24 hours! Too soon, Dodger; too soon. You may as well just leave 'im back on the streets where he belongs."
Dodger was speechless. When he turned around and went back inside the room, though, Dodger shot his hand out and grabbed him by the shoulder. "Wait!"
The face turned around, its expression gruff and displeased. I could see a puff of smoke pouring out of the mouth. "What?"
"Give 'im a chance. Just this once. Just let 'im get a taste of the gang. If he's no good I'll remove him myself. Just give me a chance. Just give him a chance. I ''know'' I got the one, I just know it!"
"You know something, Dodger?" He turned around fully to look him straight in the eye. "You sound like a big crybaby."
Dodger began to sulk. "For f*cks sake..."
Zippo knelt down to get to my level. "How old are you?" he asked me.
"Ten."
"Any family?"
"A mother and a brother."
"Older or younger?"
"Younger."
He looked at me straight into my eyes. I was afraid, wanting to slink back, wanted to look away, but for some reason I looked straight back at him. He blinked; I blinked. He moved his eyes to the right; I moved my eyes to the left. He rolled his eyes; I rolled my eyes. Finally, he got up. "No offense, Dodger, but I still think you're sh*t." He grinned. "Although I think I can give this kid here a chance. Just once."
"Thanks... thank you so much, bro!"
"Don't be a tease." And with that, he let us in.
The room was packed and small, lit by a single hanging lamp perched over a long, rectangular table that occupied the middle, taking up the space. Sitting or standing around it were thirty or so men and women, many of them with lit cigarettes coming out of their mouths and drinks in their hands. The table held several smartphones, some of them with their screens lit, and several bottles of ale. A thug in his twenties, sporting a bandana wrapped around his head, was filling empty glasses up and passing them around the table to the laughing gangsters. "Here with my homies tonight for a good f*ckin' time!" he exclaimed. "Drink up, light up; we've all been good today, haven't we?"
A head rose up from the crowd. He was young; I'd say around the age of nineteen. He wore a black baseball cap backwards and had three tattoos on his arms. "Malou!" he called out. "Malou! Gimme that beat, young dog; help a fellow homie out here, will ya?"
"Eeey, takin' that mic up again, C. Razor?" Malou took a swig from his glass. "Shout out to all my homies in here!" He cleared his throat and, after a brief pause, began to beatbox. Nearby side-conversations were extinguished rapidly in respect for the vocal bass machine. In the dim light, the thug named C. Razor straightened his cap and began to rap:
<poem>
''Yo, my name's C. Razor,''
''I'm blazin', hotter than a tazer,''
''It's my turn to bust a rhyme,''
''Cause we're drinking and smoking and having a good time,''
''We've run out of food,''
''But that's okay cause I'm cool,''
''I hustle like I'm broke,''
''Your sh*t's just a big joke,''
''Cause you're just gonna choke,''
''While you're sittin' in the corner sniffin' coke,''
''I rap with meanin' but you'll never know,''
''That's just how it goes,''
''I'm sittin' here with my homies cause I'm runnin' the show,''
''While y'all just goin' with the flow,''
''So many b*tches here, my head's gonna blow,''
''I bright up the sky; I light up the sky,''
''This dope makes me fly cause I've never been this high,''
''It gets me every time,''
''I'm gonna be fine,''
''I'm gonna be out doin' every crime,''
''Guns in the jeep as we pullin' up to you,''
''Starin' down that barrel, we ain't got no truce,''
''Cause I'm cool and I don't need you,''
''Your blood's gonna fizz,''
''Cause I got all the jizz,''
''And when I got your f*ckin' b*tches you ain't gonna need this,''
''Sh*t, you'd be goin' around dropping yo' things,''
''Nobody goin' messin' around with the Diablo Wingz!''
</poem>
"A round of applause!" a tall, muscular teenager shouted as he poured the freestyler a glass. "A toast to our king tonight!"
"Hey Dodger!" Malou shouted. "Who you got there?"
"He's Garrett," Dodger responded, pointing to me. "Treat him well; he was a killer out there on the streets today!"
"Damn, he looks small."
"Small body, big soul," Dodger said, defending me.
The crowd laughed. "Pass me a glass," Dodger called out. Immediately three glasses filled to the brim with ale were thrust at him. He selected one and handed it to me. "First timer?"
''Not really.'' I had a small amount of beer on my own, but never in a significant quantity.
"Doesn't need to be the whole thing; half a glass is good."
For a second, I held back. I remembered a time when I was younger, when I saw a man on the streets, being arrested and swarmed by police. He was intoxicated, resisting the cops and spewing forth the foulest and most obscene language I had ever heard. In his arms he was clutching several bottles, many of them looking similar to the ones in front of me now. ''How much would it take to get me drunk?''
"Drink it, man! Cheers to a successful day."
The room grew quiet as everyone turned to watch me.
"How old is he?"
"He's ten," Dodger responded.
"Isn't he a tad bit young for drinks?"
"Naw, he can stomach it. He'll learn eventually."
I brought the glass to lips and allowed a few drops into my mouth. It had a pungent flavour, stronger than the beer I had yesterday, biting and cutting into my tongue, my teeth, my throat. Harshly bitter, nothing like the coffee I drank that morning. It seared the insides of my mouth, despite the fact that it was cold, and when I swallowed it, the liquid burned my esophagus, all the way down to my stomach.
"More, more! Half the glass! Half the glass!"
Everyone was watching me; I felt hot and uncomfortable. ''Anything to make the pressure stop!'' I tipped the glass and poured more of the liquid into my mouth. It was like a wall of flame going down my throat, and I gagged. Now I could really taste the ale; the flavour got into my nostrils and lingered there, refusing to leave. I swallowed my coughing fits down, along with the liquid. I had never tasted anything this bitter. I looked at the glass to see how much I had left to go.
It was half-full.
"Beautiful!" one of the gangsters said exuberantly. "You've got a tough one there, Dodger. I can see that makes up for your baldf*ckery!"
Everyone laughed. Everyone except me and Dodger, at least.
I felt a pat on my shoulder. "Good job, Garrett."
I was still looking at the glass, looking at the remaining ale. It stung my throat, burned within me like a flambé, almost twisting me from the inside. The awful taste clung onto my tongue and teeth, stinging them with a tart, bitter flavour. But the gang was loving it; they were enthralled to see a ten year old boy drink like them. Whatever I did, I could not disappoint them, could not let them down, could not retreat and surrender. My brother's future was in my hands, and I had to come home alive. Alive and successful.
''Should I...?''
I gritted my teeth, swallowed hard, and opened my mouth for another round, bracing for impact. The alcohol still burned me, but this time, I burned it back. I was determined not to disappoint anyone, not myself, not the gang, not my brother. I swallowed each gulp hard; every time I did so, it felt like I was swallowing fireballs, and that sooner or later my stomach would give out and burst into flames, consuming me from the inside out. Finally, the glass was empty. I slammed it down, exhausted, panting, my face turning red. I couldn't be sure if it was the alcohol or the fact that everyone was watching me, watching as I drank more than I was expected to drink.
"Sh*t, this kid is ''good''!" a voice shouted.
"Never seen anyone get good this fast."
"He'll replace Reyes someday! Don't need a psychic and a crystal ball to tell!"
"Damn, he's a 'Miracle Kid'!" The owner of the voice stood up. His head was shaven bald and his eyes concealed with rounded sunglasses. "Yeah, you hear that? 'Miracle Kid'! He'll be making the Cobras and the Red Cults sh*t themselves in their pants!"
"A round of applause for this little dude!"
Dodger knelt down to my level. "What the f*ck did you..."
"I'll drink another one," I gasped. "If I have to, I will."
He shook his head. "Didn't bring you here for a drink; I know you killed it out there, but..."
"What's this thing about a 'Miracle Kid' I hear about?" a man's voice said, interrupting the conversation and the atmosphere of the room. He looked at me. "Is that the one?"
My cheeks were burning red. "What do you mean by 'Miracle Kid'?" Dodger asked.
"I hear some kid downed an entire glass of alcohol and someone said he could succeed Reyes once he retires. Or drops dead." He was still looking at me. "Dunno how many kids you bring in here but almost all of them are pathetic as f*ck."
"That's why we call 'im a 'Miracle Kid'!" someone shouted.
"I see." He directed his gaze to Dodger. "You brought him here?"
He nodded.
The man gestured with his fingers, signalling him to come over. "And bring the kid with you."
As I left, the climate of the room was restored in an instant. "Hey, hey, someone bring the beat back! Gotta say something about this 'Miracle Kid' here!"
Once we were outside in the narrow, dark corridor, he turned to Dodger. "Who's this kid?"
"His name's Garrett."
"Where'd you find him?"
"In a dumpster."
"What?!"
"Look, I know it sounds f*cking stupid, but you gotta see this kid." Dodger was again desperate to convince. "I met him this morning and by late afternoon we managed to successfully loot a store."
"What store was it?"
"Rodrigo's. He's the father of Arthur, leading gang member of the Red Cults."
I assumed Rodrigo was the name of the old shopkeeper.
"And you got away with it?"
"That's not all! We got separated while we were running out of there, and he came back to look for me when I got cornered in an alley. I could've died out there, but he saved my life!"
"And you brought him here because you think he'll be a good member?"
Dodger nodded.
The man turned to me. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Ten," I replied.
"Hoo," he said softly, almost with a touch of morbidity and dark humour in his voice. "Hoo, you're in for some sh*t, man."
I did not know what he meant.
"We don't just let anybody into the Diablo Wingz. To survive out here, you gotta be tough. Only the tough can live here." He turned around and began walking. "Follow me," he said. "You too, Dodger."
He led us into a dark, sketchy room in the rear, illuminated only by an aluminum floor lamp that threw out a weak, yellowish light. Aside from that lamp and a few chairs, the room was bare. On one side of the room stood a concrete wall, covered with graffiti. Facing that wall were two boys — one was around the age of 15, the other couldn't have been any older than 12. Both of them had been blindfolded with a bandana and were trembling like china dolls on a store shelf in the midst of an earthquake. Behind them was a squarely-built thug in his twenties, wielding a thick wooden stick. He acknowledged our entry with a nod before turning back to his subjects.
"Alright now, here's the deal: you're going to scream to the world the name of your favourite street gang, and when you do, we'll see how you handle pain. Remember, we don't just allow anyone to join Diablo Wingz. We don't recruit chickens. We eat chickens! If you're a chicken, raise your hand and you can get the f*ck out of here before we butcher you."
Neither of the two boys said or did anything.
"You first," the thug said, pointing to the older recruit. He cocked the stick back, ready to strike. "Say it!" he barked. "Say who you love the most!"
"I... I love Diablo Wingz," came a small, timid reply.
The stick was lowered. "Really now." The thug was unimpressed. "Are you a bull or a load of bullsh*t?" He thumped the boy on the back. "Don't be a turd." He raised the stick again. "Now ''who'' do you love again?!"
"I love Diablo Wingz!"
The stick bore down. For a moment, I thought I could see it motionless as it hung suspended in mid-air. A loud "''CRACK!''" rang out, startling me, shaking me from whatever haze I was in. The figure that was struck crumpled to the floor, and I didn't need to ask to know that the stick had scored on his bones.
"Get up!" his assailant growled, dragging him back into a standing position by the ear. "That was only one strike, and anyone can survive the first round. We're ''Diablo Wingz'', not the corny-*ss Girl Scouts." When the boy did not move, he thumped him again. "What's wrong? Too scary for you? You tell me right here right now: are you scared?!"
"N-N-No!" He was trying to be brave, be tough, be a man, but his speech was stuttery, like that of someone who had been left in the cold for too long. His assailant, though, only laughed. "Well, I'll give you a few more chances." Stick cocked, ready for more. "Now who do you love?!"
"I love Diablo Wingz!"
''CRACK!'' Another sickening sound of wood meeting bone and flesh rang out throughout the room. The boy was on his knees again, whimpering in absolute pain. I felt sickened at the sight. I wanted to vomit, at the very least, run away from what I've seen. I looked at Dodger and the man beside me. Neither of them seemed the least bit appalled, or even surprised; in fact, I could've sworn they were enjoying it!
"I've seen worse, kid," the thug said. "Up! One more time, and this is gonna be my hardest." The boy struggled to his feet. He was still shaking, shivering almost, despite the heat and humidity. I wanted to bury my face into my hands to shield my eyes from the horror, but was afraid of what Dodger might say. Would he think that I was a wuss and have me removed for it? Would he get beaten as well for "screwing up"? I was afraid to know.
The stick was up again. "Show me how tough you are!" the thug shouted. "Now, get ready: 'I LOVE...'"
"I LOVE DIABLO WINGZ!"
A final swing. A final blow. One last fall. The thug grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him up. "You're just a kid," he remarked, removing the blindfold.
"He's still a kid," Dodger said in reply.
"He'll grow up in a week." He shoved the 15-year-old towards the direction of the door. "Go 'n wait outside; we'll teach you the handshake in a bit." He turned to his younger victim, who was unable to see the commotion, but could certainly hear it. "You're next. Let's see how tough you are now."
The man standing beside me prodded my shoulder. "To ''really'' join the Diablo Wingz," he said, "you need to prove you can stomach it. We give everyone ten and up the 'Wingz Treatment', and if you chicken out, you're out of the squad. Period." He gave me an amused look, a look that made me uncomfortable. "You're ten. You'll be double-digits for the rest of your life. Now's the time you stop being a child." He lifted his head to again look at the torturous scene before him. "Only the tough survive in Tondo."
The poor younger boy was already crying, possibly in fear, before he got his dosage of pain. "Stop crying!" the thug ordered, "or else you can pack your bags and go home. You wanna go home, laddie? The choice is yours. You can sit at home and starve yourself alone, or you can sponge up your tears and grow up!"
The boy tried to stand up straight, trying to be tough. The stick was raised. "You know the drill. Which gang do you love the most?!"
"I-I-I l-love D-D-Diablo W-W-Wingz!"
The stick was swung, steering clear of the legs and instead striking him on the back. "Oh, come on!" the thug said in disgust. "You're worse than the last guy. You wanna be a man, but you can't even get rid of your pacifier." He thumped him on the back several times. "Grow up, or get out. Hmm?! What do ya choose?"
"I'll... I-I-I'll g-g-grow up..."
"Then act like it!" Stick up, posture square<!-- solid in shape -->. "I love...!"
"I love Diablo Wingz!"
''CRACK!'' There was a sharp exclamation of pain as the boy fell down. He crumpled over, shielding his inner body, cowering in utter fear and senseless pain.
"What a chicken!" Dodger shouted. "You cry like my grandmother."
I swallowed. Neither of the two who stood beside me felt like "friends", or whatever I had considered them to be beforehand, anymore.
The thug grabbed the boy by the ears and brought him back up. "We're not done yet," he said. "Make it or break it. Do, or do not. You either be tough or you don't come anywhere near our turf at all. No in-betweeners." He raised the stick again. "Alright then. 'I LOVE...!'"
"Wait!!" the boy screamed. "This is too much for me!"
The stick was lowered. "Oho!" the thug commented. "Good thing we caught a chicken before they got a chance to f*ck anything up." He strode over to his victim and came in very, very close. The boy could not see his assailant, but could certainly sense his presence. "Remind yourself ''why'' you came here," the thug said in a low, dangerous voice. "You came here for a reason, did you not?" He walked around, circling the child, talking as he moved: "In Tondo, there is no work. There is no food. There is no shelter. Not when you're alone. Only the mounds of garbage to pick from. You couldn't feet a rat with those earnings." The thug turned in our direction, and he no doubt caught a glimpse of me. His eyebrows raised, acknowledging my presence. I immediately felt very afraid of him. "In Tondo, only those who are unafraid, who are willing to run the extra mile, who are willing to do whatever it takes for themselves and their fellow brothers and sisters, will live. The rest can only rot in the garbage they scrounge in."
He was again right next to the boy. "You have to be tough," he whispered in his ear, "or you will die."
The room was quiet, save for the sounds of the drinking and the cheering and the rapping next door. "You want to die, son?" the thug finally barked after several minutes.
"N-N-No sir. No sir. No sir!"
"Do you want to be tough, son?"
"Yes sir!"
"You want to go home?"
There was a pause, as if the boy was wondering whether or not it was a trick question. "No sir."
The thug obviously knew what he really wanted, but he didn't press him on it. "Do you want to join the Diablo Wingz?"
"Yes sir... Yes I do!"
"Then prove it." The thug backed off in order to make room for the swinging of the stick. "Shout it out to the world: 'I LOVE....!'"
"I LOVE DIABLO WINGZ!"
''CRACK!''
The thug hauled the fallen boy to his feet and removed the blindfold. The tears, which had previously been hidden behind the fabric of the bandana, were now free to flow down his face. "Bah, so much water!" the thug said sourly. "You a monsoon?"
"He's just a kid," the man beside me commented.
"We ain't the Girl Scouts!" He shoved the boy roughly. "To hell with you, 'kid'! You wanna join Diablo Wingz? Clean up those damn waterworks."
"Who's the one who brought 'im in?" the man asked.
"Israel. Mostly brings us crazy b*tches but he occasionally finds the lean young lad."
"Pah." The man cocked his neck. "Take him out; he can't take no more."
The boy was pushed out the door. "Go wash your face," the thug shot at him. He turned around and looked at me. "Who's next?"
Dodger gave me a gentle but firm push from behind. "If you want in, you better step up."
My blood turned to ice. I was ready to back out. ''Oh Lord, save me!'' But I could feel the eyes of Dodger and the other man — what ''was'' his name? — boring holes into my back. I dared not turn back now, for what would they think of me if I did? I needed to get in, needed to prove myself worthy of such a job, and to do that, I needed to prove that I was no fool, no clown, no jester.
''Could I do it?''
Yes, I can. I can I can I can I can I can...
"Anybody home?" the thug said impatiently, snapping his fingers around my head, breaking me from my trance. I did not see him approaching; he was now standing over me, his towering figure at that very moment being scarier than the stick he had used to warm the backs of the two boys before me. "You here to be in Diablo Wingz or you here just to get laid?"
I gulped. "To be in Diablo Wingz, sir."
"Well then act like it." He turned to Dodger. "Well, well, look who's here. The guy who brought me a turd a month ago. Thought I'd forget?"
He returned a sly smile. "Oh, I knew you'd remember. Just wanted to see what you'd say when I brought someone new."
"Yeah, and in the first few seconds of talking to him, I don't like what I see. He stood there silent when I called for the next person."
Dodger nodded. "Uh huh." He looked down. "Don't f*ck me over in front of everybody!" he hissed at me.
I stepped up. "Alright, alright... I-I-I'm in."
The thug almost laughed. "Brave coward." He grabbed a bandana and began to wrap it around my eyes. It smelled of putrid sweat, tobacco, and a perfume with an aroma that made me want to gag. "Now listen to me, pal. This ain't no home for the weak and faint-hearted. Here in Diablo Wingz, all of our members have to prove they're up to the task of serving the gang." I heard the stick swishing and cutting through the air, as if he were practicing his strikes. "You're here for the gang, not for yourself. Fight for yourself and no one else, and we'd much rather you'd lie dead on the streets with a knife in your back. Fight for the gang, and the gang will fight for you."
He leaned in close. I could smell the odours from his body, emanating strongly; combined with the bandana, I wanted to throw up. "Are you here for yourself, son?"
"N-No."
And that was no lie.
The thug harrumphed. "Let's see it, then." I could hear the stick being raised, him taking practice swings. "If you want in, let's see how you stand. Who do you love the most?"
I sucked in a gulp of air. "I love Diablo Wingz!" I shouted, squeezing my eyelids together, bracing for impact.
''CRACK!'' I heard the sound of wood meeting bone — my bone — and two seconds later, felt the pain. It was searing hot, like a fireplace poker, burning through my legs with the fury of a thousand suns. My frail body hit the ground, and despite having willed myself not to, I couldn't help but squeal from the pain.
"Don't be an ass, boy." He dragged me up back into a standing position. My legs wobbled, weakened from the strike, barely able to support my weight. I struggled, trying hard not to cry or show any indication of agony. "Stand up straight if you really love Diablo Wingz!" he ordered.
From behind my back, I could hear the man whispering to Dodger: "He's just a kid. A bloody kid, barely 10 years old. You're taking a huge risk with 'im. He's small, weak, short, almost stunted. You tell me, is his mother still alive?"
"Yes."
"Any other family members?"
"He has a younger brother."
"...and?"
"That's all he'd tell me."
The thug interrupted my eavesdropping of their conversation. "F*ck you, 'kid'! You wanna join Diablo Wingz, but you act like you're scared of a mouse running between your legs. Stand up straight! Stand up or I'll kick you in the *sshole instead."
I scrambled back onto my feet. The thug had the stick raised again. "I love...?"
I swallowed hard. "I love Diablo Wingz!"
The stick came down again. I braced for impact, but nothing could prevent my descent to the ground. The concrete came up quickly, meeting my face with a brisk smack. It smelled pungent, like beer. As I writhed in pain, I could hear the man saying: "Damn, he falls pretty hard."
"You squirm like a slug." The thug pulled me back up again. "Grow out of your mother's womb."
When Dodger found his voice again, it was almost a whisper, as if he dared not to speak: "Shouldn't we go a bit easier on him? He's only ten..."
"Shut the f*ck up!" the man barked. "What, are you suddenly having pity on the child? What's with you, Dodger? You weren't like this yesterday. Did the kid say anything that brought you to tears? Why aren't you a Wingz today?"
Dodger made no reply to that.
"Pity!" the thug said mockingly. "I pity Hound Dog. Got himself a knife to the back while he was in Cobra's turf. Served us well for many years, kept the Cobra's at bay for as long as he breathed air. A martyr indeed, but that's the thing — he did something." He pointed to me, his fingernails jabbing my skin. "Until he does something admirable, what did he do to deserve pity?"
Dodger was speechless. Finally, he said, "I... I take back what I said earlier..."
The thug, eager to return to business, got ready for another strike. "Listen, boy. When we select gang members, people fall into two different groups: those that are suitable for the gang, and those who aren't. That's it. There's no special section for little children; you get the same treatment as everybody else." He took a few practice swings with the stick. "I love...?"
"I-I-I love... I love D-Diablo...."
''WHAM!'' The stick struck me on the shoulders. I gasped in pain, though I did not fall. The thug was displeased. "Seriously? You're pathetic."
In the background, I could hear the man chastising Dodger. "He's pathetic! And you're pathetic too! You shan't be bringing any more stragglers in here, hmm? You ain't the one with the right eye for finding the right people. I mean, you found this guy in a ''dumpster''! That speaks for itself."
I felt Dodger's anger. Anger at me. I had let him down. I had let myself down. And in doing so, he was waist-deep in hot water.
''I'm sorry... I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry for your gang. I'm sorry for... for...''
...myself?
"I love...?"
I clenched my fist. "I love Diablo Wingz!" I screamed before boring down on my teeth, grinding them so hard, I thought I heard them crack.
The stick struck me again. I cried out, but the tenacity of my teeth successfully muffled and suppressed it. I fell, but I was so scrunched up and tight that I immediately scrambled back to my feet, albeit shaky and wobbly. The thug came over, stood in front of me, and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Let's see how your legs hold up." He pressed down on my shoulders. "Squat!"
I went down. "Up!" he barked, and I responded accordingly. "Down!" and I squatted. "Up! Down! Up! Down! Up! Down!" Every time I did so, I felt my feet and my legs smoldering, like hot coals in a fire, the pain climbing up towards my thighs. He kept going, making me do squats for what seemed like forever. Finally he said, "You're an interesting one, kid. ''Real'' interesting, but you do squat well." He began to remove the blindfold. "I'm curious to see what becomes of you a few years down the road." Then, instead of shoving me towards the door, he handed me back to Dodger. "Go. Take him out with the rest. Make sure he knows the handshake."
The man muttered something inaudible, as if in disapproval, but he didn't object. Dodger led me out into the small, narrow corridor, where the other two boys were also waiting. "I'm gonna go fetch Six Splints to come and welcome you to the gang," he said to us. "Don't wander off if you know what's good for you." And he left, leaving the three of us alone, seemingly unsupervised, but with nowhere to go.
There was an awkward silence. We simply stared at each other, the ice so thick you couldn't have cut it with a powered saw. Finally, the older boy came up to me and extended his hand. "I'm Marcos. What's your name?"
"Garrett," I said. I reached out and shook his hand firmly.
The other boy didn't respond. "What's his name?" I asked, gesturing towards him.
"Him? That's Lewis."
"Are you two brothers?"
He shook his head. "I only met him about a week ago. I was at home when I heard a commotion outside. I found him being kicked and yelled at by three men, who were demanding money from him, money that he didn't have, for failing to pay for medicine that he took from them several weeks prior. I gave them the 50 pesos that they demanded, and he's been tagging along with me since." He shrugged. "I didn't have much to offer him; I had been working for my father, but he got arrested a fortnight ago, so I had to ask one of the gang members here for help. After watching me suspiciously for a few days, he decided to let the both of us in."
I looked at the boy. He had stopped cowering, stopped crying at least, and was able to look at me. Somewhat. "Why are you here?" Marcos asked. "So what's your story?"
I straightened my back. "I'm here for my brother, my younger brother. I'm finding a way to get him back to school so he doesn't have to dig through piles of garbage every day."
"You're a scavenger?"
"My entire family is."
He nodded, as if he understood. "I see them all the time. I had to do it once too. It must be a hard life, living off what other people would consider refuse."
Our conversation was interrupted by a loud, high-pitched shrill: "Two hits! All that needs to happen. Me hitting you, you hitting the ground."
The sound came from a nearby room, its door slightly ajar. Very gingerly, the three of us peered inside. Lewis held back, as if an invisible wire was preventing him from moving any further into the danger zone. The room was also bare, save for a single wooden chair amidst concrete walls daubed with graffiti. The wooden chair was occupied by a girl who couldn't have been any older than 16. She was blindfolded, surrounded by two men — one tall and lean, the other short and somewhat stout — and a woman. The short one had a lit cigarette in his mouth, and with every drag he blew a cloud of smoke onto the girl's face. She coughed and gagged, unable to bat away the fumes, for her hands were tied firmly behind her back. The tall one had a two-by-four in his hands, thicker than the one used to beat me.
"I shall ask you again: pain or pleasure?"
"Pain," the girl said firmly.
"Ha!" the short one scoffed. "Wanna end up like your boyfriend whose head got so badly mutilated his skull got exposed?"
"I'd rather die than roll around with you three skinny asses!"
"Oh, ''I'' see," the woman said, crossing her arms. "Tough b*tch's acting tough today!"
"Nico always brings us these crazy b*tches. No wonder the Cobras and the Red Cults are pulling ahead." As he spoke, smoke poured out of the short man's mouth. He leaned in close, allowing the smoke to crawl, almost in a clandestine and stealthy manner, onto the girl's face, filling her nostrils, her mouth, and lingering there. She coughed violently, but from the look and expression on her face, she was far from backing down.
"Pain or pleasure, and you choose pain, huh?" The tall one reached out with the two-by-four, gently brushing the board under the girl's chin, allowing her to feel the roughness, the splinters, on the wood. "Pleasure, you know; pain, you also know. Choose pleasure and this won't continue any further. Choose pain and you'll... Why would you choose otherwise?"
The woman came up to her and grabbed her by the cheeks. The girl shrugged her hands off. "What the f*ck!"
"Wow, what ''words'' coming from such a prim and proper lady!" the woman said mockingly, imitating a Victorian-era prude. "Say, are you a virgin?"
"F*ck off!"
"Phew!" More smoke was blown onto her face.
The woman slapped her lightly several times across the cheeks and jaw. "Evaluate your options. If you choose pain, you lose that beautiful, beautiful face. If you choose pleasure... so what? You just lose a f*cking title."
The tall one jabbed the two-by-four at her chest. "Pain or pleasure?"
"Pain."
The woman slapped her hard across the cheek. "Think again!"
"Pain!"
The short one prodded the cigarette into her forehead. "Hmm?!"
"Pain, *ssholes!"
The two-by-four jerked her head up violently. "Pain? Served pipin' hot here." The wood board dug in further and further, as if it were a knife going into its victim, ready to do its job. "Your boyfriend got pleasure anyway, when we threw him into the ditch for the rats. They ran over him, under him, into him and between every crevice, every depression, every small corner of his body."
From behind the chair I could see the girl's right middle finger becoming erect. Her three assailants, though, did not notice, for her hands were still tied behind her back, out of sight from anyone who wasn't paying attention.
The tall one leaned in close. "He got what he wanted to avoid," he whispered into her ear. "But he's dead. Dead ''and'' f*cked."
Silence. I could never have imagined a gang hideout being this quiet. Even the small one didn't seem to give off any noise when he inhaled and exhaled from his cigarette.
"Pick your options carefully: pain, or pleasure?"
The girl's steadfast face was beginning to give way to fear and submission. "P-P-P-P..."
"I better hear what I want to hear!" the short one barked.
"P-Pleasure.... Pleasure, sir."
"Can't hear you!"
"PLEASURE, SIR!"
"Where are your manners?" the woman said. "Show some respect, b*tch!"
"Pleasure, please..."
The two-by-four was lowered. "Who you talking to?"
The girl sat up and looked directly at him, or wherever she thought he was. "Pleasure, please!"
The three began chuckling. "Sh*t, Sherwin; hell ''f*ckin<!-- single quote -->'<!-- end single quote -->'' yeah you got this wh*r* goin'!"
"She's a virgin," the woman commented.
"Not anymore, soon she won't." The rope on her hands was removed, but not the blindfold. The woman made her stand up and began to lead her out of the room. The three of us quickly popped back and pretended to act normal as they exited, leading the girl to a small, wretched room at the end of the corridor. An impromptu curtain was drawn, but it wasn't big or wide enough to seal the doorway, leaving a small but sizable gap, a window to what was going on inside. I began to head towards it when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
"I have a really, really bad feeling about what they're gonna do to her in there," Marcos whispered.
I looked at Lewis, but he had turned his back to the scene and covered his ears with his hands. I began to move again when Marcos shook me. "Are you insane?!"
"I have to see what's going on," I responded.
"It'll haunt you for life," Marcos cautioned.
I turned to look at him in the eye. "Then let it haunt me." I shook his hand off and continued down the corridor. Marcos hissed at me, "Don't say I didn't warn you!"
I hid behind the wall and, being careful to remain out of sight, peeked behind the cloth. The room was illuminated by a single bare bulb on the ceiling, casting a harsh, fluorescent glow onto the room's occupants. The girl was standing beside a low-lying bed, containing an old mattress yellowed with age. The concrete walls were clean, being mostly devoid of the obscenities and gang symbols found elsewhere. The woman was standing in front of the girl, her back to me, partially blocking my view. The two men were leaning on the wall, the short one smoking his ever-present cigarette.
"Relax," the woman said soothingly, although I could hear the sarcasm in her voice. "First timer? Don't worry now... ''everything'' is going to be fine. Trust me."
The short man offered his taller colleague a cigarette, which he declined.
"Not sure what to do? That's fine. Has to be a first time for everything, no?"
"Get on with it!" the short man barked.
"I'll start." There was a slow, gradual sound of fabric shifting as the woman moved her limbs. The eyes of the two men widened as they followed their gaze on... what? I adjusted my angle slightly to get a better view. The woman's bare feet disappeared as a skirt was lowered over them. One of the men whistled.<!-- wolf whistle -->
"Your turn."
The girl was still blindfolded, but it seemed she was able to sense exactly what was going on. Very gingerly, she began to undo the drawstring on her own clothes.
"Turn around and face them."
The girl did not move any further.
"Now!" the woman barked.
Slowly she hobbled, completing a 180° turn like a penguin, shuffling a millimeter at a time.
"Now continue," the woman said slyly. "And be more erotic! You act like my grandmother."
The short man laughed at her comment. The girl continued, squatting lower and lower, the men allowing their eyes to follow her. When she rose again, I could see the harsh white light basking her bare skin with an unsettling halo. I could try to describe the emotions of the men, but it was so... unusual, for I couldn't tell if they were pleased, delighted, disgusted, or mortified. They seemed attracted and drawn to the scene, yet it felt so repulsive and taboo at the same time. I stood there, frozen like a statue, unable to comprehend what I was seeing.
"You look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong with you?"
I nearly jumped. It wasn't for me, though. "You're so pale. What, I'm not asking you to jump off a bridge."
"I'll take her first," the short one said, discarding his cigarette.
"I got a f*cking hard-on," the tall one exclaimed.
"Yeah? Well, so do I." He turned to the girl. "Who's the sexier one, sweetie? Me or him?"
The woman was impressed. "Hey, not bad for your first time! You got a choice."
"F*ck you, man." The tall one straightened his back. "Go with me, and you won't forget my style. Go with him, and you'll only remember his tattoos."
"That's bullsh*t!"
The girl remained silent. She said nothing, even with the three of them poking and prodding her to make a decision. "I'll take her then," the short one finally said, "since she isn't saying anything."
The mattress groaned under the weight of two bodies beginning to recline on it. I saw the girl's face, partially obscured by the body of the taller man, her face perplexed with uncertainty. The stout man popped up, his back to me, bare of clothing to reveal the museum of tattoos he sported. "First timer?" I could hear him saying. "You picked pleasure. Pleasure it is."
Before I could see what was going to happen next, a hand grabbed my shirt from behind and yanked me back. "What the hell are you looking at, perv?"
The face was gruff and unforgiving, and from its appearance he didn't seem to be the least bit friendly or happy with what I was doing. "Don't be a pest. What've you been up to?"
I glanced over at Marcos and Lewis, who were hanging back helplessly. I gave them a look, telling them not to say anything. "Nothing, sir."
He didn't believe me, but he didn't press me onto it. He turned to Marcos and Lewis. "You two are older. Should be smarter. Wiser. Make sure he doesn't go snooping around into anybody's private business again."
The two nodded gingerly.
"You three better be good friends with each other, because you three are going to be together for some time." He gestured to us to follow him.
We were led back into the main room, where the other gangsters were still smoking and chatting. "Reyes!" he called out. "Reyes! Where ya at, dog!"
A head emerged from a cloud of cigarette smoke, almost like an angel poking his head out from a cloud of heaven. He had two women seated next to him, one on each side, their arms wrapped around his chest and torso. "Eh?"
"You got three new brothers here."
Reyes gave him a weak grin. "New? After three years, every kid in this city starts to look the same to me." He gave us a brief visual examination. "Interesting diversity here," he said sarcastically. "First one is tall and lean. Looks like a leader, although tall people tend to have less brains than a scrotum. Middle guy looks like he's had the living daylights whipped out of him. I could hold a mouse in front of him and he'd piss himself in his pants. And the little one..." He looked at me. "How old is he?"
The gruff face looked at me. "How old are you?"
"10. 10, sir."
Reyes's eyes lit up. "''10''? Small for his age."<!-- This is an unusual thing to say from someone who lives in an impoverished area of the city, where children are generally of smaller size due to their poverty and frequent hunger. --> He took a long, hard look at me, his eyes shifting up and down, left to right, as he inspected my body. "Small, but he looks good. Ya, ya, he's good. Feel like he's got a lot in him. I can feel it." He tapped the two women and they released him. He got up and started to walk over to us. Well, me at least. "Where do you come from?"
"Smokey Mountain," I answered.
"That garbage dump?" he said, surprised. "Never knew scavengers could look that healthy. Name?"
"Garrett."
He knelt down so his head was down to my level. "I see it in your eyes, Garrett. I see a fire in your eyes. A fire that most of the animals in this place don't have. You have it in you, Garrett. You have what it takes."
He got up. "I got the hang o' this, Six Splints," he said to the gangster who led us in. "You're free for the night." Turning to us, he said, "Follow me. It's too loud in here; smells like sweat and sex here, doesn't it?"
He led us outside into the alley, where several men and women were mingling. "Here in Diablo Wingz, we have a special handshake. Whenever you meet someone from our gang, you have to do the handshake with them. It's a sign of respect, and a way of knowing who's friendly and who's foe. I'm here to teach you that handshake, and with some practice, you'll be able to do it with your eyes closed." He snapped his fingers and signalled to one of the other boys. "Chapman!" he said, and a teenager stood up. "Help me teach these three the handshake."
The two angled their bodies so we could see what they were doing. "Start with your right hand," he said, raising his hand and arm. His assistant did the same. "Bring 'em together with the palms facin' inward. When your hands meet—" Their hands came together in the middle, making a slapping noise "—curl your fingers, so both of your hands make a fist together. Then, take your left hand, open it, and place it against your fist." He did as he said, and the other did the same. "That's the wing. Together, you make the body and the wings. The fist is ''diablo'', the hands are the ''wings''. You got that?"
We nodded our heads.
"You need us to repeat anything?"
We shook our heads.
"Let's see it, then." He motioned for his assistant to go back. He pointed to the oldest of us. "You there — let's see it."
First the hand. The 'slap'. A curl. Finally, the wing...
"Too slow!" he protested. "What's your name?"
"Marcos."
"Don't keep me waiting, Marcos. If you're not on the same step as the person you're doing the handshake with, you'll f*ck the whole thing up, and it looks bad. Try again!"
He tried again, this time a little bit faster. "Still too slow! Whole thing shouldn't take any longer than four seconds. You're taking ''five''!"
Again. This time, he made it under the four second limit, but "now your technique is off. You're not curling your fingers, you're just massaging my palm!"
There was a laugh from the crowd behind him. "Shut up!" he roared. "C'mon, Marcos, they're laughin' at you."
He did it again. And again. And again, until finally the mobster shrugged and said, "Alright, close enough. Practice it on your own." He pointed to Lewis. "You ready?"
''No, I'm not,'' I thought I heard him say.
"No longer than four seconds, and no palm massaging. Learn from other people's mistakes." He had less success with Lewis, who acted as if Reyes's hands were covered in slime. "C'mon, boy, I never sneezed into my hands!" he snapped. "I'm not the bogeyman. And stand up straight when you do the handshake! Confidence, boy, show me some confidence; I ain't your enemy."
I watched Lewis as he received his dose of verbal fireworks from the crime boss: "Too slow, God dammit!" ... "You're being a massage therapist like the guy before you!" ... "Jeez, you look weak and pathetic! What, did you get the sh*t beaten out of you as a child?" Finally, he was released with a rough shove. "Practice with Marcos over there you... What's your name?"
He didn't respond. "Huh?! What is your name?" Reyes repeated.
"He's Lewis," I piped up.
"Okay, Lewis, get some practice over there. Marcos, you better do it right and swell for him!"
Marcos swallowed and nodded nervously.
"Alright then, kid," he said, motioning for me to come over. "Let's see how you roll."
I eyed Lewis briefly before refocusing my attention on the mobster. "The Wingz needs new members that grow up fast and learn quickly. So far, I'm not too entirely impressed with these freshies." He looked at me right in the eye. "Let's see what you got."
He extended his hand out towards me. I did not hesitate; witnessing just how fiery his attitude could become with my two new partners was enough for me. I brought my hand up to his and curled my fingers, forming a fist. My left hand came up, forming the wing. Together, the final compilation looked almost like a butterfly.
"Not bad," he remarked. "Not perfect, but for a new recruit ''and'' for a ten-year-old kid..." He looked at me again. "Who brought you in here?"
"Dodger. Dodger did."
Reyes's eyes widened. "Really? The same guy who brought in a sh*thead a while ago?" He laughed, but seemed to believe me. "I'll have a talk with him. Thought he was the most useless piece of turd to walk the planet until today, when he brought ''you'' out of the blue." He thumped me on the back, not in an unkind manner, but almost as a compliment. "You'll be ballin', my friend. You'll see what I mean." And with that, he turned around and headed back inside.
Eyes were watching me, I could feel it. Eyes from Marcos, eyes from Lewis, eyes from the minglers who had stopped chatting. "Sh*t, man, some ''ten-year-old'' impressed Reyes on his first day!" someone said.
"What's his name?"
"Where does he come from?"
"Is he actually ten?"
"No f*cking way!"
"Damn... the Cobras and the Red Cults will be ''salty'' once they hear about this."
"Nah, I don't think they'll give a sh*t one way or another. To them, he's just a ten-year-old boy. To us, he could be our secret weapon."
"Ha, yeah, ''could be''. Who knows, he might be dead tomorrow morning."
"Or in jail."
"Give 'im a chance!"
"He's had a chance, hasn't he?"
"Let's just see where he is tomorrow, alright?"
Marcos gave me a gentle tap on the shoulder. "Stand firm," he said. "You'll make it through. Even I have to say that you have it in you. Something fuels you from within."
I looked back at Lewis. "What about your friend there?"
He sighed. "He'll be fine." He studied me again. "Are you really ten years old?"
I nodded.
"You're the oldest, ''young'' person I've ever met." He smiled at his own joke, but he was serious in his own words. "Don't give up, Garrett. Never give up. You've got a long road ahead of you." He gave me another reassuring pat before turning around to tend to Lewis.
----
There was no sleep for me that night. The events of the day kept replaying in my mind over and over again.
''The hideout... The gangsters... The drinking and smoking... The 'Wingz Treatment'... The Handshake... The... the...''
It would not leave me alone, would not leave my mind no matter how much or how hard I tried to will it to go away. The scene where they interrogated and tortured the girl. The scene where they led her into the room. The scene where they made her take off her clothes. And the scene where...
I hated to know. The very sights I had seen today had me appalled. It was so gruesome, so morbid, so blasphemous in their very nature. Something was holding me back, an invisible force that told me to stay away. I had seen the tears on Lewis's face, the cigarette smoke crawling into the girl's nose, the philosophy on toughening up their newest recruits...
''No... not this... I wouldn't do this for anything. Not for a million pesos could one hope to make me do this.'' This was no place for a child — or any sensible human being, for that matter — to be. This was a place where people were looted, beaten, raped. It was a place where the absence of rules was the rule, where the strong take from the weak, and where the winners reap their illicit awards.<!-- Afterwards, have him think of his original mission -- to help his little brother! He'll keep going. For his little brother. :) ** -->
''I can't be here... I can't! This was why my mother stopped worrying about my father, why she stopped caring about Julio. She was furious that they had turned to a life like this, a life where they could fight and steal and have as much intimacy as they wanted. The money they earned was but one of many rewards to be earned in a life of crime.''
I covered my eyes with my hands. ''Oh, Lord... Help me!''
''I don't want to be here any longer. Just want to leave this place, this place of horrid sins, leave and go home to my... to my...''
Brother?
I opened my eyes again. ''My brother... my brother my brother my brother... He's the reason why I'm here.'' My mind raced back to the night where I had told him, had ''promised'' him, that I would make it all okay.
''I'm not looking for wealth, for fame, for glory. All I want is to see you go back to school, and I'll do anything to make that happen.''
''I'll come home, I promise.''
''Remember Evan: you're my lifeline. I'll always think about you, and that will keep me going. Don't forget about me... and I won't forget about you.''
Evan...
I clenched my fist. ''No... forget what I said earlier. I will stay. Stay and get shot, maybe, but I will stay. I will keep going. I won't stop until I get what I need, what he needs. And I know I'll come home. I will come home.''
''For my little brother.''
==Discovery==
"I can't see this group working out at all."
"Well, if we don't give them a go on their own out there, how the hell are we supposed to know for sure?"
"You're getting the youngest member of the group — heck, probably the whole gang for all I know — who's barely been here for over a day to ''lead'' two boys who are at least two, three years older than he is!"
"You saw what the Cobras did, didn't you? Best way we can pull ahead is to crown someone younger. This kid's our best chance, and I won't let a bleeding pessimist like you hold us back!"
"I can ''feel'' this leading up to failure, Reyes!"
"I can lead ''you'' up to failure if you don't shut up!"
A Styrofoam container filled with steamed rice was pushed over to me. "Eat it," a voice ordered. "Don't matter what you're doing or what you're thinkin', but you gotta eat."
I was so hungry, I needed no encouragement to dig in. Marcos glanced at Lewis and asked, "It's not poisoned, is it?"
"Do we have a reason for killing the three of you?" came the response.
"No...?"
"Yet." The thug got up and left the room without further comment.
''Yet...''
The door opened. The man who had been critiquing Dodger last night while I was being given the Wingz Treatment emerged, his face spelling utter defeat. Behind him came Reyes, who was grinning slightly to himself. "I like to keep my options open. Dunno about you, Dix Cent, but my best bet is on that ten-year-old boy; from what I've seen so far, he's top notch and cream of the crop, at least for a young recruit. You should be flattered that he chose us instead of the Cobras."
I felt immensely pleased on the inside. I had a feeling he deliberately said that in front of me so I could feel some pride in myself.
The man was quiet. "What about the other two?" he asked when he found his voice again.
Reyes looked at Marcos and Lewis. Marcos had taken a few bites of the rice and was trying to entice Lewis to eat. "They'll grow up eventually. Besides, they seem comfortable with the ten-year-old."
I felt pleased again.
Reyes laughed. "Suit yourself, but I have final say around here."
The man shrugged, expressing clear disapproval, but he didn't press his boss on.
The elite gangster came up to me. I felt nervous, not because of his background, but because I feared screwing up after the praise he had lavished on me. "I spoke with Dodger yesterday," he began. "Apparently you have yourself a lil' brother?"
"Yeah." I glanced over at Marcos, but he was too busy eating. "I do."
"How old is he?"
For a moment, I feared telling him, wanting only to protect Evan, but I decided otherwise. ''There are lots of six year olds on Smokey Mountain. How is he going to know which one?'' "He's six."
"You take care of him like a bigger brother would?"
I nodded.
He turned to Dix Cent. "See? That's a man right there. I know because I was an older brother myself. Had to raise him myself on these very streets, and look at where I'm at now." He looked at me again. "I like what I see, and I can see this kid ten years down the road."
I felt pleased again.
Dix Cent waved it off. "Alright, alright, you've made your goddamn point." He looked around. "You still need me?"
Reyes was talking to me, though, completing ignoring his question. "You good with these two over there?"
"Yeah... I'm fine."
"No quarrels or anything that'll f*ck you all over?"
"No."
He laughed. "You know what? People are usually tough and unwilling to listen when they first join. It's like dealing with screaming, crying children at a daycare, but worse." He turned to Dix Cent. "Don't think you'll be having any problems with this guy. If he's a problem, then I can just chastise Dodger myself. Speaking of Dodger... bring him to me. I'm not quite done with him just yet."
Dix Cent nodded. He gave me one final sinister glance before departing.
The crime lord turned to us. "You three stay here and eat your fill. I'm gonna assign Dodger to look after you, and when he gets back he'll have something for you to do. Yesterday was just the start; it's going to go uphill from here." He gave us a nod. "Keep yourself together; this is a new beginning, not an ending." And with that, he left.
I looked back. Lewis was poking and prodding the rice in front of him with his spoon. "Why do you trust these people?" he said to me and Marcos. "Who knows what sort of surprises they put into this rice that'll kill us flat in an hour? I'd die sooner eating this than if I just starved myself."
"It's a risk worth taking," Marcos commented. "And anyway, they gave the rice to us ''and'' Garrett. They love Garrett, I know it. Why would they want to kill him all of a sudden?"
"It's a trap."
"A trap that'll accomplish what, exactly?"
Before Lewis could answer, I interrupted their conversation with: "If Lewis doesn't want the rice, I'll take it. I'm hungry."
----
"When you're on the streets," Dodger said, "keep your eyes open, cause if you don't, anyone can catch you by surprise. See a cop? Walk by 'im and act normal, cause it's people like us that he'll keep a suspicious eye on. Don't try anything funny, don't look at him funny, don't try to be funny. He won't raise his eyebrows."
Almost by coincidence, a police officer appeared from a crowded intersection. Dodger didn't even blink. I tried to act normal, walk normal, pretend like everything wasn't out of the ordinary, but I couldn't help but eye the equipment on his belt. He had a gun, securely nested in its holster, and a nightstick. Marcos and Lewis must've noticed too, but I couldn't turn to look at the expression on their faces.
When the cop was a good distance away, Dodger commended us: "You three did good so far. That was just one cop, though, and it looked like he was goin' somewhere, not just wandering around looking for trouble. And it's not just the cops you need to worry about." He pulled us aside and pointed. Crouched behind a sign was a sturdily-built fellow, six feet tall and wearing plain clothes. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of sunglasses, and there was a slight but noticeable bulge in his inner jacket pocket. It took me a while to realize that it was a hidden gun.
"Some people here don't mind squealing to the police," Dodger cautioned, "so keep your eye out for them and make sure they don't recognize you."
"Who are they?" I asked.
"Anybody."
"''Who''?"
"The cops'll give money to those who rat out people they disagree with. People are so poor, they'll do anything to buy their next meal." When the sinister figure turned his head to look the other way, Dodger quickly led us across the street and we scurried past him. "Sometimes they'll just kill you, no questions asked. Easier and faster to just shoot you than to run after you if you make a break for it."
"Isn't that illegal?" Marcos asked.
"You really think they'll get arrested?" He laughed. "Hell, the cops themselves do some of the killing. They sure as hell don't mind having some of their work done for them."
Lewis kept glancing over his shoulder repeatedly. "Is he coming after us?"
"Dude, you're the one looking behind your back. Do you see him coming after us?"
"No."
"Then he probably isn't." He stopped and made eye-contact with the owner of an electronic scrap store. The two nodded in acknowledgement of each other's presence, and Dodger gestured for us to follow him down the alley. "This way."
"Where are we headed?" I asked.
"You'll see." He stopped at a door, almost completely camouflaged by the matching colours of the wall it was on, and knocked loudly on it. "Who's there?" a rough voice demanded.
"It's me, Dodger," he replied. "Don't be too hard, bud; I got young company with me."
The door cracked open, slightly ajar. The two conversed quietly through the gap for a few seconds before opening the door fully. "Boys," Dodger said, gesturing towards a dark, hooded figure. "This is Francis, one of our founding members."
"Been a while since we chatted, huh Dodger?" The two did the Wingz handshake. "See you've grown since then." He looked at the three of us. "Well, well, who've you got here?"
"Freshies."
"And you got all of 'em?"
"Nah, Israel got two of the three, but I got the youngest — the one over there, his name's Garrett. Got a lot to say about him."
"Oh?" He made his way over to where I was. I tried to straighten my back and look tough; I couldn't look bad in front of him!
"How old are you?" he asked me.
"Ten."
"Where you from?"
"Smokey Mountain."
He laughed. "Well, Dodger, I'm sure you know April Fools was—"
"It's ''not'' a joke!" Dodger was adamant. "Look, I found him just a day ago, and already he's proven himself to be a skillful young lad. He may be small and he may be weak, but he shows determination like nobody else. Don't think Reyes was this good when he joined his first gang."
"What'd he do to get you all excited, sprinkle fairy dust over you?"
"He bailed me out when I got cornered in an alley by three armed men."
Francis snorted.
"He's got a little brother, and he's bringing his earnings home to send the little one back to school."
Francis perked up. He was interested. "You doing all of this for him?"
I nodded.
Dodger slapped him on the back. "See? Knew you'd like him. Y'know, Reyes was an older brother too. Last night everyone was callin' him a 'Miracle Kid' after he downed an entire glass of ale and took the Wingz Treatment with an iron skin! They say he's the answer to the end of our war with the Cobras and the Red Cults."
"You introduced these three to the gang?"
"I brought Garrett in. Israel took care of the other two."
Francis turned to us. "Welcome to the Wingz," he said. "No doubt you've already got a taste of our family over at our main hideout. We're all into protecting one another, alright? If you see a fellow Wingz in trouble, you better step in and help them, cause we're not buccaneers here. If you want a more selfish gang, you're in the wrong place. You three understand?"
We nodded.
"Come with me," he said, leading us through a small, miserable tenement, populated with winding corridors lit by aged fluorescent lamps and packs of bodies crammed into narrow living spaces. A few of them were smoking; others had drinks in their hands. Many were trying to cook, bathe, and sleep amidst the lack of free space. The air was hot, humid, almost stagnant, as if I were trapped in a box with no breathing holes. The polluted city air was almost a godsend to me when we stepped out into the courtyard. It was still packed, with more people and clotheslines draped with a rainbow of fabric occupying the picture, but it was no longer a bog, where bodies sank in to rest indefinitely, unable to rot.
"The Cobras and Red Cults used to use this building, but they later abandoned it. They did leave some of their symbols behind." He pointed to a concrete wall, covered in graffiti. "See the two in the center? One green and one red. Green one with the snake is, obviously, the cobras. The one with the red, bloody cross is the Red Cults."
"Why are the gang symbols placed side-by-side?" Marcos asked.
"The Cobras and Red Cults have an alliance. They used to be fierce competitors, until we entered the picture. That's how powerful we got."
"What about now?" I asked.
He sighed. "They managed to knife Juan and Antonio, two of our most affluent members, but we're still keeping our heads above the waterline." He looked at me. "That's why everyone was excited to see you, I suppose."
"Fast track him," Dodger advised.
"That ain't up for me to decide."
While they were talking, I was looking closely at the symbol for the Cobras. It seemed so... familiar. I thought back to the few times my older brother came home, for reasons unknown. He sported tattoos along his arms, an array of them stretching from his shoulders to his wrists, overlapping skin that covered his muscles and veins. One of them was a green snake — a cobra, to be precise — its neck expanded and its tongue hissing at me menacingly.
''If I put my finger on it correctly...''
"We've been on a steady decline," Francis continued. "The Cobras — man, they sure do take things without asking. They showed up in a block that we claimed as ours and declared themselves to be the new owners. A year ago they got a new member that quickly rose their ranks, and boy, do they never shut up about him. He's been heavily involved with their shabu and weed trade, and he's made them richer than ever. He's not even 16... I would say 13, judging by his appearance. Guess it's their version of a 'Miracle Kid'."
I was still looking at the Cobras' symbol. I felt my hand beginning to shake. "What's his name?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Huh?"
"His name," I repeated. "What is it?"
He inhaled, deep in thought. "If my memory serves me correctly... I think his name was Julio. Unlike most people, he didn't select a pseudonym for himself. Everyone refers to him by his real name."
Julio. ''Julio.'' The name of my older brother. The green cobra seemed to jump out at me, stinging my neck, my cheeks, my eyes. ''My brother is part of the Cobras.... my brother is part of the Cobras.''
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place before me.
''My older brother is part of the Cobras.''
''I am part of the Diablo Wingz.''
''The Diablo Wingz and the Cobras hate each other.''
I shook my head. ''So what?'' My mother threw him out of the house; he's there to serve the gang. I'm here to serve my ''younger'' brother, who still matters to me. Julio doesn't care about me, or anyone else in his family. This doesn't concern me. This shouldn't concern me.
"Garrett, you alright?" Marcos asked, tugging at my shoulder. I looked up. Francis and Dodger had moved on, and I had been left behind. "You seem lost."
"Lost in thought."
"Something about that cobra that's got you captivated?"
I wondered if I should tell him about Julio, but decided not to at the last moment. "Nah, I'm good. Nothing special about it." I took a glance towards the direction the group had gone. "Let's run before we really get lost around here."
----
"What's up with you?"
My hazy doze was abruptly ended by Dodger's voice. "C'mon Garrett, get something to eat. You've been half-starved for your entire life; the gang's happy to feed its hungry members."
I nodded weakly, but the aroma of food did little to lift my spirits. The thought and shock about the gang my older brother was in still had me pinned like a wrestler pinning his opponent down on the mat. I had left home and was on my own, still firmly attached to Evan, though for how much longer, I could not tell. The sights I had seen, the suffering I had endured, the situation I was in... now exacerbated by the dreadful thought that I was pulling more threads apart, seeing things I wished I had never seen, knowing things I wished I had never known. My older brother was in a rival gang, and though we may be family, our gangs could pull us apart even more so than we already were. What if I had to ''kill'' my older brother? What if he had... to kill ''me''?
"Hey Garrett! Cheer up, man; you've been great so far! What's been keeping you in the doghouse lately?"
I shook my head, but he was expecting a verbal response. "Nothing."
"Well if nothing's up, why are you so depressed?"
I remained silent.
"Actually... yeah, don't answer that question. Just grab something to eat. Better than anything you'll find on your own, trust me. Look, even Lewis is eating it!" He slapped his thigh in laughter. "First he seemed like he was too scared to pee in the corner, now he's practically fighting over the juiciest pieces of pork!" He looked at me. "C'mon, Garrett. Join in."
I nodded again, but stayed inert.
"I know you're hungry. Maybe you'll lighten up a bit after a bite."
I still didn't move.
"You want me to get you something?"
"I'm fine... I can manage."
He patted me on the back. "You're strong, Garrett. I know you are." He turned around and went back for another plate.
Slowly I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. So what if my brother and I were technically enemies now? Julio was never a big part of my life; he spent most of his time with his father. When he left, so did Julio, who seemed to have otherwise forgotten about his other two siblings. I almost never saw him while I worked on the mountain; he could've easily been smoking cigarettes by the dozen while the rest of us pawed through the trash. When he left, I was slightly disappointed to see him go, but otherwise I never felt emotionally distressed, for I still had and was taking care of Evan. He felt like a sheet of perforated paper attached loosely to my life, and it was only a matter of time before he was folded and then ripped off cleanly.
''So why should I care? Why do I feel like he still has bits of himself still clinging onto me like glue?''
I shook my head vigorously, trying to force the thought out of my head. It didn't work. I tried again and again, but the more I fought it, the more it wanted to stay. Finally, my stomach rang the bell; its growling set my mind's course on food, for I hadn't eaten in hours. The image of the cobra, however, remained in the foreground of my mind. It stared at me, almost ready to strike, ready to sting me with its venomous fangs. Behind the cobra was my older brother, who stared me down with a face that consisted of a mixture of disdain and shock. I had no way of fighting him; no flying creature could hope to live once it had the clutches of a snake wrapped around its wings. The cobra and my brother seemed to recede away into the distance, as if I were falling from the perch I was on towards my inevitable death, getting farther and farther away until they disappeared from view.
----
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