The kid sits silently on a green generator, smoke coming out his mouth like steam. The smoke calms and soothes him. He looks up, eyes red and low from the smoke, and says silently, “God, please let me live to see another day.” This reminds him of the only friend he has: a pitch-black nine-millimeter Glock handgun with the serial number scraped off. We call it a burner; others call it a ghost gun, FAM, and this was the kid’s only friend, along with extra clips in his pocket. Why you posted on the block? I got to get it, FAM! Shit, I have to; it’s a must. If not, the FAM’s gonna starve. There’s no other way, so I slang that work and feed the block, FAM, sigh!

The night is perfect for the kid; he even looks like the Grim Reaper with his all-black attire. You can’t even see his face, only the cherry of the blunt he’s smoking lights up his facial tattoos, only for a split second. “Yo, shawty! One time for the one time! Lil’ homie!” The kid responds, “Don’t trip out, shoot that grip out!” With a smirk, the client says, “Hard work, two.” The kid gets up, and shakes his hand so smoothly you don’t even notice the exchange of the transaction that took place. The kid walks off, thinking, “This shit’s dead, FAM. I’m gonna get ghost for these police-ass niggas.”

His pocket vibrates; the kid ignores it. “Don’t need company tonight; I’m a thug on my own,” bullshit keeps vibrating. The kid’s thinking, “Fuck!” He answers, “Was good, shorty?” She says, “Hey, babe!” The kid says, “Chill, I’ma pull-up.” Shorty says she loves him; the kid doesn’t answer, just hangs up. Fool, heart is cold. Shorty doesn’t understand, why she even loves a Mexican anyway. Sigh! Such complications with this broken kid. Plus, I’m a gangster, and what is love? And why do I keep fucking with her anyway?

The kid is lost in thoughts. He sees homie at a distance, all navy blue attire, bandana wrapped around his neck, throwing gang signs to the kid, and the kid smirks and signs back. It’s then that a car pulls up so fast, and lights flash like a spark several times that homie just falls to the ground, unconscious. He pulls his guns out and shoots the car several times, empties out the clip, reloads fast with a fresh clip, and fires some more. The car speeds off in another direction, leaving another victim to the streets.

Homie was a good homie, young, so young, FAM. He reaches his homie, stands over him, mourning. The kid wants to cry inside; it hurts, but he knows he has to go. Police ask too many questions, and gangstas move in silence, FAM. “You don’t know nothing, you didn’t see nothing, and you didn’t hear nothing; this is law to the street.”

The kid runs as fast as he can. On his way, he stops, cleans the fingerprints off the gun, and throws it away—it burned too hot now to keep it. Plus, a gun is easy to find in the hood; ain’t none. I got a backup at the crib, FAM. So he makes his way to Shorty’s house instead. For some reason, she’s outside. I see her from far away; she looks anxious and she looks really good. Her face is angelic, her thighs are thick, and her waist is slim, but the kid is hurting. You may not notice, but his heart is bleeding. She notices him and runs toward him, embraces him, kisses him, looks at him. Females always read a man so perfectly. She says, “What’s wrong?” The kid doesn’t answer, so she takes his hand and guides him inside her room, where she whispers, “It’s OK, I got you.” Her kisses ease the pain, her skin feels so soft, her clothes disappear, and so does his. The sex is good; he loses himself inside of her for hours, until we lay side by side, looking up at the ceiling. Shorty says, “What is wrong with you?” The kid doesn’t respond. She says, “Stay with me; I’ll keep you out of trouble, let me help you, please, babe!” No answer; she knows he’s hurting, so she just holds him, and tries to comfort him. They fall asleep together, only for the kid to dream of blood on his hands.

He wakes up panting, out of breath, heart racing—fuck! He starts to get up, but Shorty moves and moans, so the kid eases out of the bed silently, putting his clothes back on, trying not to wake her. He stares at her for a while; she’s beautiful. The kid and his thoughts: you have to go, FAM. Leave her! He starts to leave only to retrace his steps, gets close to her. Her scent is lovely. He kisses her on the forehead softly, “Goodbye.” She’s the only good thing he has, and this answers his question from yesterday…

Later that day, “I need a new strap with power,” fool says. “Lil homie, you look like you still a baby, you don’t need no power, kid.” The kid responds by pulling out a bankroll plus a .38special Smith & Wesson, and aims it at the guy. “Fuck what you talking ’bout? You trying to get this money or not?” He looks at the kid and smirks. “I got what you’re looking for.” Without a word, he pulls out a chrome .45 handgun with the clips to go with it; the bullets are hollow-tipped, he says. The kid looks at it, shakes his head, and drops the money at his feet and leaves. Fool says “Wait,” the kid walks off, never turning back.

He’s walking with the devil inside, he feels rage, and is looking for revenge. He hears a whistle and more calls from a distance. He keeps walking, but homie catches up to him. “Brother,” he says in Spanish. The kid doesn’t respond, just keeps on walking. “Let me come with you,” he was FAM, just like you are to me. He stops and stares at homie with fire in his eyes and says, “StayFAM. I’m a thug on my own. I don’t want to lose any more of you… You think you’re bulletproof, FAM!” The kid doesn’t respond; silence is his response. The homie stares at the kid and tells him, “Be careful, don’t die, brother.” The kid nods his head and just walks off into the night with the devil inside, not knowing if he will live to see another night.