With Traymore in the lead, hands pocketed in his heretical Washington Redskins starter jacket, Trayvon following in his slouching gait, mumbling in his lead-paint-eating way, and Traysereus towering behind, swinging his left hand, and holding Galvanic Lightning—his trusty, steel, crack-head-splitting pipe—in the right palm and up the sleeve of his puff coat, the Sons of Trinity Baxter walked across Belvedere, past the closed-down lake trout joint, and across Park Heights to the Liquor Mart.

In front of the Liquor Mart, as the stinging wet snow began to bight like Jesse James the Rat on crack, the three boys, 12-dumbass hard-fightin’ years, 10 smart-fucking years, and 8-lead-eatin’ years of age respectably, they came to a halt before the elder stewards of their world, the badass gangbangers of Park Heights, The SSH [Send-you-to-Sinai-Hospital] Crew:

Traysereus curled his lip and grasped Galvanic Lightning as he came nose to nose with Pinkie Rotgun, who posed menacingly.

Trayvon began drooling a big snot string and rapping up into Milkdud Johnson’s wide face, “Get-out-da-lead, get-out-da-lead.” Milkdud was so worried about snot getting on his vintage Jack Percels that he kept stepping away and around, making for an unseemly sight.

Traymore stepped up in a more considered manner before muscled-up Nine, who was the man who ran this hood, from this liquor store front—a bad enough dude that he didn’t even have a government name attached to his street name any more. Traymore knew better than to get rancid with this dude and waited respectfully, hands in pockets, the right one on Lilly, the junk-slicing, razor-bitch from Hell, for Nine to speak.

After a tense moment Nine spoke, “Yo, More, call off you lead-eatin’ brutha, en tell Sereus to keep dat pipe up he sleeve.”

Traymore nodded to his brothers and they both went inside to shop for breakfast, Milkdud and Pinkie Rotgun looking all relieved and whatnot.

Traymore and Nine then backed into the doorway, shoulder-to-shoulder and looked out at the rotten world, hands in pockets by default, only producing them for business of one sort or another. Nine was dressed in tight jeans, longhorn boots and a leather jacket over a hoody.

Nine: “You niggas is somethin’ else—saw Trinity’s man runnin’ down the way to Sinai leakin’ from the groans and the guitar strings. Whatchyou got dat shit in you pocket for me too, gonna cut old Nine up wit dat bitch blade?”

Traymore: “Naw, G, got dat nigga’s bag a weed, wan a hundred for it.”

Nine: “Shit, nigga, I just’ sold it to the fool fo one-fitty yesterday! Why I wan’ that shit back? What you need that kinna money fo anyhow. Yo brutha gots the lead—you all should be set.”

Traymore: “Oh, you know how it be, Trinity keep all that shit fo her en Traymystery en her mens. En after the cuttin’ of the junk she sent us out to get her Christmas present.”

Nine: “Now, Nine is willing to help a little brutha out, but I don’t buy my own shit back—a matter of principal, don’t you know. So what else you got for Nine, yo?”

The jangle of keys got Nine’s attention as Traymore jingled them in his face with his left hand. “Trinity’s junk-cut man lef’ his truck up the way. Here are the keys—chop dat shit up, yo!”

Nine reached for the keys and they disappeared into Traymore’s pocket.

Nine quipped, “Nigga, you gettin’ out of yo league. I thought you was just lookin' fo Trinity’s Christmas present?”

Traymore: “Kinna hard to get Mamma her Christmas present when a cheap nigga don’ wanna deal!”

Nine opened his mouth to speak in a defensive manner and was cutoff when an old gravelly voice rudely interrupted them, “What you hoppers know about a deal, or about Christmas fo that matter? Riddle me that, young poke eaters, riddle me that!”