“Wassup with y'all bulls?” Lamar asked, pulling up and double parking next to them. He could block his street when he wanted.

“Ain’t shit, playa,” answered Crook.

“I talked to Gunna’s mom, she said, he still on life support. I ain’t been to the hospital in about three days. I hate seeing him like that,” Lamar said with his mind wandering back to his last hospital visit. “I just got some fucked up news, too.”

“What’s up?” Trap asked.

“That shit out in Darby the other night—“ Lamar said.

“What about it?” Crook’s baritone voice boomed as he leaned in to get the news.

“They didn’t have shit to do with Gunna and Turk getting hit.” He let their reaction subside, and then said, “That shit was for nothing.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” Trap said, folding his arms.

“You bullshitten?” Crook said, shaking his head.

“I wish I was.”

“See li’l nigga, that’s why I told you to do your homework before you jump the gun. Fuck it, though, what’s done is done. Anyway, who shot up the block if it wasn’t them?” Crook asked frankly.

“This nigga named, Tic.”

“Tic?” Crooked chuckled. “With a name like that he gotta be a sucker.”

“Oh, you don’t know him?” Lamar asked Crook.

“Naw,” he replied, taking a puff of weed.

“I do,” Trap said. “He some lame from Fifty Second and Haverford.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lamar said, “what’s his beef with the block?”

“If it was him, he’s mad because Gunna fucked his bitch. Some hairdresser chick named, Janet, or some shit like that. When you were locked up, he came over this way and caught her leaving the trap with Gunna. He got outta pocket and we jumped that nigga and sent him running up outta here.”

“That lines up with what I heard,” Lamar said without revealing his source. “Y’all should have killed him, I say.” “So, now, we gotta go get this flea,” Crook said jauntily, masking his disappointment.

“I already know, the bitch, Janice, works at the salon, Platinum Shears, on South Street. They were in there talking about the shooting. That nigga a cold noodle. I’m supposed to get the drop on Janice next week. I’m gonna put something together after that.”

“I gave you Gunna’s phone. Her number is probably in there,” Trap said, smiling. “You can def fuck dat bitch. She a smut.”

“Good thinking, li’l nigga,” Crook said, glancing up the block at a blue Bonneville slowly pulling up behind Lamar. Crook placed his hand on the butt of his gun, preparing for possible action.

“Aye, who this driving all slow and shit?” Trap asked.

Lamar checked his rearview and clutched his gun.

Crook said, “Awe, man, that ain’t nobody but, Snitchy Billy. Told on so many good men, got out of jail, and was still embraced by niggas.”

Snitchy Billy was never a gangsta, but was always about his bread. Making it for him, and other men. Although, he had told on people, his ability to make other people money kept him alive.

“Yeah, that’s who that is,” Crook stated with disgust in his voice. He walked towards the car.

“Fuck that nigga, Crook,” Lamar said, pulling his fitted hat down. “I ain’t moving.”

“Watch this,” Crook replied, signaling for Snitchy Billy to get out of his car.

Snitchy Billy exited the car; all smiles and attempted to shake Crook’s hand. He oblivious to Crook’s blatant animosity.

“What’s up, Crook?” he said with genuine joy to see the man in front of him.

Crook was a Bartram Village legend, that planted an open-hand slap across Snitchy Billy’s face. “Naw, nigga, ain’t no was sup. Wassup with you snitching on everything moving?” Crook pulled out a Glock 17, holding it at his side.

Glancing at the weapon, Snitchy Billy said, “Naw, Crook. Like. Like.”

“Pussy shut the fuck up,” snapped Crook, dancing around, circling his prey. “Then, if you tell on me, I’mma find ya pops in jail since you told on his dumb ass, and beat him the fuck up, too.”

Snitchy Billy was backing up as a crowd began to grow.

Crook stuff his gun in the small of his waist. “Aye, Trap, take this nigga’s wheels,” Crook said, the slapped Snitchy Billy two more times, before easing into an all out beat down.

Lamar didn’t do a thing. He leaned on his car and laughed like everyone else.

Turk walked up, and said, “Damn, he getting the ass whopping of a lifetime.”

Trap did as he was told and hopped into Snitchy Billy’s car, and backed out of the block. He could barely see over the steering wheel.

Snitchy Billy began to yell. “Come on, Crook. My, my, my, my bad, Crook.”

“That nigga sounds like Johnny Gill,” one of the ladies in the crown said.

“Pussy shut the fuck up.” Crook slapped him again. “Matter of fact, I’m gonna kill you as a service to the community. Stop the next man from falling victim to your hot ass.” Crook placed the barrel to Snitchy Billy’s eye, then crashed it against his temple.

A round fired and put out a street light.

People started to scatter.

“Oh my God, Crook, you shot me in the head,” Snitchy Billy said, reaching for his head to make sure that it was still there. It was.

Crook stepped back, pointed the gun at his victim, and said, “Strip, you bitch-ass nigga.”

“Come on, Crook. We ain’t tryna see all that,” Lamar said.

“Turn around, then,” Crook said. “I’mma embarrass this nigga in front of all these people.” He slapped Snitchy Billy again, and said, “I said strip.”

“Aight man. Aight,” he replied desperately. He took off a Polo sweater, kicked off sneakers, and then pulled off his jeans. He looked up to Crook with pleading eyes, praying his humiliation was ending.

“You been to jail, nigga. You know what strip means. Take that shit off,” demanded Crook. “Socks, tank top, and boxers. Thanks to you, niggas dealing with this all over the state prison system.”