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Description
Spring had just sprung. It's still pretty chilly, but the sun is shining brightly and the snow has begun to melt to a nice, pleasant slush in the streets. One city block away from Cass Technical High in Detroit on Temple street was an interesting little intersection that was the beginning of a territory called 'The Corridor'. This area was not a neutral zone at the time. It was an area that was more-or-less 'neutral' between the street-hustlers and "them 'partment niggas" who sold drugs out of--you guessed it: them apartment buildings..

Anyway, I had decided to skip out on my 4th-6th hour classes to hit the block to move some work. At the time, I was "employed" by an old-school, life-long lower/mid-level drug-czar, arms-dealer called Lepoleon "Sam" Oaks. The situation that I was in made it absolutely imperative that I sell as much as possible as FAST as possible, and since I was already failing a few classes 'due to absence', I figured that I may as well get off some packs.

I remember sliding through the space between two chained doors and stepping out of the school building with about 150 dimes ($1,500 st. val.). By the time I walked the block between Cass and The Corridor, I had already sold about 6 "boulders" between about 3 customers--and that was just along the way..
I arrive at a small, corner coney-island restaurant owned by a family of greek nationals. This particular restaurant is one of the few in the area in which the different teams of street-hustlers could meet in peace. The design of the building makes it possible to allow 3 teams of 5 or more to sit confer amongst each other or just escape from the COLD without much concern for squabbles. The greeks never called the cops on any of our conferences at anytime that I was aware of. Because of that, we didn't molotov-cocktail the joint (yet--later..).

So me and a partner of mine are sitting and enjoying cups of coffee when the place broke into frantic commotion. Police-raids were not really uncommon, but NOBODY was really eager to be among the next guys sent up the river. My buddy and I went along with the flow and scrambled with the others as the burgundy Crown-Victorias swarmed the corner. As always, we try to utilize the bedlam advantageously: nearly a dozen hustlers with unknown amounts of weapons, drugs/paraphenalia and cash; all bursting through the front door in a wave of curses and punches. I see an opening and slide over the hood of one of the cruisers at the same time that the officer on that side tackles some other guy. My partner and I find each other fast and follow our carefully rehearsed escape route.

On the same block as the coney-island restaurant stood an aesthetically pleasing, tri-level building that had been abandoned for years. Everyone called it 'The Dungeon'. The interior of this building was in terrible condition. Think about the house at the end of 'The Blair Witch Project' with a lot more water damage, rats, feces, scattered news-papers and a random assortment of broken electronic devices littered across the floors. The ceiling is busted, and there are no lights because most of the wiring had been stripped by pirates eager to cash-in on an extra valueable. Jagged metal poles hang and protrude like pikes. The floor is corroded and virtually every board on each level creaks as if 'the end is near'. The place is literally a DEATH trap--which makes it the perfect hiding place for those daring and desperate to use it.

My partner and I had found that the easiest way to get to the second floor was by working together to 'boost' one and 'pull' the other through a hole in the first-floor ceiling. The stairwell was cluttered with massive junk piles and we knew that the cops wouldn't want to go through the trouble to chase down a couple nickel-n-dimers. Once up there, we were able to look through the broken windows down at the scene below. We stood there, quietly laughing at the comedy of the tragedy before somebody started shooting. Then someone else joined. We duck instinctively and retreat deeper into The Dungeon away from the bullets.

I'm in the lead when we enter the next room. Suddenly, I hear the sound of floor giving way beneath us. I hear a 'crack'ing sound and a grunt. I turn to see that my partner had broken through the floor and had one leg completely swallowed by a sink-hole. It takes some doing, and he gnashes his teeth a lot--but I manage to help him out of the hole. Once he was out, I saw why he couldn't keep quiet: a section of his thigh had been split length-wise by some piece of rusted metal. It had cut him so fast that the layer of fat beneath his skin was still white-colored. It cut him so deep that we could see the grain of his muscles. That far in the abandoned building, the only thing that we hear for a while is the spattering of his blood as it falls on the dusty floor. But out of the corner of my eye, I do see something.. I tie a *bandana and an undershirt tightly over the wound before I investigate.

At the lower part of a wall behind my partner is an exceptionally darkened corner. I take a step closer and and see that there are clothes in this dark corner. I step even closer and see that there is a body inside those clothes--a dead body. The first one I had ever seen in my life that didn't have a starring role in a funeral.
I am BEYOND fear for an indefinite amount of time. With my buddy behind me leaking so much blood on this piss-flavored floor and with this unfortunate shell of a man staring at me with an open mouth full of darkness--the schitt is almost too much.
I felt like I had just gotten punched in the forehead. My vision flashed with red-miasma as my blood thumped and became visible behind my eyes. I may have cried a little bit.. But it passed. I turn and look out into the hall and see the red and blue flickers from the police-lights reflecting off surfaces and know that we still have to wait in the building for a while. If it was just a routine 'shake-down', then we would probably have to wait for quite some while until the cops got their fill of ball-fondling and information-squeezing.

I get bold and pick up a piece of wood that used to be part of a baseboard. I hold it in front of me like a menace, ready to pierce the heart of the dead man (I wasn't an expert on zombies at the time). I look at everything: fingers, hair, the dusty residue that had built up in the mouth, the discoloration in the crotch, the raggedy edges of the sleeves and pants; which is probably due to the gnawings of rats, squirrels, etc. The smell was bad, but not over-powering because the body was still thawing out, I guess. I poke the chest lightly..

It is very uncomfortable to feel rigor-mortis on a body that hasn't been embalmed. The muscles take on an 'impossible' texture--which answers why zombies would move with such 'jerky' motions. I then use the wood piece to open the flap of the coat to expose the midsection. For some reason, I felt like I just HAD to stab the wood into that body. That was a tremendous mistake. I can best describe it as a 'blowout'. The air filled with unholy stench so quickly it was incredible. It was really, really bad. I don't think I could ever be free of the memory of that smell. We left the room, but the whole floor filled up with the same level of intensity. I couldn't just LEAVE my partner alone up there, so we both just waited around for about an hour before we could leave.

We ended up driving to the house of some girl and I helped to stick his leg up. The wound ended up getting infected pretty badly. The last time that I saw him, he was lying on a couch dazed and half delerious inside a trap-house with another dealer who felt sorry for him..

*yes..we actually DID roll around with "soulja-rags" back then (bandanas)..

Description
Spring had just sprung. It's still pretty chilly, but the sun is shining brightly and the snow has begun to melt to a nice, pleasant slush in the streets. One city block away from Cass Technical High in Detroit on Temple street was an interesting little intersection that was the beginning of a territory called 'The Corridor'. This area was not a neutral zone at the time. It was an area that was more-or-less 'neutral' between the street-hustlers and "them 'partment niggas" who sold drugs out of--you guessed it: them apartment buildings..

Anyway, I had decided to skip out on my 4th-6th hour classes to hit the block to move some work. At the time, I was "employed" by an old-school, life-long lower/mid-level drug-czar, arms-dealer called Lepoleon "Sam" Oaks. The situation that I was in made it absolutely imperative that I sell as much as possible as FAST as possible, and since I was already failing a few classes 'due to absence', I figured that I may as well get off some packs.

I remember sliding through the space between two chained doors and stepping out of the school building with about 150 dimes ($1,500 st. val.). By the time I walked the block between Cass and The Corridor, I had already sold about 6 "boulders" between about 3 customers--and that was just along the way..
I arrive at a small, corner coney-island restaurant owned by a family of greek nationals. This particular restaurant is one of the few in the area in which the different teams of street-hustlers could meet in peace. The design of the building makes it possible to allow 3 teams of 5 or more to sit confer amongst each other or just escape from the COLD without much concern for squabbles. The greeks never called the cops on any of our conferences at anytime that I was aware of. Because of that, we didn't molotov-cocktail the joint (yet--later..).

So me and a partner of mine are sitting and enjoying cups of coffee when the place broke into frantic commotion. Police-raids were not really uncommon, but NOBODY was really eager to be among the next guys sent up the river. My buddy and I went along with the flow and scrambled with the others as the burgundy Crown-Victorias swarmed the corner. As always, we try to utilize the bedlam advantageously: nearly a dozen hustlers with unknown amounts of weapons, drugs/paraphenalia and cash; all bursting through the front door in a wave of curses and punches. I see an opening and slide over the hood of one of the cruisers at the same time that the officer on that side tackles some other guy. My partner and I find each other fast and follow our carefully rehearsed escape route.

On the same block as the coney-island restaurant stood an aesthetically pleasing, tri-level building that had been abandoned for years. Everyone called it 'The Dungeon'. The interior of this building was in terrible condition. Think about the house at the end of 'The Blair Witch Project' with a lot more water damage, rats, feces, scattered news-papers and a random assortment of broken electronic devices littered across the floors. The ceiling is busted, and there are no lights because most of the wiring had been stripped by pirates eager to cash-in on an extra valueable. Jagged metal poles hang and protrude like pikes. The floor is corroded and virtually every board on each level creaks as if 'the end is near'. The place is literally a DEATH trap--which makes it the perfect hiding place for those daring and desperate to use it.

My partner and I had found that the easiest way to get to the second floor was by working together to 'boost' one and 'pull' the other through a hole in the first-floor ceiling. The stairwell was cluttered with massive junk piles and we knew that the cops wouldn't want to go through the trouble to chase down a couple nickel-n-dimers. Once up there, we were able to look through the broken windows down at the scene below. We stood there, quietly laughing at the comedy of the tragedy before somebody started shooting. Then someone else joined. We duck instinctively and retreat deeper into The Dungeon away from the bullets.

I'm in the lead when we enter the next room. Suddenly, I hear the sound of floor giving way beneath us. I hear a 'crack'ing sound and a grunt. I turn to see that my partner had broken through the floor and had one leg completely swallowed by a sink-hole. It takes some doing, and he gnashes his teeth a lot--but I manage to help him out of the hole. Once he was out, I saw why he couldn't keep quiet: a section of his thigh had been split length-wise by some piece of rusted metal. It had cut him so fast that the layer of fat beneath his skin was still white-colored. It cut him so deep that we could see the grain of his muscles. That far in the abandoned building, the only thing that we hear for a while is the spattering of his blood as it falls on the dusty floor. But out of the corner of my eye, I do see something.. I tie a *bandana and an undershirt tightly over the wound before I investigate.

At the lower part of a wall behind my partner is an exceptionally darkened corner. I take a step closer and and see that there are clothes in this dark corner. I step even closer and see that there is a body inside those clothes--a dead body. The first one I had ever seen in my life that didn't have a starring role in a funeral.
I am BEYOND fear for an indefinite amount of time. With my buddy behind me leaking so much blood on this piss-flavored floor and with this unfortunate shell of a man staring at me with an open mouth full of darkness--the schitt is almost too much.
I felt like I had just gotten punched in the forehead. My vision flashed with red-miasma as my blood thumped and became visible behind my eyes. I may have cried a little bit.. But it passed. I turn and look out into the hall and see the red and blue flickers from the police-lights reflecting off surfaces and know that we still have to wait in the building for a while. If it was just a routine 'shake-down', then we would probably have to wait for quite some while until the cops got their fill of ball-fondling and information-squeezing.

I get bold and pick up a piece of wood that used to be part of a baseboard. I hold it in front of me like a menace, ready to pierce the heart of the dead man (I wasn't an expert on zombies at the time). I look at everything: fingers, hair, the dusty residue that had built up in the mouth, the discoloration in the crotch, the raggedy edges of the sleeves and pants; which is probably due to the gnawings of rats, squirrels, etc. The smell was bad, but not over-powering because the body was still thawing out, I guess. I poke the chest lightly..

It is very uncomfortable to feel rigor-mortis on a body that hasn't been embalmed. The muscles take on an 'impossible' texture--which answers why zombies would move with such 'jerky' motions. I then use the wood piece to open the flap of the coat to expose the midsection. For some reason, I felt like I just HAD to stab the wood into that body. That was a tremendous mistake. I can best describe it as a 'blowout'. The air filled with unholy stench so quickly it was incredible. It was really, really bad. I don't think I could ever be free of the memory of that smell. We left the room, but the whole floor filled up with the same level of intensity. I couldn't just LEAVE my partner alone up there, so we both just waited around for about an hour before we could leave.

We ended up driving to the house of some girl and I helped to stick his leg up. The wound ended up getting infected pretty badly. The last time that I saw him, he was lying on a couch dazed and half delerious inside a trap-house with another dealer who felt sorry for him..

*yes..we actually DID roll around with "soulja-rags" back then (bandanas)..