Part 10 (2/2)

”No kidding?” I said. ”How can I help.”

Diane looked around.

”Pull down the gate,” she said.

”We don't close for a little while.”

She sidled against me, and I felt something stick into my ribs. Her eyes glared.

”You're closed,” she said.

I pulled down the gate.

”Shut off the lights,” Katie demanded.

”What?”

”Shut down everything.”

”Aren't you going to ride?” I asked.

Diane pulled the gun out of my ribs and waved it in front of my face.

”Do it!” she said.

I turned the lights off and shut the power down. The grate was closed. Diane nudged me into the booth. She pointed the .38 at my head. Katie stood behind her, with the camera. ”Open the cashbox,” Diane said. She then took a picture. The flash went off. ”But ...”

”Open the f.u.c.king cashbox!”

I did, and took out the money: $275.

”Throw it on the floor,” Katie said.

I hesitated. Diane pressed the gun hard into my ear. I threw the money. Katie took a picture. Then she bent over and started picking the money up. There was enough light coming in from the boardwalk that she could find most of the bills. I looked at her face, back-lit by neon, and she didn't seem so beautiful anymore.

”Now get on the floor yourself,” Katie said. ”On your back.”

I did what she asked. Diane bent over me. She put the gun in my mouth.

”Try anything, and I pull the trigger.”

Katie took another picture.

With her spare hand, Diane undid my belt buckle, and the b.u.t.ton and zipper of my jeans. She seemed to hover for a second.

”I can't do this,” she said.

”What?” Katie replied.

”I'm not going to suck this guy's c.o.c.k.”

Oh, please do, I thought.

”Well, I'm not going to do it, either,” Katie said.

They both stared at me. I stared back. Maybe one of them would change her mind.

”Get up and open the gate,” Diane said.

I sighed and did what they said. Diane caressed my cheek.

”You're not going to tell anyone, are you?” she asked.

”No,” I said. ”Keep the money.”

”Good boy,” said Katie.

”But don't come back,” I added.

”Don't worry,” Katie said, ”you'll never see us again.”

And they were gone.

I stopped for a couple of drinks on the way home. On the television hanging over the bar was a news report. Some yuppie kids had been arrested trying to stick someone up in front of the TKTS TKTS booth in Times Square, and a similar incident had occurred at the Bronx Zoo. They said they'd been on a scavenger hunt. booth in Times Square, and a similar incident had occurred at the Bronx Zoo. They said they'd been on a scavenger hunt. The Scavenger Hunt Robberies The Scavenger Hunt Robberies, the news called them.

By morning, the Post Post would have reports of a half-dozen. Mine wasn't among them. It never would be. would have reports of a half-dozen. Mine wasn't among them. It never would be.

I got home around 3 a.m.

”Who do you think you are?” said my wife.

”No one,” I answered.

Just the creepy guy who runs the carousel.

THE CODE.

BY N NORMAN K KELLEY.

[PRODUCED BY T-S T-SOUND. 17:20; EP.

Prospect Heights Free people are free to make mistakes and commit crimes and do bad things.-Donald Rumsfeld Code had always survived by the philosophy that he lived by; he recognized no other man's law but his own: Take whatever is needed and f.u.c.k all the rest. He was the real thing: a bona fide n.i.g.g.a-man who lived and survived the streets. Unlike an array of fake n.i.g.g.az who recorded stories about the 'hood, he was the real deal. He had the scars to prove it, the wages of sin, and he made sure that b.i.t.c.hez paid special attention to them when they wors.h.i.+pped his battle-scared body. No b.i.t.c.h ever left his threatening grip without kissing his keloid medals of the street, wounds received from rival n.i.g.g.az and Five-Os.

Upon arriving upstate he had shanked two motherf.u.c.kahs Day One who looked at him as if he were sweet meat. He wasn't gonna play that f.a.ggot s.h.i.+t. He got their minds right-as well as the whole cellblock. He had no time for that s.h.i.+t. His time was short and he wasn't going to be cornered into taking sides in simple-minded prison gangs. A tag quickly went down that Code wasn't somebody you wanted to f.u.c.k with. He sat alone and was given respect. OGs nodded and went their way; the younger ones just kept moving.

Code did his time: He worked in the prison shops, did his daily 300 push-ups, and worked on his rhymes. He was planning to make his own luck when he returned to the city and produce his masterstroke: The Code The Code It would be the story of one bold, bad, crazy n.i.g.g.a's life in the 'hood, back in Brooklyn, back in Prospect Heights. It would have everything that urban contemporary airplay craved: phat beats, flowing delivery, and the chronicle of a real n.i.g.g.a's life, not back in the day but here in the moment, meaning a n.i.g.g.a telling it like it is-gun-play, lurid depiction of urban scenes, and plenty of f.u.c.king. He was going to go even further and have the screams of snuffed-out b.i.t.c.hez mixed in. Of course, no one would know if the cries were true or not (except him), but he would let others know that when he spoke of contemporary urban reality, he was It would be the story of one bold, bad, crazy n.i.g.g.a's life in the 'hood, back in Brooklyn, back in Prospect Heights. It would have everything that urban contemporary airplay craved: phat beats, flowing delivery, and the chronicle of a real n.i.g.g.a's life, not back in the day but here in the moment, meaning a n.i.g.g.a telling it like it is-gun-play, lurid depiction of urban scenes, and plenty of f.u.c.king. He was going to go even further and have the screams of snuffed-out b.i.t.c.hez mixed in. Of course, no one would know if the cries were true or not (except him), but he would let others know that when he spoke of contemporary urban reality, he was beyond beyond keepin' it real. He was making it a f.u.c.kin' reality. He had no time for fake n.i.g.g.az frontin' a reality he already knew about. keepin' it real. He was making it a f.u.c.kin' reality. He had no time for fake n.i.g.g.az frontin' a reality he already knew about.

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