Let Your Nightmares Go

Marcus awoke to a bright and sunny morning, much unlike what he was accustomed to. Baltimore did have a very good bit of good weather, but Marcus hadn't seen it in a minute. He stepped out of the front door of the building and grimaced, shielding his eyes from the intense sunlight. Through the grapevine he had heard about some hobo's death the previous night. "That was a hell of a storm," he thought to himself. It was ironic how beautiful a day it was today. Whatever. He had seen way worse back in his native Colombia. As he turned to go back into the building and get dressed, Manuel heard an all too familiar sound, that of a gun cocking. After what he had been through, Marcus turned cool as the other side of the pillow. "What now," he voiced to the agent dressed in a solid black suit. The only response was the resounding crack of the pistol as it bashed against his head and dropped Manuel into an unconscious heap onto the ground.

Manuel awoke in an apartment room not unlike his own. Except this one was a lot nicer. A plasma TV rested on the wall before him, and as he rolled off of the king-sized bed, his feet connected with a mahogany hardwood floor. "Where am I," he wondered as he touched his head. His hand quickly jolted back from the sensitive skin covered with a thick layer of gauze. He stepped into the parlor. "So nice to see you Manuel," a voice in a chair said. "Please, take a seat." Manuel sat down. The chair quickly turned and revealed an short Asian man. Manuel did not recognize the individual, but did recognize his voice. He had received hit calls, drug locations, and alibi instructions from this voice countless times. "You're.... you're the leader of the Bandanistas," Marcus muttered. "That's right," responded the man. "But what you may not know is that I am also second in command of the DEA. Did you ever stop to think about how in the hell you got away from the most elite tracking team in the United States? You? It was me. I called off the raid." Manuel just sat, puzzled, wondering why this man was telling him these fanatical stories. "But why... why do you think I would save you? Because you were employee of the month." This joke sent the Asian man into a fit of laughter. "Well you'd be wrong. The reason I've saved you is that killing you would be too easy. You tried to double-cross the Bandanistas. You tried to break the code of the streets. And that is punishable by much, much worse than death. First, I'd like to inform you that your family back home is all dead." This the man said with such ambivalence that Marcus was paralyzed beyond the point of reaction. "But next you must know this. Around every turn, every time you wake, and every time you sleep. Every breath you take and every step you take... I will be there. Watching. Waiting. Knowing. The rest of your living days will be lived in fear. Fear of me. And one day you will experience the pain that can only be felt when the streets return the disrespect that you have shown them." "Now," the man said, "Gilberto will show you out. Have a nice day." Manuel turned to the sight of a large man coming down on him with a baseball bat.

Manuel woke up again back into his apartment. This time he remember exactly what had happened. He shivered to his feet and looked around. "WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?" He checked under the bed, in the closet. Nobody. He checked in the fridge, he unscrewed the legs off the table, he ripped up the couch, and destroyed the TV. Nobody. "I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL FIND YOU AND MURDER YOU! YOU HAVEN'T WON!!!"

Henry Dupont walked by the apartment, apartment 212, and heard the maniacal shrieks of a man beyond institutions and medicine. He heard a man entirely consumed with fear.

"Damn, I sure as hell won't be missing that in fashion school"

Henry walked on into his endless horizons, leaving behind the inhabitants of Washington Heights to rot in the graves that were their everyday lives.

The Feds is Watching

Marcus Manuel was holding the pack of ice to his head and laying on his bed. Worse than any hangover he could remember, his head was pounding and felt like it was never going to stop. He was still wondering how they got away from the Feds. From off-roading to going over medians to nearly flipping over twice, the whole night was still pretty much a blur to him. He really questioned whether or not Oscar's unconscious ass would remember any of it, including Manuel and Machelli having to drag his fat ass back to the store and lay him in his bed. What a night. His head hurt too bad to realize that it was a bit suspicious that three felons could simply outrun the Feds and be able to just go back to their homes. It had all subsided quickly. Too quickly. It had gone too smoothly, and something was definitely up. But Manuel was just glad they had survived.

Manuel finally stepped out of his apartment and saw Sloan Waters getting into a taxi. "Where are you going?" Manuel asked, just wanting to hear some semblance of getting away. "Manhattan. I have a lunch date at 12:30." Manuel checked his watch. It was 12 noon. He looked back over to the lady getting into the taxi and she had some strange maniacal grin on her face as she ducked her head into the taxi. "Fucking psycho," he muttered to himself. "Getting to Manhattan in 30 minutes. In a taxi. Stupid bitch thinks she can actually escape this place."

Apparently she had forgotten that this was Baltimore. Washington Heights. Nobody ever escaped. Manuel turned back into the building amidst the sound of thunder.

Manuel woke up from his slumber just in time to hear the rain start back up, round four o'clock in the afternoon. Ice cream truck was pulling up and selling to the kids on the block. Kids standing out there, in that cold rain. Looked like they were having fun though. Better they enjoy their childhood while it lasts, Manuel thought. He knew more than anybody how hard it was to be a grown-up.

The Great Escape

Marcus Manuel knew it was time to wrap up the party when the bullet nicked his earlobe and drew a bead of blood. Shit was going crazy. The unmarked black van actually busted through the garage door and four FBI agents jumped out of the still moving van, guns firing. Manuel, Machelli, and Alcazar ducked under the table and started running to the door, crouched, with bullets whizzing and whirring around them. Of course Manuel had came strapped with a 9 under his belt buckle, but putting it there that morning he knew that it would be virtually useless if there was a situation. Well this was a hell of a situation. Manuel didn't even have time to think about how the agents found out about this. Manuel looked back to see Alcazar trip on the steps leading up to his shop from the garage, and his head hit the floor hard. Manuel, true to his cowardice nature continued to run until he felt a large force pulling him back. "HE DIES YOU DIE." Machelli's voice roared into his ear. Manuel couldn't believe what he was proposing. They had to go back to get Alcazar? Now? But Manuel knew better than to test Machelli. Machelli and Manuel ran back and picked up the morbidly obese individual up and dipped to the door. It was a big loading deck and garage but the agents were gaining fast. The two men and the unconscious man they were carrying ran into the doorway and slammed it behind them. "START THE CAR." Machelli's voice still boomed even among the chaos. Manuel, scared shitless, sprinted to the Escalade and jumbled and fumbled at his keys. Finally, mercifully, Manuel found the key he was looking for, opened the car, and started it. He screeched over to the front of the store, and saw an image that would stay with him for the rest of his life. In fact, it would be the last thing he would see in his mind as the executioner strapped him to Maryland's electric chair and put the black bag over his head four years later. Machelli was miraculously holding up Alcazar in his arms and effortlessly, he jumped in, Alcazar and all. Police sirens were screaming everywhere, but the men had Mother Nature to thank. Hail was raining down, making it impossible for any sort of police helicopter to track them. It was turning dark, but Manuel didn't even bother to turn on the headlights. The car screeched off. They narrowly missed hitting some kid coming out of a Chinese restaurant, but Manuel could have cared less who they hit.

"Man I need a girl in my life. I don't know how much longer I can take this crazy shit."

The Boss

The time had come. The shipment of flour was in and it was time to get down to business. Marcus had pretty much come to grips with the fact that it was do or die time... and he wasn't scared anymore. The back loading room of Oscar's butcher shop seemed even sketchier than ever and he knew today it could end up being the site of a massacre. The sound of the strong wind whipping at the side of the building made an eerie sound that just put Marcus in an uncomfortable position. He didn't know how he could get caught but he did know that the Bandanistas had a peculiar knack of just knowing stuff. The big cheerful lady on the side of the delivery van posed as an odd juxtaposition of sorts: this jolly, wholesome lady delivering what was to become anything but. And Machelli just standing there with that baseball bat and those sunglasses. Looked like something out of some cheezy gangster movie. Marcus thought to himself that he would have laughed out loud were the situation at hand not so dire.

Carlos had delivered 20 kilos in packages labeled "From Mom." "So what exactly are we gonna be doing?" Oscar asked, clearly skeptical of the plan. "Easy," Marcus replied knowing that that response was completely untrue, "We gotta just lace all the coke with flour. I'm thinking 20% of every ounce we'll lace with the flour, giving us a 20% increase in total profits. At this rate, in a month we'll have made 20,000 extra dollars that won't have to be taxed by the Bandanistas." "This is risky man," Oscar replied. "I dunno if I'm down." They began to ration out the coke.

A door opened on the other side of the garage and the two men looked to where the sound had come from.

"Dios Mio! RUN!"

Shots rang out.

Shawty Wanna Thug

It was about time the rain subsided. It had been raining non-stop for what had felt like an eternity, but now only a slight mist remained. Being cooped up inside watching TV for four days had been no fun. The day job runs slow when the junkies don't want to come out from under the overpass to get wet... both literally and in the way Marcus liked. He knew his get-rich-quick scheme was a long shot... but hey, high risk meant even higher gain. Lacing his coke with flour was hella risky. He wasn't too concerned about the customers getting mad, hell, they would probably never find out. It was his superiors from back home who he would hear the heat from. It was strange how the Bandanistas operated. Marcus always thought their code of honor was bizarre. It didn't really make sense how you could kill a man with a wife and kids, but you were executed if you were found messing with the product. "Respect for the streets my ass," Manuel muttered under his breath as he placed an order for 500 pounds of flour to be delivered at Oscar's. The plan was to have Oscar take the fall... but now that Marcus knew of his connections with Dominic Roberto Machelli, that was gonna be a lot harder. Machelli's standing in the Colombian community was high... much higher than his own.

All Oscar would have to do is keep his mouth shut and they would be alright. Marcus wanted to get out of the apartment and think about how this would, could, ever possibly happen. He went to the ninth floor to collect "insurance" and saw a guy he knew only as Kevin leaving apartment 981 looking over his shoulder. Something was up... but had way too much on his plate to be concerning himself with such trivial pursuits. Plus he had no problem with Kevin... and his Colombian upbringing had taught him to stay out of other people's shit, unless you wanted it as your own. Some chick was crying... seemed like bad news.

Marcus Manuel need to take a drive. He entered the car and slammed the steering wheel in disgust. His usually calm demeanor was interrupted with a flash of fear. If he didn't get the job done, Oscar would have his head... and if he did and his cartel found out... Oscar would be like a sunny day in the park compared to that. He turned on the car and the subs boomed.

The rain began to pick up again. "Fan-fucking-tastic," Marcus muttered to himself as he turned on the windshield wipers and pulled out of the parking lot. This much was clear: the Cadillac Escalade was driving into what was quite the ambiguous future.

Come Shop With Me

Oscar Alcazar was starting to get on Marcus Manuel's nerves. The Washington Heights projects were his territory, and he was damned if Alcazar was going to take it from him. The brick through his window, the near car accident... Manuel was confident that one of those should have been enough to let Alcazar know who was boss around here, but every night Manuel still saw the "Open" sign flip to "Special: New York Strip" and his blood boiled. Drastic measures were in order: Alcazar had to be put in his place.

The next morning, a cocky little boy of 10 knocked on the door of Oscar's Meat with a note in his hand. Oscar answered the door and was immediately suspicious. It was nine o'clock and he knew that boys this age liked to sleep in on weekends. The young man handed him the note, and without a word went on his way. Oscar opened the crumpled sheet of paper and read: "You're too close. Get your nose out of places it does not belong." He gasped as a finger fell out of the note. He now knew how serious Manuel was about the territory. But he had an idea how to settle the problem.

Manuel was in the shower as he heard a knock on the door of Apartment 215. Irritated that some junkie would have the nerve to come to his door begging for another day to get the money, Manuel slowly got out of the shower, dressed, and came to the door as the knocking persisted. He opened the door and was immediately tackled to the ground by a huge man. Somehow, even after all of the times spent running from the Colombian police, or getting out of the house just as a rival drug lord was about to shoot up the place, this was the first time he ever felt a real sense of fear. The huge man had a gun and was shouting in a familiar Spanish dialect, the dialect of his home country of Colombia. Manuel was thrown against the wall of his shoddy apartment, and his Gucci shades flew into the next room. "Don't try to intimidate me with your crap!" the huge man roared into his ear. "You wanna mess with me I got folks back home that'll mess you up!" Manuel, over his initial shock, realized the man was Alcazar. "Wait, wait!" Manuel pleaded as Alcazar pushed the barrel of the gun against the side of his head. "I'm sorry about the letter, but I know what can be done to benefit both of us. Instead of fighting... we need to combine out resources and create an unstoppable force." "Why should I believe you?" replied a quickly subdued Alcazar. "Because," Manuel responded, "I know of a way the two of us can get rich quick. Plus what reason do I have to get rid of you... if you can make me money. What do you say?" Manuel rose, no longer in fear of the nearly 400 pound man with a gun before him. and extended his arm. "Ok," said Alcazar, "but I swear to God if you screw me, you'll be dead before you even know it." "Oh, I would never even think of it." Alcazar left the apartment and Manuel brushed off his dirty clothes. "That idiot. He has no idea what he's getting himself into. I'll have my money and he'll be dead within the week."

Manuel smiled. The next few days were going to be a lot of fun.

Marcus Manuel: Apt. 215

The average income of a tenant of the Washington Heights project was less than $5500 a year. 50% of the residents had been incarcerated and more than likely the other 50% would be in jail soon. No kids had ever gotten out and made something of themselves, you know, like gone to college or something. Marcus Manuel got out of what was by far the nicest car in the parking lot, a Cadillac Escalade, and smiled. Usually he didn't like having to deal with what he called "delinquent customers," but this time he knew the man wouldn't be bothering him anymore. Plus he was a Dominican, who he really shouldn't have been dealing with anyways. "Whatever," he mused to himself, "moving on." He thought about his native Bogota and for a moment paused, missing the nice, warm beaches and the hordes of prostitutes and hitmen he had at his disposal. Quickly his thoughts snapped back to real life. If Marcus Manuel had to be summed up in one word, that word would be realist, and he thought to himself that Baltimore wasn't really that bad a place after all. Hey, it was a hell of a lot safer here than in Colombia, where every moment he feared a governement official busting through his door, or a rival drug lord setting off a car bomb. Here the most he had to worry about was whether the junkie would have his money, or if some mom got angry that he had killed their kid with his smack. "It's not my fault that kid OD'd on the stuff, I told him that shit was strong," he told the screaming and crying woman ready to rip his throat out. He tossed a few twenties at her feet, maybe five or six, told her to get a nice dress or something, and went along his way. A day in the life... but that life was about to get a lot more interesting in the coming weeks.