1
Laith Jarbo struts along a desolate, dirty avenue, eyeing the
burned down and boarded up houses and storefronts as he passes by. Bricks, old tires, ten foot tall weeds,
filthy mattresses, and broken glass decorate the earth around him like confetti. Twisted and bent street lamps shining nothing
but darknessare the only reminder that this war zone was once a major
metropolitan city. The Motor City. A badass blue collar destination and an
industrial, innovative hub of everything auto, music, arts, and sports. His
city. The only city Laith has ever
called home. Used to be a tough old town
full of rebirth and promise, but that was all before the city went broke and corrupt
politicians ran it into the ground. Now
Laith is running his city his way and he will never leave. Others have been forced out of Detroit, but
not Laith and definitely not the Bishops.
No longer
afraid to walk these streets alone, Laith slides into what was once Pershing
High School on the east side of Detroit, but now serves as 8 Mile High
Headquarters. He’s just one of the
thousands of members of the Bishops, a group of wanna-be orphans and thugs that
keep the city free of adult-life and activity.
Here in Precinct 9, what used to be known as the east side of Detroit, no
Transparents are allowed. So far, Laith has the highest score for
snuffing the most Transparents. A
Bishop can get ten points per kill. Points are less if you just hit a Trans
somewhere that just kind of bounces off the body and doesn't cause any burns or
injuries. You get six points for shooting a Trans in the
head and five points for the chest. Only
extremities count as a point a piece, like if your bullet lodges in a hand, or
grazes a foot. Some Transparents like to
think they can outrun a bullet.
Not Laith’s.
He knows how to hold his torcherjust right so
he aims straight for the head. If a
shooter can hit the target of the head or face, it only takes a split second
for the skin and hair to start melting off and spreading to the rest of the
body. Usually the victims getting
torched are screaming so loud in agony, they probably die first from
shock. Laith shudders at the mere thought
of getting torched alive. Gotta be the
worst, most miserable way to die. It's a
tough job, but it's his job and he's the best at it. Laith only missed his target once. The Trans caught the flaming bullet right in
the back and was never heard from or seen again. Probably stumbled right on over to the west
side of the city. Minock territory. Precinct 6.
The Bishops have a goal for their
city. Get all the Transparents out of
Detroit. Keep it a grown-up free zone. All the old fogies did anyway was screw up
the city with all their crooked and thieving ways. Decades and decades of political corruption
by people who claimed to be trying to make Detroit a better place. All the evilness and greed then to the
downfall of the city and eventually led straight to their civil war. That's when then the Bishops decided to
anarchy up on their territory and take back their hood. But it's not big enough for the Bishops. They
strive to claim all of it, not just the east side, but the west side too. Word on the streets is that whatever
Transparents are left wandering around, they try to make it to Precinct 6 on
the west side to hide out with the Minocks.
The Minocks are just a bunch of weakling punks and cowards who can’t
fend for themselves. At least this is
what the Bishops think.Laith snickers.
He has been taking care of himself since he was barely out of
diapers.
The Minocks
like to call themselves a gang, but all they really are is just a bunch of
scared kids afraid to lose any more of the messed up grown-ups that might still
be around in their lives. The Bishops know that all Minocks are traitors trying
to save the Transparents from dying a horrible, hell fire death. Being torched
to death and feeling your skin melting off your body is a horrible way to
die. The Minocks need to let go of all
their feelings, trying to save their loved ones, like any of it matters
anymore. The city has been fighting its
own World War 3 for too long now. And
The Bishops refuse to give up the battle.
They will win this war.
Since the Blight Removal Project and
bankruptcy plan failed some years back, the kids took back the streets. Hell, so many of the adults were already
locked up, dead, or MIA, it didn’t really take much effort for the Children of
Detroit (C.O.D.)to control the near vacant, disheveled, abandoned, and deteriorating
city of Detroit. Forget the white flight from way, way back in the day. This was the flight of all mankind. Nobody lived in the city of Detroit
anymore. Forget the abandoned
houses. Forget the abandoned blocks.
Forget the bordered up, abandoned businesses and schools. Forget the overgrown weeded landscapes and
busted out, broken streetlights. Forget
the darkness and desolation that smashed its fist into the face of humanity. Laith's city is the new Ghost Town of the
Midwest. The most invisible, empty city
left in the Rust Belt.
Back then all the C.O.D. ran the
streets whenever they wanted anyhow. No
mama who’s working three dead-end jobs and taking care of babies could keep
track of everything, especially with no baby daddy around to help her out. It’s almost like the Transparents wanted to
be forced out, or better yet, dead. Most
of the Trans knew they’d be better off dead.
That’s just how it was.
For decades. Until the Bishops
came in to clean things up.
Getting rid of the single, poor and tired moms or old folks
who have been cemented to their homes since the riots Laith used to read about
in his History books was no big deal.
They didn’t have to be forced out of the city, just scared out. It only becomes a big deal when those
messed up Minocks come through trying to ruin everything for the Bishops. It’s like the Minocks and Trans are trying to
old school gang up together. The Minocks
plan is save all the Trans they can from a Bishop torching by “underground
railroading” them to a secret hiding spot somewhere in the western suburbs of
the city. They call this protective zone
Precinct 734. Bishops don’t know exactly
where it is and they don’t care a whole hell of a lot. They just want all Trans out of the city they
now control and by any means necessary.
The means just for their amusement, happens to be human torching. Why?
Why not? It's just for sport. And bragging rights, of course. Laith's favorite television show when he was
younger was "So I Killed a Child Molester." It was super cool to him with all the action
shots and stabbings and shootings they showed on live reality TV. Nobody ever should hurt a kid. Kids rule the world. Laith is one of those kids, making his way
and ruling his world.
Laith exhales deeply as he jogs by
his old English classroom. He smirks as
memories of Mrs. Tarrentoncome rushing back to him. Man, he loved that old little white lady. She actually believed in him. Actually encouraged him to continue writing
and maybe even go to college. Yeah, like
that would’ve ever happened. Not many
kids like Laith thought they would ever really be able to do anything with
their lives. It’s been three years since
he was a ninthgrader at this high school.
The class of 2025 that never was.
That year was the birth of the Bishops.
A renaissance for the Motor City.
An uprising. A resurrection. And
LaithJarbo was its Jesus.
“Man, where you
been at?” Crimson asked Laith.
Laith could
tell Crim wasn’t playing and was in another one of his pissed off moods. Crimson Heyden is the president of the
Bishops and if anyone ever crosses, double crosses or betrays Crim, that person
will no longer exist in this world. Crim
is known for turning in many an enemy into ghosts. Disappearing and fading away like an evil
magic trick. Some people say, Only God can judge you. Well, in Crim’s universe, only Crim can judge
you.
“Man, you
better not be foolin’ around with them hood rats, again.”
“Easy,
Crim. I had more important business to
take care of.”Laith clutches at the large, silver crucifix around his
neck. It’s all he has left from his
Pops. All he has left in the world.
“Yeah, what
kind of business?” Crim pushed himself
up off the top of an old wooden student desk, and pressed his face close to
Laith’s. “Your business is my business. Especially if it’s Bishopbusiness.”
“Back off
Crim,” Laith says, taking two steps back from Crim’s burning red eyes. “See what happened was it ain’t got nothing
to do with you or the Bishops.”
“Boy, what
are you even running your mouth about?”
Crimgrabs his torcher out of the
back of his pants and jabs it into
Laith’s throat. “Bishop business should
be the only business you have. I own you. Don’t ever forget that. Out of all my boys you are the only one who
loves giving me trouble. With all your
feelings and shit.”
LaithpushesCrim’s
arm away and slides his hand over his neck, feeling the warm spot that the
torcher left on his skin. “No, I don’t
and you don’t own me, Crim. Sometimes I still
think about my mama, that’s all.”Laith’s jaw clenches as he struggles to erase
any emotion from his face.
“Your
mama! Your mama!" Crim raises his voice and slaps his hands on
top of his thighs. "Boy, your mama ain’t here no more. She’s better off dead than alive now, Laith. She's probably lucky she died during the War
and not this battle we got going on around here right now." Crim sighs and springs out of his seat,
shaking his head with disappointment. “You will owe me for the rest of your
life for letting that old ladygrandmamalive.
I only did you a solid cuz you didn’t have your full training yet.”
“Well, I’m
fully trained now,” Laith smiled, as he folded his arms across his chest.
Crim studied
Laith’s face intently, searching his eyes for truth. “Nah, man, nah. I don’t believe that for one second. You’re still wearing that, right there,”
Crim said, poking a long finger into Laith’s arm.
“Wearing
what, man?”
“Your
heart. Your heart on your sleeve,
son. Can’t have any emotions up in here
in Bishop territory. That shit will get
you killed. What’s that I’m always
telling you? You didn’t learn nothing
about what the Bishops stand for? Tell
me what I told you so you don’t forget, or get yourself torched.”
“I remember,
Crim. Bishops stand for self. Do not care for anybody but yourself, or
other Bishops.”
“Yeah, yeah,
and what else?”
“No
feelings. No caring about another human
being, but yourself. Blank canvas on my
face. No emotions.”
“Okay, now
you’re getting it, bro,” Crim nods his head and smiles. “And why is this so important?”
“Take back
our city. Detroit belongs only to the
Bishops. Not the Minocks, not the Transparents,
the Trolls or anyone. Bishops is not a
gang. We’re family.”
“That’s
right. That’s right,”Crim nods his head
in approval. “Don’t ever ever forget
it. Oh, and speaking of Trolls…I need
you to go underground today.”
“Why? You know I can’t stand going down there. It stinks in the underground and it’s dark
and nasty.”Laith clutches again at his silver cross. “Can’t you just send another Bishop, Crim?”
“Laith, are
you a grown ass man or some crying little baby boy afraid of the dark?” Crim laughs.
“I don’t know how you can be such a sharp shooter when you act like a
chicken most days.” Crim grabs a large
backpack off the floor and hands it to Laith.
“Take this to the Trolls in exchange for a twenty-five new torchers and
three boxes of ammo.”
“Ask for
Jesse again?”
“Nah,
man. That crackhead got torched. Came up from the underground to buy some weed
or something, and that brother is so dirty and hairy, a Bishop thought he was
some old, homeless Trans bumming around.
So he’s torched. Poof!” Crim waves his hand in the air like a
magician and smiles. “Up in flames. Nothing left but bones and teeth. Now the wild packs of dogs have something to
eat. It’s so great to be able to give
back to the city.” Crim presses back
into his chair and kicks his feet up onto an old, rusty file cabinet. “No dead bodies rotting and smelling up the
streets. Just ashes. Ashes and bones. Taking care of humanity and helping out the
animals too. Such a win-win for all.” Crim chuckles and rubs at his one gold tooth
before tying his long, black braid back into a ponytail.
Laith frowns
as he unzips the backpack and peeks inside.
Bottles of vodka and plastic baggies full of some type of prescription
meds surround cartons of cigarettes. He
quickly zippens it back up. “Too bad about Jesse. He was only sixteen.”
“Well, the
dude looked fifty. That’s what drugs
will do to ya.” Crim playfully shakes a
finger in Laith’s direction. “Just say
no, young man.”
“It’s kinda
ironic, isn’t it?” Laith exhales deeply,
staring down into the box of goodies for the Trolls.
“Whatcha mean? Ironic?
Speak English, bro.”
“I mean that
here I go delivering a bunch of stuff that contributed to the guy’s death, in
exchange for the very thing that killed him.
Things that he actually used to create is what ended his life. That’s
the irony.”
“Yeah, that
dude could make one mean ass torcher.
But lucky for us there’s a new kid in town. In the underground world of Trolls, that is. He goes by the name of Trumbull. Like where the old Tiger Stadium used to
be? Who knows?
Who cares. All I care about is
you delivering the goods to the Trolls and bringing back some much needed
Bishop supplies.” Crim holds up his torcher
and examines the inside of the barrel. “I’m almost out of ammo.”
Laith shifts
the box from his left hip to his right. “Sure, you can’t find another Bishop to
do this job?”
“Yallah,
man. Get your Chaldean ass up out of 8
Mile High and go down to the pits of hell where those Trolls stay. Get our shit and hurry back. And if you happen to see any Minocks down
there trying to high tail it with some runaway Trans to the 734, make sure you
torch those sons-of-bitches.”
Laith slowly
climbs back down the steps of the crumbling building and like a snake slithers
down the grimy streets dodging the stench of the steam slowly seeping through
the manhole covers which lead to the underground. The underground. Neutral ground. Almost a safe zone in a forgotten battle
ground. A literal underground railroad
for Trans trying to get to the 734 before they get flamed like some backyard
bonfire by a Bishop. A breeding ground
for runaways, the homeless, and the addicted.
A perfect underground world of escapism.
Laith thought maybe he should just
become a Troll. An underground dweller
skilled in making torchers. They have
it easy. Stay stoned all day, avoid all
conflicts and outside battles. Once he
gets underground maybe he’ll just never come back up.
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