Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, particularly the ones created by James Patterson. I also do not represent any of the real life people exhibited here. Any portrayal of people in this story is not intended to be an accurate one, and is based on my own limited knowledge and stereotypes.

Chapter 3, Meet The Locals

I was still thinking about Megan Fox when I walked out of Starbucks with my coffee, wondering if our paths would ever be so fortunate as to cross again. I got back into the car and drove south past Compton, until I spotted a men's hairdresser's. I needed to get mine cut so I wasn't easily recognisable to any cops out looking for me. The guy in the shop was a Turkish dude called Eddie. He was the same as any other shop owner in this part of LA: keep your head down, and turn a blind eye to anything odd. He cut two four inches off my hair, so it was no longer down by my shoulders but by my forehead. He charged me $20 for the cut, said thank you and then ushered me out. As I was leaving, two guys walked right past me, speaking in hushed voices. Thanks to my enhanced hearing, I caught some of their conversation.

"….. Nah man, we ain't got no more shit: ever since Dez got busted we got nothin' good." The guy who spoke was black, with a purple baseball cap turned sideways and his jeans' waistband about half a foot lower than normal.
"Tell me about it bro: nobody has good, cheap coke like Dez does," this guy was black as well, with long dreadlocks and similar jeans. My senses flared at the word coke, and an idea formed.
"Yo guys" I yelled. The two guys stopped and turned around, both sneering at me.
"You got a problem white man?" asked the one with dreadlocks. They both took a menacing step forward.
"I just overheard your conversation….." I started but the other guy pounced.
"You listening in on us, huh?" He said.

"No, I heard you talking. I heard you're dealer got busted," I'd guessed this part. If this guy Dez wasn't their dealer then I was ready to run. They stopped advancing and looked at eachother.
"Yeah, so?" said the dreadlocked one.
"I got some real nice coke, and I need some money." I was hoping that if these guys bought my coke, then I could start earning some big bucks.
"You want us to buy some coke?" said the dreadlocked one. I nodded. The two guys looked at eachother.
"Alright then" said the one with the hat after a few seconds of silence.
"Meet me in that alley in five minutes" I said gesturing to an alleyway to our left, before walking away to get the coke from the car.

Five minutes later, and I was walking back up to the alley, with 25 grams of coke in my pocket. I walked past a night club called Sticky Icky, which was already open at 12 noon. I turned the corner into the alley and sure enough, my two clients were already waiting.
"About time man, what you got for us?" said the capped dude. I showed them the bag of coke, the dreadlocked guy leaning in for a closer inspection and the capped guy walking behind me.
"You mind if I take a sniff?" said dreadlocks. I opened the bags and he leaned forward further letting the scent waft up to his nostrils.

"Mmmmm. That's sweet man. Good shit. How much for it all?" He said, clearly contented it was good and genuine.
"Well….. street price is $60 per gram, there's 25 grams here so… that should be $1500. Because you guys are buying in bulk I'll give it to you for $1200….. but you seem like swell guys, so let's call it $1000." I didn't want to overcharge them; they might not come back regularly, but I still needed enough for me to get by. Dreadlocks nodded
"That sounds good….. oh no wait. I don't got that much on me. What about you Vin?" The guy in the cap shook his head. I tried to remedy the situation: I needed the money.
"Oh don't worry, you get it me in the next week." I said smoothly. Dreadlocks shook his head.
"That ain't gonna work man. I got another idea," he sighed "You give us all the coke, and I won't stick this knife in your head." There was suddenly a knife in his hand, and I had no idea how it had gotten there: it was as if he'd conjured it from the very air. Purple cap cracked his knuckles behind me, blocking my exit from the alley.

"What's it gonna be man?" asked dreadlocks, twirling the knife in his fingers, the blade glinting in the sun.
"I don't like that arrangement." I said darkly. Dreadlocks clicked his fingers and the two closed in on me like hungry sharks. They looked like they'd done it a thousand times before, and reeked of confidence. But what did that matter: I'm Fang. Dreadlocks lunged at me with the knife but I dodged easily, punching him square in the face where he collapsed. I turned to see Cappie swinging a fist at me, and had enough time to duck before tackling him into some metal bins which toppled over with an almighty clang. Dreadlocks was on his feet and angry but I was ready. As he made to stab downwards I grabbed his wrist, then sent an uppercut into his chin. He collapsed unconscious. I turned to face the other guy who was back on his feet, and threw the knife at his face. He ducked but it still sliced his neck and he cried out. Then he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a gun. It was a foot away from my forehead. Cappie smiled and relaxed, apparently in total control. That was when I struck: moving like a snake I wrenched the gun away from my face. He pulled the trigger and the gun exploded the bulled smashing into the brick wall. The sound rang and echoed through the alleyway, and my hand jumped from the recoil. I punched his gut, and he doubled over, letting the gun fall into my hand. It was a Glock 17, the pistol that was used most by police forces across the world. I pointed it at his cap, as he clutched his stomach and looked up at me with pleading eyes.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you," I said in a hoarse whisper. He began to speak, but didn't say anything because the alleyway was soon flooded with people who were all yelling and screaming. They were mostly black and carrying guns, and they formed a tight circle around the two of us. Then I realised that all of their guns were pointed at me. My gun was still pointed at the guy's temple.

"Drop the gun foo'" yelled a big guy with an afro who was pointing a hefty looking shotgun at me. Casting glances around me I counted about 24 of them, 26 if you counted the two guys on the floor. But I didn't, so that made 24. I could have taken them all, if they didn't have guns, and I still reckon I could have shot about three of them before I was torn to pieces by bullets from every direction. Trying to remain looking calm I threw my gun to the ground. Cappie picked it up again and pointed it at me, smiling evilly. I think he was gonna shoot me first. Then the guys in front of me parted as if swept aside by an invisible hand. Two men walked through: the first was a tall black guy with cornrows, a little goatee and wore dark sunglasses and wore an LA Lakers basketball shirt. The guy behind him was a giant, about seven feet tall and six feet across. He had a black suit and tie, and a different pair of black sunglasses. The suit clung to him unnaturally as if the biggest size the shop had wasn't quite big enough. From the way the others looked at them, it was clear the guy in the basketball shirt was in charge. Indeed, he spoke first.

"Now what the fuck is going on here?" he asked to no-one in particular, almost blaming his fellows for the ruckus as much as me. Then he turned his gaze on me: it was a chilling feeling, the temperature dropping with the intensity of his gaze.
"You gow'n tell me what's going on?" He said, this time to me. I decided not to answer.
"Who are you?" I asked, trying to sound confident. He laughed, well it was more of a cackle.
"Who am I?" He laughed. Then in a blink he was deadly serious: "I'm Snoop Doggy Dogg, now who the fuck are you?"

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