Call To Arms

Theme song: Gangster - Terror Fabulous
"Thru you a laugh dem no know say you will bust dem bubble..."
You look down at your pager vibrating on your waist, nervously hoping that it won't be that call. But it is. The number followed by a 187 code and you have to answer. You don't want to, but having sworn your loyalty, you have no choice but to keep your word. No choice other than to break it. And that you will not do. So you call back to hear the words of where and when the attack will go down. You commit yourself to violence for no more than a principle.
Sooner than you think it's on. They're already on their way to pick you up and you must be ready and with that the reaction begins.
Walking to the bathroom, your palms begin to sweat. You nearly drop the vaseline and leave smears of grease on the mirror as you close the door of the medicine cabinet. With dead eyes you stare at your reflection, face coated under a layer of jelly while you wrestle your hair into a tight bun knowing that you cannot leave anything free to be pulled from your head... although it will be no matter what machinations you attempt.
On wooden legs you enter your room and change. A tight fitting long sleeved shirt and sweatpants that are loose enough for movement but tight enough not to leave much to grab. You complete your outfit with sneakers laced tight and double knotted.
Almost as a second thought you remove your jewelry. The earrings, the rings, the chain. Every little flashy token that adorns your body. This ritual is part of your protection, less is more. Safe. Although nothing is. Safe.
Your mouth dries and each breath you take burns your lungs. Hot and fetid so you attempt to calm yourself with a cigarette, lit with shaking hands and placed between sere lips. Realizing you just smoked in the house brings a lightening flash of fear. Your mother, being more formidable than any adversary you will now face, will beat the hide off of your body if she smells smoke, so you grab the aerosol can and cloud the room then open a window hoping it will air out the room long before she arrives home.
You know the troops will arrive soon so it's time for your final preparations. You walk into the kitchen and now your heart begins to pound. You open the utensil drawer and extract an ice pick with slick fingers, your pulse racing. This you place point side down, in your waistband at the small of your back, covering the hilt with your shirt. You walk carefully back to your room and remove the box of single-sided razor blades from the stash underneath your mattress. Selecting one, you tape it to the back of your left hand for easy access. You had long since learned the lesson of not keeping razors hidden in your jaw. Having been snuck to the face once and risked the uncovered blade finding it's way through your cheek is not a lesson you want to repeat. It's so much easier to keep one hand in your pocket and let your foe guess at what you will pull out.
You hear the car horn blaring. They're here. You feel sick but you push the bile that rises in your throat back down. There isn't any time for that. No time for weakness. Walking out of your house, your heart hammers against your ribcage and you wonder swiftly if anyone can hear it's heavy beat. You lock the door and think to yourself that you hope to see home again in one piece and know that you may not. The tears that well up in your eyes do not fall down your cheeks but they run down your soul. This is the choice you have made. This is the gamble you face. This is what you are willing to do.
And as you decend the stairs, prepared for a battle over some insult or another, the red film finally, mercifully, drops over your eyes. Everything goes numb. Behind you is your life. Before you is your violence. Around you is nothing else. You are ready to answer that call to arms.



Gangster?



Hardly.