I leave a square, brick house, and walk the streets in sweet summer heat. A gun holster to my back, yeah I know where I was at. The west side of Chicago, even in the morning shit could go down. It makes no sense that the innocents have to live like this. Up the block I go, leaving the street I lived on. Its name is Crystal.

Everything grew darker, groups of boys and men hang on front of stores. A gas station's owner argues with the bums, "I'll call the cops!" They all laugh, because they knew police wouldn't come.

The light changes. I cross, keeping my hands in my pocket...on my gun. "Weed, weed, weed, weed, weed," a man sings, while offering me a dub. The CTA bus hisses. I climb on and think more on who could guard my club. Eight faces pop into my mind. I knew they were the only fit I could get right now. I pay the coin machine, then spot an available seat at the back, so I take it.