Free Slipping by Y. Blak Moore

crackhead.”
    Don looked around at his friends. Dre was the only one that seemed to hope that the rumors weren't true. He decided to try and bullshit his way past them. “Come on y'all, this is Don-Don. Do y'all think I'm a fucking clucker? I donelost weight 'cause I be stressing and I don't be eating right. Think about who it is y'all talking to.”
    “We know who we talking to, a motherfucking crackhead,” Big Man said slowly. “I got enough of them in my family for me to know exactly what they look like from start to finish. Nigga, you know that all my uncles is on that shit, so I know.”
    Don began to grow angry. He shouted, “Y'all sposed to be my niggas, but y'all gone let some motherfucka tell y'all some foul shit about me! That shit ain't cool. I ain't done shit to you niggas. How y'all gone turn y'all back on me?”
    “Nigga, you turned yo back on us,” Big Man said with his usual country twang. “We been through a lot of shit together. If you had came to us with the real we could have helped you with whatever, nigga. How you gone play us?”
    Semo said, “Man, fuck this crackhead-ass nigga! He better get the fuck out of my yard, before I whoop his motherfucking ass!”
    Don was dumbfounded. “Semo, who the fuck you think you talking to, nigga? Yo pussy ass. Nigga, all of a sudden you tough. I'd still beat the dog shit out of you, bitch-ass nigga!”
    Keno spoke up for the first time. He threatened, “No you won't, hype. 'Cause if you put yo hands on Semo we gone stump yo ears together in this motherfucka.”
    Looking in Keno's eyes, Don saw that the lanky teenager spoke the truth. They were prepared to beat him down. Witha mask of scorn on his face he glanced at the others. He could tell that they echoed Dante's sentiment. Only Dre, his oldest friend, looked confused. In a last desperate attempt he tried to play on Dre's uncertainty.
    “Dre, I know you ain't gone front on me like these niggas. Cut these fake-ass niggas loose and ride with yo man. Nigga, we been down since like eight years old. We don't need these punks. Scary-ass niggas. Come on Dre, let's be up.”
    Before he walked out of the gate Don paused to see if Dre would follow him. He locked gazes with Dre and knew his efforts were futile when the boy dropped his eyes to his shoes. At that moment he knew that he would miss Dre the most.
    Giving Dre a way to save face, he relented. “It's cool, Dre. Don't even trip. I don't need none of y'all. You niggas turned y'all back on me, but I'll be alright. Fuck y'all.”
    Don slammed the rusty gate and savagely kicked an empty beer bottle as he stalked down the alley. As disgusted as he was at his friends’ treachery he had no place to turn now. He knew that if he went home empty-handed, Juanita would be talking shit. He walked and cursed his bad luck, especially the misfortune of having Diego run his mouth off to his friends.
    Damn, I could use a blast,
he thought.
Then I could get my mind right.
    With nothing else better to do, Don did what so many other tortured Black men do every day—he stood on thenearest corner. He extracted a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Gagging at the taste of the stale smoke, he spit a piece of tobacco out of his mouth. Deep in thought, he paid no attention to pedestrians. From the depths of his brain he recalled a small bit of information that could end his crack strike. If he remembered correctly, Diego gave credit to good customers. The interest on the credit was ridiculous, but that was beside the point. Paying back double wasn't so bad, especially when you could have a credit line of up to four hundred dollars. Snapping his fingers he put his feet in motion and headed for Harper Court.
    Arms and legs pumping like pistons, Don ran like a world-class sprinter. By the time he reached the small neighborhood park he was out of breath and had to sit down on the curb for a moment. He didn't want to approach the crack dealers sweaty and looking like he was