The Day I Whipped a Jamaican

I forget his name, but I knew that he had dreadlocks and was Jamaican. I don't know why it is that so many people in the Bronx can only fight in groups. It's like only a few people have a sense of hyper-individuality. Eventually you are almost obliged to join a group because failure to do so could result in abuse. I never threatened that Jamaican classmate of mine with abuse; I don't know why he started throwing Skittles at me, so I guess that it has to do with the fact that he was friends with kids I had messed up in elementary school.
We were on the D train, taking only one stop from Intermediate School 117 to 170th, where we all lived. We exit the train and I'm walking up, fully paranoid that all the Jamaicans, José X, Moyehita, and a bunch of others were planning an organized attack. I was with my diminutive friend who now carries a gun, so I knew he couldn't at the time provide adequate assistance [but I still love you, bro!]
The Skittles start coming at me, and my friend just walks faster, but I simply slow down, take off my belt, and start whipping the Jamaican. I had the high ground there in the subway staircase, and was able to spend quite a few minutes delivering belt blows to the arms and face of my attackers. If you presume that I learned those slicks moves from my pops, you'd only be partially correct. 
My ingenuity in using a belt came mostly from about 40 or 50 sessions of Jet Li's Fist of Legend. As I whipped the Jamaican kid across the neck, the arms, and the face, I didn't think of the racial implications of a Dominican Trujillista seriously whipping a dreadlocked Rasta. Nonetheless, those implications would not be lost on his friends.
The same motherfucking black-ass linebacker that I took on throughout 6th grade came running after me. I stopped, tried to pick up a garbage can on 171st Street, but it was fully-packed, metal-mesh so I instead decided to reach for an empty Snapple bottle inside. I threw the Snapple bottle towards the chest area of the Jamaican, and he blocked with his arm. I saw blood rolling down his arm, and began running towards my apartment.
Once we got to my apartment about a block and a half away, I began walking slowly with a dark, angry black crowd behind me. They were at that point in Dominican territory, and I walked even more slowly when I noticed that my buddy Uncle Xito was overlooking his point.
"One-on-one," said Uncle Xito, and I had no choice but to agree. He calmly led everyone to the lobby, opened the door, and left the two of us inside. He calmly stood outside, along with the rest of the angry mob, and they saw the two of us rip each other to pieces.