A Snitch in the Bronx

The Bronx is full of assholes. I survived under the delusional belief that the rest of the world was devoid of assholes, and that was enough to keep me going until I realized that assholes are everywhere. But there is a specific type of asshole that I've yet to find anywhere else in the world: the 'hood snitch. 

The type of motherfucker that will rat out his own brother if it means skimming a few years off a prison sentence. And indeed, I learned not too long ago that Frank did indeed squeal to the Feds, pinning all the drugs on his brother, and testifying against him. I was bad at picking friends in elementary school, and it sadly was the case that Frank and I came to be associates. 

I met Frank while he was shooting some hoops in the lobby of my building. There's always some bullshit game you can come up with inside of a limited space. We pretty much just slapped each other and smacked a spot on the wall with the ball to "score." Frank was always the biggest cheater, never admitted his mistakes, and liked to trip motherfuckers. 

One night we were playing in the lobby of his building 'til dark, and then we went for a walk around the better parts of our neighborhood. It had snowed the previous week and there were chunks of dirty ice all over the sidewalk. Frank picked up a fist-sized chunk of ice and threw it with all his might in the direction of a van. The van was so full of graffiti that I didn't even think there was glass in the back, so I was quite surprised when the motherfucker Frank -- who had that Dominican pitcher's arm  -- cracked the rear windshield. I heard the van screeching, coming to a full stop. Two big black motherfuckers walked out and Frank then pointed in my direction and screamed, "it was him!"

The two dudes jumped back in their vans and started speeding in reverse. I turned the corner before I could even consider the possibility of arguing my defense. Time seemed to fly and next thing I know I'm jumping over parked cars and running through alleys. 

I came to my street and the van was pulling up behind me. Right as it pulled up to my building, I struggled to turn the key to my lobby door. I made it in, flew up the stairs and casually walked into my apartment, hoping that no one would tell the black guys in the van where I lived. Hours passed and no one came to kill me, but then the local street snitch called my father. 

I don't know what the neighborhood snitch told my dad, but he walked up to me and shoved me against a wall. "I heard you were getting chased by a van," he screamed, "you selling crack, motherfucker!?"

Because of that asshole Frank [not quite his real name] and some other 'hood snitch I had to explain to my dad that I wasn't a crack dealer getting chased by motherfuckers I'd screwed over.