Combat Jack With Today's Mathematics

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

Just in time to wrap up the week, as well as to bless ya'll with some reading material during this Memorial Day weekend, the homie T just dropped his latest installation of "Chronicles Of A True Hustler". T, for real my dude, thanks so much for putting in so much of your time and life stories onto this blog. It's really appreciated from my end. To you, the reader, I now present to you, Pt. 5 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

Despite the new threats brought on by our move to build up DVP, I still had to commute across town to Bay View/Hunter’s Point for summer school, 21 Hayes to the 24 Divisadero. Phillip Burton Consent Decree Academic High School was an old school with a new name. Chicken, who grew up in HP went there when it was a junior high school named Pelton. He said he fucked his 7^th grade teacher. Yeah right, and if so, I wasn’t so lucky. After my 9^th grade year I was invited to leave by Mrs. Howell, the Principal, who very candidly explained that she didn’t see me succeeding there. I admit, I wasn’t taking school seriously. Mrs. Howell did me the favor of letting me transfer to another school to prevent her from having to go through the trouble of expelling me.

Galileo was where I should‘a been any way. It was where kids who attended Francisco Middle School graduated to. I wouldn’t have lasted long with a daily bus ride to enemy territory, so Gal was the move. But, had I not returned for that summer semester at Phillip Burton I would have never met Rachel. Rachel was Italian. With a last name like Guido, what would you expect? Standing about 5’5’’, thick-cut, thick brown hair, I thought she was cute. I sat directly behind her and Ice sat to my right. Ice was DVP and would be my dealing partner for a while. All three of us cracked jokes and made the time fly. Rachel and I hit it off. She wasn’t like other girls.

On our first date, I told her to meet me at the Valley at 8pm. When she got there, she was supposed to page me with the secret code I’d given her, which she did. But, by the time I got to the turf, there was a crowd gathered in front of Ed’s Liquors. Pushing my way through the crowd, I realized that Rachel was on the ground tussling with one of the young girls from the set; pulling each other’s hair with one hand and punching each other in the face with the other. I wasn’t about to get involved in that shit. Rachel came to the turf for the first time and was already hot. I was feeling how she was handling herself, though. She wasn’t afraid to throw ‘em. But, she was going to have to fight her way out of this one on her own. I wasn’t siding with her in a beef on our first date.

She was so gangsta. Sitting behind her in typing class I had no idea how deep her grind was. Even though I had seen my uncles either pimp or marry white girls I never thought I'd ever be with one. Either white people are just like black people, or Rachel was the blackest white girl I had ever met. Rachel’s stepfather, Sonny, mentored her in the art of paperhanging, what old school hustlers used to call identity theft. Sonny was a master. He had tutored many a white girl in the art of long drag; paperhanging plays could sometimes take weeks to set up. If you got a good run, it could last for months. She also cared for her two younger sisters while her mother served a bid on forgery charges. Sonny was old school, had to be in his 50s though he looked much, much older. His right hand man was another OG named Mohammed, who always dressed in a 3-piece suit, overcoat and brim…never said much. And when he did cosign Sonny’s crazy ass, you wouldn’t hear much more than a mumble. They were both hooked on heroin. Sonny had been addicted for so long he had a permanent curve in his back that kept his head low and made him lean forward when he walked. Even if you and Sonny were the same height, he always managed to seem like he was looking up at you.

Sonny and Rachel would buy a Spread, the remains of a stolen wallet or purse after all the cash had been taken; driver’s license, credit cards, check book. If the original owner bared even a remote physical likeness to Rachel she would assume the woman’s identity, opening new accounts at multiple banks. Next, they made cash deposits of their own money into the various accounts and allowed the money to season. This was called padding the account. Once the account was seasoned, checks and credit cards were issued and the shopping spree began.

Armed with a new, fully-loaded counterfeit Spread, they went from mall to mall, city to city; Stones Town Mall, Serra Monte Mall, Tan Foran Mall, Macy’s, Wilson’s Leather, Nordstrom. Focusing on big-ticket items they used fingernail polish remover to remove markings from receipts that identified the transactions as charge or check purchases in order to return items to the retailer for cash refunds. If that didn’t work, they sold items on the street at a discount. Rachel was the first person I ever knew with a Louis Vuitton handbag in 1986. Nordstrom’s was their favorite because of their high level of customer service and lenient return policy.

Sonny didn’t like me much. He complained to Rachel that I was a bad influence on her because I was a dealer. I distracted her from her hustle. It was actually the opposite. We were both very competitive. At the end of our respective grinds we’d meet up at the house and see who had clocked the most. I’d be pulling crinkled up, nasty smelly ass bills from out of my socks, all my pockets, secret stashes in my clothes…and I’d call it, $3,700 for the day. Rachel would go into her Louis Vuitton and pull out over $5,000 in crisp clean $100 bills.

Rachel was a hustler.

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4

I really appreciate the fact that my friend "T" is extremely diligent in trusting me with his very personal story. I am also very thankful that dude is patient with me taking a couple of extra days to post his work, only because I'm trying to be early with drops like the Eminem and Star Trek reviews. From me to you my dude, THANK YOU.

I also want to go on record and clear up some discussion that popped up in the comments section of Pt. 4 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler. Particularly this comment left by "Anonymous": "This 4th part has me smelling the B.S. or "literary licence" hanging thick in the air, that I suspected from the hop."

To said Anonymous, I'm honored that you do (did) take time out of your day to read my blog. It's unfortunate that you feel that T's memoirs smell of bullshit or that his story lacks credibility. Duecey was a true flesh and blood person with whom T was very close to. She was actually his brother's ex-girl friend. When she died in front of T, the very real connection he had with her at those last moments of her life was of his own recollection of when he himself came very close to overdosing on cocaine. Prior to Duecey's death, T found himself in a predicament in which he chose to swallow a bag of Cocaine in order to avoid arrest, only to later have the bag compromised within his abdomen and him living through the very exact experience that he described as being Deucey's last. In honoring her life and tragic death, the only license he took was in imagining what she must have felt as she lay dying a couple of feet away from him.

That being said, T is slowly stepping away from his hidden alias as he just blessed me with some extra goodies, some true to life pics of him and his crew as they lived through the stories that I proudly present to you. Now, with no further ado, I truly hope you enjoy Pt. 5 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

We started out as 89 Mob while attending Galileo High School, OJ Simpson’s Alma Mater. OJ was from Potrero Hill Projects, which eventually turned out to be a pretty dangerous place. But back in 1987, our schoolhouse gang activity was more of a pecking order than serious criminality. Those graduating in ’88 would pseudo-bang on us and we, in turn, would pseudo-bang on the ‘90s, carrying on tradition. Most of us claimed Fillmore so with the turf in common there was no real desire to inflict any lethal damage to each other. Shouting 89 Mob before lumping up schoolhouse homies was just a way for us to stay on our toes and prep the sophomores and freshmen for turf life. When we weren’t in school, we didn’t bang on colors like cats did down in LA. We were turf bound, claiming our set and only really fuckin’ with niggas in our crew. San Francisco is very small. And the SFHA (San Francisco Housing Authority) had a practice of rotating families from one public housing complex to another, such that people’s families would be spread throughout SF’s projects. We never really had to ask, “where you from,” because we already knew. We knew you, probably knew your whole family. You knew us too. We might even be family but that shit didn’t matter. If we weren’t from the same turf, that just might be your ass.


















My brother and I took our sibling rivalry very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that we ended up joining rival gangs. More to the point, he joined a gang, Page Street, while I helped form a rival one - DVP. As youngsters Hayes Valley Projects was where my friends and I played team tag, hide and go get it with ghetto girls and pitched in on $5 bags of weed. And best believe, it would be 8 or 10 of us all trying to get high on that one nickel bag and a sole 40 oz. When we were younger, meeting up on Saturday mornings in Hayes Valley on our dirt bikes, always one bike short and trooping up to Golden Gate Park on the hunt for a bike to steal was a ritual. But as we got older we grew tired of stealing and boosting to make up for what our parents couldn’t provide for us. Niggas up the block from us was getting’ money, niggas down the block from us was getting’ money. Why not us?

And at that time and around our way, cocaine was so plentiful. Real good coke, the kind that smelled like a sour dishrag, was only $450 per ounce. But I didn’t start my career as a hustler with a true understanding of the power of my product. I’d spend $50 for a solid rock, take it home and chop it down on the desk in my room, the same desk I did my homework on. I casually swept crack crumbs on to the rug until the carpet sparkled with crack flakes. No one sold crack crumbs back then. Eventually, I would learn how to re-rock crumbs and cook coke into crack. A red flag should have gone off when Moms started volunteering to clean my room. But I was so distracted in being so focused on my grind that the signs of her addiction went unnoticed. Her boyfriend Chicken wasn’t the only crack head in the house.





















The whole 89 Mob jumped into the crack game headfirst, all of us except Quince. Quince was more into getting pussy and reading comics than in really living the street life. He decided to bow out of the game early enough to still have his whole life ahead of him. If only I knew better, had better role models, I should have followed him. But the streets felt way more natural to me than being a square. And that's what I felt Quince was when he bounced, a square. Me, I couldn’t just watch shit moving to and fro from the sidelines. Sometimes, when shit was popping and commerce was good, I'd peep Quince glancing over at us as he walked from school or to work, safely across the street from the projects, away from the fray. I can imagine that from his vantage point, he no longer recognized us. To him, it must have seemed like we were just shadows, silhouettes of old friends he once knew, now destined to end up dead, in jail or worse, living the lifeless life as one of the crack zombies we were helping to create.

But we convinced ourselves that Quince was the loser, the mark with no gang, no turf and no hustle. We were determined to get ours, just like the niggas up on Page Street or down in Virgo’s. We called a meeting in the playground. The playground, located at the Northwest corner of Hayes Valley was a patch of old dirty sand, the play structures had long been removed. Shielded from the street, this was a frequent hangout of ours for various reasons; we could see everyone who approached well before they were close enough to shoot, rob or arrest us; there were multiple escape routes including the upper tiers where we could run circles around the average mother fucker. We had been mastered these routes as kids. Now, they were the trade routes we’d use in building our small drug empire.

Our first order of business was to choose a new name for turf because Hayes Valley Mob wasn’t going to cut it. Hayes Valley had always existed in a somewhat gray-area, transient and without any real gangsta lineage. It was neither a hot spot for the Gang Task Force nor a turf worthy of note by respected G’s. We were determined to change that. Our second order of business was to choose new names for each other. But the rule was, you couldn’t come up with your own name, it had to be bestowed upon you by one of the homies. I went from being Unknown T to _____, Sly C became Dark Raider, Sweet S became Loc and so on. We had outgrown our childhood monikers and needed names that spoke to our movement and would call us powerfully into being. The task we had ahead of us was perilous and crazy, damned near impossible. We had to create a gang from scratch and put a turf to be reckoned with on the map.

Hayes Valley rested under the umbrella Fillmore along with our neighboring turfs: Page Street (Tha Capital), Fulton Street (Young Black Gangstas), Eddy Street (Outta Control), Divisadero Street (Uptown) and Central Street (Central). In order to establish ourselves, we wholeheartedly declared that we were not from Fillmore, but that we would solely claim DVP until our turf received the same level of respect from our neighbors that they expected from us. This decision put us in direct conflict with said neighbors as well as exposed us to danger from Fillmore’s rivals from across town; Hunter’s Point (HP), Sunnydale (Tha Swampy Desert) and Valencia Gardens (VG’s). We had seceded from the union and broken the unspoken oath of solidarity.

This meant war.

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3

T is a beast with his very personal and true story. Here with another installation is Part 4 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

Previously: Pt. 1, Pt. 2,

Once again, and like clockwork, T goes in with his memoirs. Here with another installation is Part 3 of Chronicles Of A True Hustler:

A few weeks after I moved back home, Uncle Mark came to visit us. Uncle Mark is Mom’s younger brother, the youngest of her five siblings. Uncle Mark wasn’t handy with a gun and pretty useless with a knife. He also wasn’t much of a pimp and was a horrible drug dealer. Stealing? Stealing, he could do. Uncle Mark was a good thief, though he was never able to steal himself away from his drug addictions. Hooked on heroin and crack for most of his life, at his worst, Grandma wouldn’t even let him into her house unless he was under constant supervision.

During his visits Uncle Mark would sometimes shower, eat a home-cooked meal or occasionally pay back money he’d borrowed or stolen from us. On this particular visit, while shooting the shit after dinner, Moms excused herself and stepped into the kitchen, leaving Uncle Mark and I alone in the living room. That’s when he pulled my coat. Looking me dead in the eye he said, “I heard what happened with you and yo momma. What you need to do is get you a real hustle. That weed shit ain’t gone make you no real money. You need to get you a real package. That way, if yo momma kick you out again you can get you a motel room, be a man, you know?”

My first thought was, “Why would I take advice from him?” For all intents and purposes, he’s the last person I should be listening to. But, after the way my own mother had just treated me, I was searching for answers, and he seemed as good a mentor as any. Plus, he was only echoing what I had been hearing on the streets; Crack had become big business, much to the dismay of then Mayor of San Francisco, Diane Feinstein. She, like other Mayors in California at the time, was overwhelmed by the devastating fall-out from the movements of drug kingpins Freeway Rick, Danilo Blandon and drug ring The Dark Alliance. Danilo Blandon was the cocaine supplier for Freeway Ricky Ross, who is credited for the crack epidemic that was ravaging California during the 1980's. I remember seeing her hold up a huge bag of crack rock on TV, talking about how it had taken over the streets, reporters and camera men taking it all in. Watching her holding up that bag, that sealed the deal for me. It was time for me to ante up. I immediately traded in my weed scissors and shoe box for a razor blade and a crisp, clean mirror.
















I knew nothing about selling crack. Moms had given me my start on the block with weed but that was "Hustling 101" and I needed to matriculate. There were things that only the streets could teach me and I was an eager student. One day, on my quest to transition from weed to crack, I headed west toward Hayes Valley looking for a "plug", a connect to supplies of that white rock. The popular term for crack at the time was "Hubbas", so popular even that there was a local hit record called "Hubba Rock" by Rappin' 4-tay, if I remember correctly. I passed Po’ Boys Car Wash on the corner of Laguna and Birch Streets, where I’d occasionally see Willie Brown’s car being detailed. Willie Brown was a highly respected State Assemblyman who was always able to come back to the turf. Rumor was that Po’ Boys was a front for a cocaine distribution ring that dealt only in weight. Staring at Assemblyman Brown’s red Ferrari being gently buffed to shine, I knew I was in no position to challenge the rumor, nor was I in a position to handle the kind of weight Po' Boys was "rumored" to move. I wouldn’t know what to do with a quarter-ounce, let alone a quarter-pound. I continued on to the Valley where I hoped to find a hook up more my speed.

“Are you the police?” he said. “If dude is the police and you ask him, he gotta tell you, or else it’s entrapment.” He continued, “You know what entrapment mean?” Before I could respond, he answered his own question. “That’s when the police trick you into catchin’ a case.” Tela V was schooling me, helping me get my hustling legs. Tela V was 3 years older than me. We were like frat brothers when it came to Hayes Valley. We were never in a gang together, but I knew him from the block, and growing up, we both claimed Hayes Valley as home. Though, he would never become DVP (Death Valley Projects), he was a close homey and the first cat I knew of that was hustling crack in Hayes Valley. He hadn’t been selling for long but was already making some money from the clientele he built. His interest in me was to basically make more money with someone he could trust. He was focused on his grind and it showed. Hayes Valley Projects took up a full city block, with multiple entrances and exits. They were a maze of 3-story buildings, clad in pink stucco and grouped around a parking lot with one way in and one way out. The North side of the parking lot would later be renamed Death Valley and South side, Iketown. The whole complex looked like a pink prison complete with external landings for each floor made from concrete and steel. When the police raided Hayes they would often ask for a suspect's address saying, “What’s your cell number? Which cell do you live in?” That's how much of a prison Hayes Valleys resembled, how much of a prison Hayes Valley was.

Tela V and I stood at the bottom of the stairwell, to the left of the Webster Street entrance, shielded from both Webster and Hayes Streets, facing the internal courtyard. He extended his left hand out toward me, palm up. In his hand, he held five milky-white rocks. Each rock looked like separated pieces of a puzzle. “These are double-ups. I sell ‘em for $20 but you can prolly get about $40 off a each one of ‘em.” “You know how to cut ‘em in half?” he asked. As I shook my head to indicate that I didn't, he put one of the rocks in his mouth. And with a clink of his jaw, he spat out two perfectly halved pieces of the boulder he’d just showed me.

“Never keep yo dope on you,” he continued as he curiously surveyed the ground around where we were standing. Kneeling down to pick up an empty potato chip bag, he explained, “Always hide yo dope in somethin’ like this, and put it in a stash, someplace you can get to quick for a fiend but if the police raid, you ain’t gone have nothin’ on you. “Oh, yeah,” he remembered. “Don’t let no fiend put yo dope in his mouth. Sometimes they want to nibble it to see if it’s real. If you slippin’ he’ll put the whole thing in his mouth, switch it and hand you back some fake shit.” I nodded in the affirmative. He paused to look at me reassuringly, “You’ll be alright,” he said handing me the two damp stones he had just spat from his mouth, “That’ll be $20. You keep coming back and I’ll keep doubling you up”.

Previously: Pt. 1


The homie T really liked the way it went down last week, and we're loving the comments. Please keep them coming. Like I expected, he went in and blessed me with part 2 earlier this week. That being said, I proudly bring to you "The Chronicles Of A True Hustler", Pt. 2

The moment Moms foretold finally came to pass. I was on my own. I remember her telling me “Momma may not always be here to take care of you” when I was eleven. I also remember her advising me to make sure I "keep cop money". And I did. I kept cop money. That's like rule #2 to a drug dealer, #1 being "never get high on your own supply". Cop money is what you keep in order to cop more drugs in order to keep inventory in stock. Keep the business alive. No cop money, no product, no money. I got that. And I kept it.

No amount of cop money could ever prepare me for the shock that hit me dead center in my stomach on the day my moms kicked me out of our house and fed me straight to the streets. I was thirteen years old. She screamed at me, “Get the fuck out!". Shit came out from nowhere, knocked every last bit breath out my thirteen year old lungs. It was the ultimate betrayal. Having Moms choose a man over me, her son, her flesh and blood. Funny how they say everything has two sides though. That day, one of life’s most important lessons was seared into my brain. From that moment on, I would never again rely on my reality as real. I would never again get too comfortable in the comforts of my daily life, walking around, ignorant in trusting in what I thought I knew to be fact, to be solid ground, because at any given moment, I could lose any and everything, and within a fucking heart's beat away. I would never again take a god damned thing I had for granted.

This whole bullshit started because I thought I was smart enough to do the right thing. Ha! Doing the right thing didn’t make me right, it made me homeless and with nothing. Nothing but cop money though. Cop money, the streets, life's lessons and the rules of the game. We lived on Oakdale Avenue, in Hunter’s Point. The year was 1979. I was just 8 years old. My mother, brother and me lived on 1086 Oakdale. Some of my best childhood memories are from that period, the late 1970's. My friends Byron, Montrell, Lil’ John, Marcus and I had a Big Wheel chop shop in Byron’s garage. Even then I hustled parts to kids who needed their red and yellow plastic three wheeled "rides" staying fresh. We also had a tree house, built atop the nursery school at the bottom of the hill, across the street from some abandoned buildings. White boys wasn't the only ones with tree houses. It was during that period in Oakdale, when I first heard "Rapper’s Delight", the song I played when I lost my virginity with a 12 year old girl who lived across the street from me. That was also around the time that "Chicken", Moms' new boyfriend moved in and started living with us. Moms taught Chicken how to read and shorlty after he learned, he landed a steady job as a bus driver, driving for the city's MUNI system. He wore a shit-brown colored MUNI uniform to work. He was called Chicken because he teethed on a chicken bone when he was a baby. Must've been cute. The name stuck.

By 1984, Oakdale had gone from being a middle and working class neighborhood to a hot spot for drugs. The epicenter was a two-block stretch cut off from the rest of the world by George Washington Carver Elementary School. The intersection of Oakdale and Baldwin Court was ground zero. Baldwin Court was named after the late literary icon James Baldwin. At the time, I had no clue as to who James Baldwin was. To me, Baldwin Court was just the place that had a free lunch program. I never missed a lunch.


















I was selling good weed at the time, had been since 11 years old. On Oakdale, I was among the gangsters and hustlers, men and women, boys and girls, all talking big shit, all getting in where they fit in. The hustle was real sloppy then, not sophisticated. The daily grind was running up on passing cars, throwing 'bows and bumping shoulders, jockeying with competitors for position. Once you claimed a car window, you'd shove your arm deep into the customer’s vehicle, right in front of the customer's face, offering up your wares for sale. The fiends had their hustle on too. They'd slap your hand in the air, causing you to spill your product all over the floorboards of the car, driving off, dragging your ass up the block if you weren't on point. Most times though, it was business as usual, fiends quickly exchanging money for the fattest bag, the biggest rock, and getting the fuck out of Dodge, hopefully in one piece. This one day, I noticed Chicken pulling up, riding in a little shitty brown Ford Pinto. We owned a brown late-model Ford Pinto at the time. It was the same color as the chocolate Thai weed I sold. It was also the same color as the MUNI bus driver uniform Chicken was wearing as he drove our Ford Pinto. The second I spotted the car and peeped Chicken, I laid in the cut, studying real hard to make sure I was seeing what I saw. What I saw was the Ford Pinto as it slowed to a stop, swarmed by the dealers who were pushing and shoving each other until one claimed that window, the victorious dealer walking away from the Ford Pinto counting money. As the Ford Pinto pulled off, my thoughts raced “Chicken just bought crack?” “Chicken is a crackhead?” "Does Moms know she's fucking with a crackhead?" As much as I was thrown off by the scene I just peeped, I was smart enough to want to protect my mother, my younger brother. Angry and concerned for Moms, I bounced off the block, rushing home to tell her that Chicken was a fiend.

Beating Chicken home from across town, I walked through our door and saw Moms making dinner. I told her “You’ll never believe what I saw today”. I ran the whole shit down, how Chicken drove up with some strange woman in the car. How a crowd of dealers swarmed the car. How I knew that Chicken bought crack and not weed because the guy who claimed the car window, who walked away counting money was a known rock star. Moms took that news and waited for Chicken. When he got home later that evening, she lit into his ass. They moved their beef into their bedroom, closed the doors and screamed at each other, back and forth for what seemed like an hour. Their argument spilled out of their room, out into the hallway, to the living room, into kitchen, back into living room, down the hallway and into my bedroom. Chicken was still in his MUNI uniform. Worn from going at each other head on, Moms and Chicken started directing their anger towards me. They both began screaming at me like if I was the fiend seen driving the Ford Pinto, wearing the brown MUNI, kicking it with a ho' riding shotgun. That's the day I came to hate bus drivers and for a long time after that, thought they were all fucking crackheads.

The screaming ended with Moms telling me to "GET THE FUCK OUT!" Chicken's punk ass, cornered like the fiend he was, hit Moms with that old “him or me” routine. She fell for it. She didn’t even give me time to pack a bag. I hit the streets with the clothes on my back, my weed bags and cop money. Moving with my sudden predicament, I headed towards the Valley to look for the homies. I caught up with my man Dark and told him what went down. Surprised that Chicken was smoking crack, his response was "If you want, I'll help you catch and smoke that fiend ass nigga." And I did want to catch Chicken. Catch him one morning, coming out the house in his MUNI uniform, on his way to work. Catch his ass by surprise the way he caught me when he rolled up in the Ford Pinto to buy crack. I didn’t want to smoke him though, just swing on him with something cold and metal. Let him feel me giving back some of that pain, see me bringing him close to death. Have him scared and scarred, knowing that whenever he saw me, he saw the person who held death over him. Moms loved him too much though, and I fell back because me hurting him would only result in her feeling more pain, more hurt.

Dark let me crash at his house until I could figure out my next move. A week later, I visited my Grandma Jones on 3rd Street. After sitting down for some dinner and bringing her up to speed as to my whereabouts, my current situation she said “You know, your momma called me. She said she want you to go back home.” “Ain’t this a bitch?” I thought to myself. “She let that nigga turn her against her son and now that I'm out, she wants me to come back home. Fuck that and fuck her!” I responded "Really, I'm cool with that". Streets were no joke and I knew I had to keep a roof over my head, knowing I couldn't stay at Dark's home much longer. Plus, I had to keep an eye on my brother. It took a few days for me build up the stomach to tolerate Mom's and Chicken’s bullshit. When I did get home, Moms and Chicken played like the whole scenario never play out like it had, like it never took place. They did their best to act "normal". I played it like I never forgot, understanding that in moving forward, shit would never be "normal" again.