I make my daily rounds in the Bronx, looking for susceptible people, mostly tourists who know nothing about the edgy parts of the Bronx, and Brooklyn occasionally, about every other day, when I ride the subways at night. I don't want to, but he makes me.
Have I even told you his name yet? It's Jamison. Just Jamison. Not a middle or a last name. Just. Jamison.
But let's stop talking about him. My job is usually just to mug people. I hate it. The terrified looks on their faces, as if I'd just threatened to kill them. I will usually just try and get it over with quickly. But it's the worst when they start crying. Then I freeze up. They usually get away then, and of course, I get beaten.
I really hate myself for that.
It also used to be custom that I stay with the gang, come nighttime. But they tend to fuck with me. So I take my chances in the super old abandoned train yard right outside of our territory.
It's the only place I have to go that they don't know of.
The only times I've ever considered going back to the gang was when I was woken up by the feeling of someone shoving drugs down my throat. I had no idea what they were, and I wouldn't let myself swallow them, so I basically choked there until I could get the guys hands out of my mouth. He got so mad at me that he pulled a knife too, and at that point, I was honestly pretty terrified, so I just gave him the 50 bucks I'd earned that day from two people I'd mugged. My throat was sore for a week, and I swear I must've ingested some of that drug into my skin or something, because the next day, I felt just a little high.
The next one was only scarier because the guy was holding a gun up to my chin, begging for all my money. This happened a week after the drug dude too, so I was still a little shaken. But luckily, I still had cash. He took it, and this is the creepy part, because you'd think he would go away. But he literally stared straight into my eyes, and pulled a knife on me. He just started cutting my arm, and of course I tried to run off, but he grabbed my throat, choking me so much that I couldn't breathe. He moved from my arm to my cheek, whispering "cut out his tongue and we'll have some fun...hehehe" at this point I was terrified for my life, and my throat was still completely blocked. But this was also the point when he decided to run off.
I don't know why he didn't just kill me, stab me or something. But he didn't. Those two, but particularly that situation, have scarred me.
The only other account I've had was just in an alleyway in the Bronx during daytime, where this drunk dude wanted to brawl. I just punched him in the face, on account that I was startled, and knocked him out. I pulled him to the side of the alleyway, and pushed him under a cardboard box so no one would see him. Hopefully he woke up fine. Even though he was stupid.
I care about people, so I try not to hurt them. After all, my parents were people. The gang, no matter how vile, are people. I'm a person. Which qualifies as people. And I have feelings about them. But that's enough of that. I have to go mug this lady.