Frankie carried a switchblade because one was allowed. He wore government CorpState-sanctioned oil-stained clothes, the kind with the Ché logo on them. He was a Punkrebel, who was ready for anything the feds cooked up. Frankie liked the idea of “edging” and living close to death. He said he did. And I thought and talked like he did. The government shot real rebels but designated others like us, as a sort of unofficially-sanctioned ‘rebel’ To the degree that we rebels distained civilized history and reason, logic and art, family and tradition, we were allowed a certain free reign.
Our two tickets cost two hundred eighty-nine demerits apiece on our cash card and that was for the back seats, over 350 feet away. I had been to GangstaHit a few years ago in Hayward. Three kills in that one. On the field that is. I think almost two thousand went down in Grand Stand Jam. A third of the government armed escorts had arrived late.
I knew this would be good. The first place LA Crips were taking on the third-place Kansas City Bloods. They expected 50,000 or more.
The NFL, the CorpState’s old game, went passé long ago. GangstaHit is it for adrenalin and testosterone. And for death. The big beer companies and fat bureaucrats saw it coming and are making trillions. Nobody walks on the edge like at GangstaHit. On the field or in the stands. Since the race riots were stopped by martial law, the big hitters behind closed doors decided that money could be made if the whole thing, the riot thing, went commercial.
We get the rush, us Marin County punks, knowing we may not make it out of the stadium alive. Living with one foot in eternities door is the only way they say. But we’re really here to get points on our safety cards. Someone way up there thought of that one. White boys from money had to show something more, prove something. Participate in something dangerous to show what they were made of. Too much safety, too much comfort, and you could be sentenced to hard labor.
Looked like there were plenty of escorts today. We found our seats while the hip-hop shook the building. The Gangs were warming up, swinging chains, fist fighting one another. The two shooters were taking target practice. Blood’s shooter Kool Papa Ice led the league in kills. He had twenty-six and there were still over ten Blood matches to go in the season. He could break the record.
The Event helicopter, with the giant BankCorp logo on it, hovered above the field. Violations were answered with precision laser shots. They could take out a gangsta or spectator for over a month. GetItOn started and right away Kansas City had three half hits. Crip’s were down everywhere. This set the pattern for the remainder, and the final was six to two Kansas City. A big upset. Four full hits. The Bloods bled, the stadium emptied and we went home with three hundred thirty-four safety points. More than could be said for over a hundred – the tote board flashed – that didn’t make it, in Grand Stand Jam – but that’s GangstaHit.