Mikey pushed open a door to the urban, run downhotel being used as a headquarters for a small time gang. Covered in graffiti both artistic and pathetic, the Sickles were old school gangsta. They ran and enjoyed the drugs, they pimped, they extorted for money, but when they started they felt they had no choice. Years and years ago they were the downtrodden of the town, subject to just about all the racism the town of Lake Point used to never try to hide or bury.
Extortion and protection rackets was to actually get paid for keeping the streets safe. Pimps were keeping women and men who wanted to sell themselves safe while the product made money to get out of trouble. The authorities said certain drugs were bad and like good capitalists they filled the demand for profit.
Admittedly the last one is where things started going off the rails as all criminal organizations did. It became about the money and power from fear than protecting anyone.
So Mikey had entered the room of the head of the Sickles, Tyrone Jackson. No fancy names, no pretensions. He was just the boss and everyone knew it, especially the four ladies happily snuggled up with him naked. Tyrone got the first pick of the gangs women, and could easily keep up with them at once.
Mikey pulled on a pair of boxers and sat on the bed. Mike ‘Mad Dog’ Jackson slapped the ass of one of his bedmates. “Get up bitches, you got work to do today. Gang needs its money.” Mad Dog needed to use a name, he thought, just so people understood that despite his size he was in charge.
“Yeah Mikey...” The woman whimpered in sadness. They hated the fact the boss got first pick. He was small, tiny in many ways, and they basically just entertained him with each other. One of the girls thought they saw a man worthy of a harem leave the room but brushed it off. Maybe it was time to get Mad Dog out of the way?
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Tyrone formerly Jackson walked through the town in a way that would have gotten him arrested despite his reputation, naked yet purposeful. Had anyone been capable of fully perceiving him they would have called the police about a streaker. But they could not and Tyrone made his way out of Lake Point’s urban center into the wealthier suburbia, looking for clothes and an identity.
