Trey

TUMB 02/20

Trey, James' neighborhood gang friend, stood outside his front door. A skinny young black guy in torn jeans, a leather jacket, and a tight t-shirt stood on the other side with his hands in his pockets. A single bandana on his arm communicated his gang affiliation to people in the know. He looked more bored than anything.Went inside, looked around Brownstone's house, and couldn't help remarking. It’s like… I don’t know, man. It’s like getting to walk into the motherfucking Batcave. You got some bitch-ass butler hanging out here? I ain’t trying to be disrespectful. It’s just, you’re big shit…the Granite Ghost. This is all low-down; no tech dope. I expected this place to be all super-teched up, and not so fucking clean. I get it. You got some sweet-ass maid action coming in?” Nope, I just like a clean house," Brownstone said.

Trey talks about Brownstone's attitude toward him and his gang. "You know what I like about you, Mr. Brownstone? You’re a man who understands respect. If someone shows you proper respect, you show ‘em proper respect back. I ain’t no fucking dumbass. I know you could lay out every gang in this area and probably still have time to come home and whack off to some porn. But you leave my boys alone, and I appreciate that.” James offered the other man a quick nod. Still, there was also more to it. Men like Trey kept things under control. Nature abhorred a vacuum, and a city abhorred a criminal vacuum even more. As long as the low-level criminals stayed under control and mostly messed with each other, James figured they were providing a service of sorts to the local neighborhood.