Chapter 1: Run Bealz Run

1

Bealz was 11 years old. His dad had been gone, locked up since before he was even born.

Bealz's mom never really said anything about him, his dad. She would just kinda start looking real sad and say stuff like, “I don't know, baby,” or “I wish I could tell you more, honey,” or “leave me alone, lil nigga!”

Or something like that.

Bealz was sad a lot. He didn't show it, though. At least not like they do in the movies and on tv. Like the white kids get to do. He couldn't act like that. Not where he was from.

He often noticed the kids on tv. They had lawns and always had huge, over-sized boxes of colorful cereals that the Arabs down the street from him didn't have on the shelves and they had brand new bicycles and giant smiles.

They also had moms and most of them even had dads.

Bealz did too. Just not like theirs.

Bealz's mom was around sometimes. He mostly stayed with his grandma, Ms. Penny, though. She wasn't really his grandma, cause she wasn't really his mom's mother. She had been her foster mother when his mom had aged out of the system.

She ain't have nowhere else to go, his moms, so she had Bealz, since babies were equated with an increase in the public aid check and some more LINK. That was her best chance to contribute to the house, the ghetto equivalent of upward mobility. That, and stripping.

Or at least that's what Ms. Penny told him when his mom wasn't around.

Many of the kids in Bealz's building, like him, were worth little more than a check to their over-stressed families. The incremental uptick in benefit, though, was never enough to ease the overall strain and the kids remained painfully aware of their value, both at home and in the streets. Where many of them chose to be.

Either way, there was little time in either place for daydreaming and imagining. Even for an 11-year old boy. Stepping up onto the El platform that offered up a gateway out into the world and away from his violent, SouthSide Chicago neighborhood, known as the Wild Hundred's, Bealz is painfully aware of this reality.

Standing atop the platform in a semi-circle around their unofficial leader, Deshaun, a group of six boys look to be counting up their pooled money, the likely proceeds from this mornings larcenies.

Deshaun lived two neighborhoods over, in Robbins, arguably the only other area around here worse than his own. They went to the same school and at least according to Deshaun were natural enemies because of some invisible boundary between their 'hoods. This was enough to keep Bealz actively avoiding the abnormally physically mature 12-year old.

He could, for the most part, keep his distance, though every now and then had to pay the piper. Most often he could either talk his way out of an outright confrontation and come away from it with a little less money or the loss of some prized bit of clothing. The worst yet had been a beating in front of Deshaun's crew that had left him bloodied and bruised.

Recently, though, Deshaun had changed tactics. Instead of threatening to take from Bealz, he had begun to demand that Bealz accept some things from him. One day, Deshaun, flanked by his boys, had stepped up onto the platform wearing the brand new Jordan's, the ones that had just hit the stores at midnight the day before. When they saw Bealz, they surrounded him and asked if he liked their new kicks. When he hesitantly replied, “yeah,” he expected to get viciously kicked by those new kicks.

They offered him his own pair instead. Taken aback by the offer, Bealz still managed to say, “No thanks,” only to discover to what extent this had been considered the wrong answer.

Ever since then, he had to be even more vigilant in avoiding Deshaun and his goons. Ironically, even more so than when they only wanted to beat him up for bragging rights. Now that they had found a new benefactor, the only explanation for their new largess, he couldn't seem to shake them.

Deshaun, with his back to the stairway, holds the others attention. Bealz freezes, causing a momentary, mini pileup of commuters rushing up behind him.

His eyes darting left and right, Bealz devises a plan of escape and begins to slowly ease backward down the steps.

Tonio, Deshaun's closest crony, of course, catches Bealz's movements just as his head began to disappear below the incline.

“Hey!”, Tonio shouts and points towards Bealz, causing the other five heads to snap around.

“Shit,” Bealz hisses between clenched teeth. He turns on his heels to take the remaining steps four at a time. It doesn't take long for him to hear the agitated sounds of commuters being shoved aside as Deshaun and his gang fall into pursuit.

Tumbling out onto the sidewalk, Bealz looks around frantically before darting off towards Ms. Penny's. She wouldn't do shit to help and would likely get really pissed at him for leading a pack of thugs to her door, but he knew they wouldn't follow him all the way into the building. At least he hoped they wouldn't.

If Bealz could just make it to the end of the block, Deshaun would have to cross over into his neighborhood. He knew that an invisible line in the sand wouldn't stop him, but it should at least give him pause. Deshaun had made too many enemies on this side of the street and even though Bealz didn't get a whole lot of love from the boys outside his building, he still lived on the block.

If anybody were to beat Bealz's ass it had damn sure better be a local.

Bealz darts into the alley past the corner store just as Deshaun and the gang turn the corner behind him. Checking back over his shoulder, he doesn't notice the sleek black sedan idling about ten feet away from the store's back door as he lowers his head, preparing for an all out sprint to base.

Just as he begins to gather speed, though, the back passenger side door of the sedan swings open.

“Aye, little nigga!”

A deep dark voice calls out from within the car's dim interior, followed by, “Mook! Get his little ass!”

Skidding to a stop, Bealz instantly regrets taking this shortcut.

He knew who it was. Or at had at least heard about him. It had started to become something of a local legend/urban myth. The story of a benevolent benefactor who'd recently hit the streets. This was the man, himself.

Bealz momentarily froze as he thought about the other side of the story. Some of the kids who had taken up his offer were also vanishing. Most never to be seen again.

A couple, though, had been found. Or at least their mangled, bloody bodies had been found. Bealz didn't want to end up dead, turned inside out and left crumpled and discarded like trash in some dirty alleyway like they had been. He had passed on the shoes. The mystery man in the sedan didn't seem to like that very much. Bealz had been running ever since.

Spinning on his heels, he lowers his head, prepared to run flat out in the other direction. Maybe he could speed past Deshaun and his goons before they could react.

Before he can gather any momentum, though, he runs smack into a brick wall and falls down flat on his ass. Bealz is dizzy, seeing stars as he squints up against the bright morning sunlight at the silhouetted figure of the largest man he had ever seen in his entire life.

Mook reaches down with hands as broad across as pie pans and lifts Bealz from the ground by the nape of his neck. Bealz feels as though he were a weightless scrap of paper. Tears sting his eyes and he goes limp, recognizing the uselessness of a fight.

As Mook stuffs him into the back seat, Deshaun and the others turn the corner in late pursuit.

Turning away from the leering boys and towards the man in the car, Bealz's blood runs cold. He feels an instinctual tightening in his gut. He knows this monster. This was no mere man. This was the demon who stalked him in his dreams.

“Mook,” the dark man says, a gleaming, golden grin breaking across his face, speaking to the big man while his eyes pinned Bealz in place. “Tell Deshaun's monkey ass to get back up on the platform. He fucked this up. I'll handle his ass later...”

Grunting with consent, the giant of a man closes the door.

Bealz is swallowed up by the darkness.