The rat pack flash mob spring debut has begun, and this is just the beginning. There aren’t enough police in Chicago. End of summer last year there were several police officers on each corner of the mag mile on weekends. Probably with colder weather there was minimum presence now. I’ve walked all over that city and for the amount of people in comparison to police there’s literally no police presence at time. And while the candycane liberal lightweight cosmopolitian metrosexual pansies in that city and liberal fascist political scum whine about gun control, they don’t even consider the deadly work of a blade, which can disable muscle and ligaments stopping mobility of body parts faster than bullets with silent efficiency. Jugular, clavical, brachial, femoral arteries are lethal hits too.
While a gun can be handy, I’d recommend a fixed blade, folder, and a blackjack for Chi-town streets. Just bring some handiwipes for the mess.
What Cyrus said at the beginning of The Warriors is now coming true:
Can you count, suckers? I say, the future is ours... if you can count!
Now, look what we have here before us. We got the Saracens sitting next to the Jones Street Boys. We’ve got the Moonrunners right by the Van Cortlandt Rangers. Nobody is wasting nobody. That... is a miracle. And miracles is the way things ought to be.
You’re standing right now with nine delegates from 100 gangs. And there’s over a hundred more. That’s 20,000 hardcore members. Forty-thousand, counting affiliates, and twenty-thousand more, not organized, but ready to fight: 60,000 soldiers! Now, there ain’t but 20,000 police in the whole town. Can you dig it?
Gang Members: Yeah.
Cyrus: Can you dig it?
Gang Members: Yeah!
Cyrus: Can you dig it?
Gang Members: YEAH!
Now, here’s the sum total: One gang could run this city! One gang. Nothing would move without us allowing it to happen. We could tax the crime syndicates, the police, because WE got the streets, suckers! Can you dig it?
Gang Members: YEAH!
The problem in the past has been the man turning us against one another. We have been unable to see the truth, because we have fighting for ten square feet of ground, our turf, our little piece of turf. That’s crap, brothers! The turf is ours by right, because it’s our turn. All we have to do is keep up the general truce. We take over one borough at a time. Secure our territory... secure our turf... because it’s all our turf!
Can you count, suckahs?