Alarm blares, interrupting my breakdancing dream. A battle supreme was underway. Most of the moves were just pops and waves. Spinning the opponents heads into stomachs and out again. Not much foot work, one homie constantly kamikazied though. Not gonna explain myself here, do some fucking breakdancing investigations for hamburger sake. Bunch of the battlers were dead homies. No intention there to evoke the Ice Cube rap of same said name. Dead homies.

Lost four homies by the time I was twenty. I've had my fill of funerals. Nothing spells out your mortality than a string of your peers laid out on a slab. All four deaths were fucked up. I suppose young deaths generally are.

The first guy, we all called him Bonecrusher. Won't unleash the legal names here for sake of the families. He was dumber than a post. Had some brain learning flaw. Once, our seventh grade teacher asked him to go up to a map of the states and point out the Mississippi river. The clock hands spun wildly into the future as he fingered his way through the multicolored states. Never found it. This was a grade school that resided in St.Louis, which, if ya hadn't heard, is a city that lives on the banks of the Mississippi. So yeah.

We all called him Bonecrusher cause of a funny incident when he broke this chump's jaw. We were all chillin at Forest Park, playing kill the man with the ball, or as I have been informed is also called smear the queer. This one dick was taunting us from the sidelines. He was sucking on a Blow Pop in between his cheek and teeth. Bonecrusher hit him dead in the lolly. Crushed the candy treat, and snapped the boy's mandible. Nice.

This guy on his block came back from service in the Marines. Details were always fuzzy. But, first day back in civilisation, still in uniform, and he cuts Bonecrusher in half with a shotgun. Bunch of us went looking for him. He skipped town. Never learned whether or not they caught him. Closed casket funeral. Homie didn't make it past the age of sixteen.

Second homeboy. Snoopy. Dunno what it is about St.Louis, but there is always one guy named Snoopy in every crew. This Snoopy was kinda a dork. Even more nerdly than me. And I believe even crazier. His social awkwardness undoubtibly had much to do with the fact his dad smacked him around on the regular.

He ran away once and set up camp in a drainage ditch. Stumbled back home after a rainstorm ended that escape. Always wanted the bunch of us to gang up on his pops and knock the abuser out of him. Wouldn't have helped, just would have put more trouble in Snoopy's life.

Police found Snoopy's corpse in an abandoned building. Little homie drank some Drano. Highly upsetting. Another closed casket funeral. Homie didn't make it past the age of seventeen.

Third homeboy. G-Money, we all called him G. My man was a Thundercat. Thundercats is what we used to call rich black guys, always dressed urban preppie. He was adopted by an upscale professional black couple. A social strata which actually has a strong foothold in St.Louis. Lots of black business owners in St.Louis. Didn't outweigh the numbers of disenfranchised black folk there. Oh well, life sucks rhino.

He hosted many house parties out in Ladue. The richie rich suburb. He set up a dj booth and dance floor in his basement. I mostly remember enjoying his electronic spoils of wealth. Probably the only time I was priveledged to watch cable was when I went over to his house. Crackin up to Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy standup videos.

He was a maniac too. He loved to tackle people. He once got a huge gash across his left hand from rough housing. He used to chew on the stitches. It became his trademark even after the stitches were removed. When ever he was angry and about to attack, he'd growl and bite on his palm.

G-Money got sandwiched under the rig of a semi on the way back from registering for college down south. Everyone hoped he died instantly. The driver survived. He didn't cope well with that. Actually had an open casket for G. Christ that was strange. Homie didn't make it past the age of nineteen.

Fourth homeboy. Ant. Ant was a suave muthafucka. He could charm his way out of anything. He is the one who convinced us all to steal the school bus in eighth grade. He also convinced this hot, Vanity look-alike, to show us her cootchie in the back of the classroom. First glimpse of pussy for me. Haven't had enough since. He was also a bit of an outlaw. He and I got the posse out of bad situation by shooting up a ceiling. They weren't gonna let us go, till we popped some caps off into the air. We didn't go to parties in that hood again.

Ant was the one who originated my streetname. Crazy Ass Whiteboy. Kinda rolls off the tongue. Crazy Ass Whiteboy, suuuuuper genius. Alright. Me and Ant got into a lot of dirt. He was my dirty. Shit he was fun to have around.

He scolded one of his little cousins for kicking the family dog. After the argument ended, Ant turned and walked away from his little cousin. Little fucker pulled out a gat and shot Ant in the back of the neck. Bled to death on his olive green carpet. Homie was a year older than me, but he still didn't make it past the age of twenty-one.