Territory.

Whaddup?

A dude’s gotta have his place in the world, and other crews need to recognize. If a homeboy has his corner then respect it or reject it. See the tags, keep the hell away.

Kev the Sweep has his own sweet spot at the corner of the bar. Tall stool, small section of bar before the bit that I keep latched up to the wall so’s I can get in and out quick. There’s not enough room for another stool so he don’t get no fools all in his face.

Kev comes in of a Thursday and Friday, and everyone know this be his spot and no-one go near it, even if the man not there. He’s half-way down his first pint of Carlsberg when Ronnie the Pipe comes in the room.

Ronnie usually comes in of a Wednesday and Saturday. And on those two nights it be HIS spot. This being a Thursday we got a problem.

He stops as if someone just busted a cap in his ass when he sees the situation.

Me: Pint, Ronnie?

Ronnie: [Without looking at me] Yep.

Kev glances over his shoulder at Ronnie and silently jerks his head at him before returning his attention to his drink. It’s a motherfucking face-off.

Thing is, Ronnie be on the club committay. Dog is only the TREASURER. He know where all the bodies be at. A brother trippin’ if he think Ronnie goin’ back down. Kev, though, he be from a badass Italian ice-cream-van family empire and one thing about the wops - they don’ take no shit from no-one.

Ronnie slowly walks to the far end of the bar. Kev smiles to himself but mofo being premature. Ronnie picks up the only other high stool and carries it back to his spot and firmly places it up against the stool Kev is at, forcing him to move his legs to make room.

The disputed section of bar is barely two-foot wide. Both dudes cram in to it, knee-to-knee, shoulder-to-shoulder, each trying to force the other to back their cracker-ass the hell up.

Tensions are hectic as both stare at each other.

Kev: [Without breaking his gaze to look at me] Bottle please, hinny.

I get him a bottle of Special Brew from the fridge and he pours it into his half-drunk pint of Carling. Totally whack.

Ronnie: [unblinking] Large Grouse please.

Me: Dash of lemonade?

Ronnie: [Slowly, deliberately] Not this time.

WHOAH. Kev shrugs as if to say “ain’t no thing”.

Ronnie: And get one for yourself while you’re at it.

BOOM.

This some world-class representing right here, like the Bloods and the Crips all over again. Ain’t no-one backing-down or nuttin’.

I glance at my watch. Looks like the clock goin’ save everyone’s face.

Me: And that’s time, gentleman. Thank you.

“Bridge Over Troubled Water” starts playing on the radio.