The tinted windows were rolled up, giving him the opportunity to see, but not be seen. It was midday, but the corner of Page and Hamilton Streets popped with the sound of bass booming from the trunks of cars passing by. Little children played, but this was an area where even playing was a sport and not recreation. Kids were trained at a young age to watch out for killers, rapists and thieves. They knew the terrifying sound of gunfire could go off at any second. Page and Hamilton were both streets the ice-cream truck wouldn’t dare drive down. Prostitutes as young as sixteen pranced the block in their skimpiest outfits, in search of their next trick. Crackheads roamed the streets feenin’ for the ecstasy of their next hit. Graffiti decorated the exterior of buildings that had been vacant for years. Tires, broken bottles, and food wrappings beautified the streets. It was a sad sight to see, but this area was Koran’s territory. It was the place he called home. His little youngins manned the block with a vengeance, distributing bags of crack cocaine.
