That’s what getting up meant. A writer who has hundreds, thousands, of throw-ups, who has his name everywhere, all over a certain train line, is considered king of that line. But Max wanted more than that. He wanted to paint his masterpiece. He wanted people to talk about his work for years to come. He wanted them to remember him, not just for his name, but for his style. In the future, they would write books and make movies about him. He had the talent, everybody knew that. He had already transformed the art of graffiti writing. When he first started, the lines were messy and flat, boring. Max had been the first one to move into 3-D, then into bubble style, filling in with fading colors. Practically no one was doing the fade when he started. Now, of course, you see it everywhere, but he was one of the first. Or so he said. At the Writers’ Corners, the one on 149th, they all wanted his tag in their black book. He was going to be famous and everyone knew it. He just needed to do something big, a whole car, end to end.
