HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF Money tried to hold my hand as he led me down the stairs. He was loaded down with bags of drugs, cocaine, Molly, weed, lean, and money. And so was I. “This some fuck shit!” he muttered under his breath as he suddenly stopped, alarmed. I bumped in to him coming down the stairs. “Yo, my nigga, wha’cha doing comin’ out of there? Where Lil D?” a voiced called out. I looked down just as the chick inside the house began to scream in agony. I looked behind me and the entire doorway where we had just barely made it out of was engulfed in flames, roaring like an inferno of hell. She was being burned alive. “Oh-mi-god!” Down below was a group of dudes. They were about four or five deep, All Lil D’s homies, older guys in their twenties and thirties. They were blocking the stairs, attempting to stop us. In the distance, I could hear sirens blaring. I looked up the street as a cop car pulled up. Across the street there were throngs of people gawking at the fire. Some had ventured out of their homes to watch the crack house blaze. BLOCKA! BLOCKA! BLOCKA! BLOCKA! Money just started firing, letting lose with the 9mm. the gun jerked in his hands. I heard grown men hollering like women as two of them scattered and two fell to the ground. By the time we hit the bottom of the stairs, the smoke was thick and I couldn’t see a thing. “Police, hold it right there!” a thick baritone voice halted as a flashlight strobed.