The Toughest

He was young. Image was everything to him. He walked down the street, holding up his baggy pants so they wouldn’t fall down. His cap was turned sideways. He tried to appear tough. He had tattoos. He wanted to convey the image that he was the toughest man around. His face was hard and he looked mean. The look belied the insecurities he held onto inside.

His gait was uneven and exaggerated. If he seen another young man, he might nod and say, “’sup?” Or he might not. If it was an acquaintance, he might make an exaggerated greeting to show their “solidarity.” If he was with some of his “homies,” he might “mess” with somebody. He was alone though. He was trying to look tough so nobody would “mess” with him. He didn’t like cops. He had a son… somewhere. He lived with his mom, but wasn’t home a lot. He didn’t have a job right now.

Making others believe he was “bad,” was his job at the moment. If necessary, he would lash out violently in a preemptive strike. Intimidation was his greatest ally. The old lady coming the opposite way down the street, crossed to the other side before she reached him. Intimidating an old lady wasn’t very gratifying today though.


He noticed the young men in the park, walking their pitbulls. That was cool. He would like a pitbull too. It helps to make you look tough if you have a pitbull on a chain. It also helps if you have a gun. He had one hidden in his underwear drawer. If he needed it, he could go and get it. If all else failed, shooting someone would certainly prove that he was the baddest of the bad.

He wore a coat, even though it wasn’t cold. All the “gangsta’s wore coats. It was good to wear the hood too. Who or what was hidden inside the coat always made one appear more intimidating. That was important. He continued on, walking down the street; holding up his baggy pants.

-K