There was this guy, always half-naked like he was daring the block to say something. All nerves and sweat and attitude. All fight in him. You could smell the testosterone, I swear—like sweat, cigarettes, and bad decisions mixed together.

You ever hear somebody get called Pistachio Dick? Yeah. Welcome to Queens. Ho yay!

Antonio was like that with Dito—mean to everyone else, but around him? Forget it. Full guard up. Like he was protecting something he didn’t even know how to name. Two guys, both tough, both turning red whenever they got too close. Nobody said anything. Nobody had to.

And here’s the thing that kills me about Channing Tatum—this guy did nothing. Nothing. Just the right sperm hit the right egg and boom, whole fuckin’ world started orbiting him. Not my line. Some guy named Anonymous said it. But yeah. That’s how it went.