She was the leader of the RRK (radical racist killer)an organization founded to get rid of all racist individuals in the present day, by harsh elimination and the blanket fear the world had, everyone who worked for her was terrified of her, being black she experienced everything first hand, and knew the sufferings she endured, she had to give back. She kept one pet on her hand at all times, Ren, the prettiest mix of Asian, black and Slavic heritage, beautiful Asian features with a natural platinum blond afro, lashes, brows and any other part that grew hair, he was the only thing that did not cause her to blow.
The kpop industry was insane to the public, harsh training, strict schedules,impossible routines, but the cherry on top was what went on behind the scenes, absolute carnage, your favorite idol was probably the meanest person alive and had probably fucked all their members, they fucked like rabbits, during collabs, in dorms, after award shows, anywhere and they would beef right after, it was an unspoken competition to see who fucked the most idols, the iceberg went deep
You learn that when he comes home at 4 in the morning and sits on the edge of the bathtub fully dressed and stares at the towel for 20 minutes, the correct thing is not to speak. The correct thing is to run the water. Hand him the towel. Go back to bed. You learn that he sleeps with a gun under the mattress and that this is not a metaphor and that after the second month,You stop noticing it is there and that the day you stop noticing is a day you should have noticed. You learn how to make tea the way his grandmother made it. You learn how to love a man in a language he will never let you read. One night in October you come out of the bedroom because you heard a sound and there is a man on the living room floor. He is not dead. He is crying. His face is wrong. One side of it is wrong. And Victor is crouched in front of him speaking Russian very softly and the man is nodding and nodding and nodding. Victor sees you. His face does not change.He holds up one finger. Go back. You go back. In the morning, the living room is clean. The rug is different, newer, paler. There is coffee. There are fresh flowers and a glass on the counter that were not there the day before. He asks you what you want for breakfast. You say, eggs. He makes you eggs. He slides the plate across the counter and he looks at you. And for one half second, there is a question in his eyes. And the question is, are you still here? And you pick up the fork and you are still there. You never speak about the living room, not for the rest of your life. He starts to talk on the very quiet night about a house in Montenegro, aa small house, white walls, a lemon tree in the yard, a view of the Adriatic that you can only see if you stand on the second step of the outside staircase. He describes it the way a child describes the moon. He says, "Maybe one day," he says, "if I'm still here." He does not say what here means.You start to dream about the house. You sketch the kitchen on the back of a diner receipt one Sunday afternoon, where you put the table, which wall you'd paint, where the cat would sleep. He folds the receipt carefully and puts it in his wallet. He does not mention it again. But six months later, when you need a business card and he hands you his wallet, the receipt is still there, worn soft at the creases, carried like a photograph, like proof.It ends on a Tuesday in February. He tells you very calmly over breakfast that you are going to visit your mother in Ohio for two weeks. You say, my mother lives in New Jersey. He says, she is in Ohio now. I have moved her. Sure, she is safe. The ticket is on the counter. The car is downstairs. You leave in three hours.You say, "What is happening?" He says, "Nothing. Please go." And you see in his face that this is the first time in his entire life he has ever used the word "please" and meant it. You go. You don't pack. He packs for you. In the hallway, before you leave, he holds your face in both hands for a long time without kissing you. He presses his forehead to yours and he breathes. And you breathe. And he says something in Russian you don't understand and he will not translate and he will never translate. Then he opens the door. Three days later, your phone rings from a number that has no name. It rings once. It stops. You understand?You do not turn on the news. You do not need to. When you come back to New York two weeks later, your key still fits the door of his apartment. But the apartment is empty. The gun is gone. The clothes are gone. The receipt with the kitchen drawn on it is gone. In the middle of the living room floor, there is one envelope with your name spelled the way only he spelled it. With the Russian K. And inside is enough money to pay for community college three times. And a key on a plain iron ring and a single slip of paper with an address on it. A village in Montenegro. No note. No goodbye. No promise.No, no. You sit on the floor of the empty apartment for a long time and you do not cry because you have already understood for weeks that this was coming. And the thing you feel is not grief exactly. It is something older than grief. It is the feeling of a door closing behind you on a room you did not know you had been standing in.
The Crips and the Bloods, two majority-Black street gangs founded in Los Angeles, have been in a gang war since around 1971.[12][13] It has mostly taken place in Los Angeles and also other major American cities, but has presence in Australia, Belize, Canada, the Netherlands, New Zealand, and the United Kingdom as well. The war is made up of small, local conflicts between the two gangs' chapters, or "sets". n the 1970s, a wide variety of socio-economic issues in South Central Los Angeles led to the emergence of gangs like the Crips, who claimed city territory and guarded it from other gangs. The Bloods formed to counter Crip influence. Both groups started extorting money from local businesses, and distributing crack cocaine. In the 1980s, the war reached other countries. By then, the gangs' members often identified themselves using clothing colored blue for Crips, and red for Bloods. Those wearing a gang's colors in an opposing gang's territory were often targets of violence; this trend had declined by 2014.