This is a Damijin Spade story, but the infamous Snypa is not the main protagonist.

I looked in the mirror after stepping out of the shower. The bruise on my jaw was going away. That's good. I went to my room and pulled out a pair of ironed jeans and a black T-shirt that said "Vigilantism Is Not A Crime!" that hung on my wall and put them on. Another day of the hell called high school where motherfuckers were every incarnation of Satan himself. Shit. I just wish senior year would hurry up and come. Two years from now until I get my diploma.

My name is Torrance and I'm the son of two of America's most dangerous and wanted criminals. Well, they're not criminals, but heroes. They've helped people and saved cities many times over, so why label them as criminals even if they've racked up an impressive-ass body count? Well, they're anti-heroes.

My mother is what some men would call a femme fatale. She's popular with all the guys...well, even guys who hit on her after committing unspeakable atrocities to other women and end up suffering from blunt force trauma and multiple stab and slash wounds. Her name is Rose. Ironic name, isn't it? But the name "Black Rose" isn't.

My pops is legendary. Wanted for over 10,000 murders of various criminals. Fuck if I can't say that's bad-ass. You'd know my old man if you see him. Ain't no way someone can miss a nigga that big who rocks more black than a goth and got more heat than the Saharan Desert. If you haven't figured it out, my old man is Damijin Spade. I've only seen him once and that was about three years ago when he saved me from a bunch of "thugs" who wanted to jack me for my chain and watch. I took pleasure in watching him torture those fucks to death using needle-like objects. Then he left as quick as he came.

When I told my Granddaddy Tom, he slapped the taste out of my mouth and told me to stay away from my father. Well, my grandpa and my old man beefed because they was on opposite sides of the law. Granddaddy was a United States Marshal who hated vigilantes, but couldn't find himself to hate Moms because she was his daughter. My grandfather is Thomas Crawford. He's locked up my old man twice and on both occasions, he escaped. What my grandpa didn't know is that for three years under my father, I managed to master black belt-levels of three different martial arts and learn five out of 18 of what's called the Ninja Juhakkei despite Grandpa Tom not wanting me to fight. What I learned was the art of spiritual refinement, the art of blade-throwing, the art of stick fighting, the art of hand-to-hand combat, and the art of stealth. However, my father left with these words:

"I taught you this to have something to remember your father by. I expect you not to follow in my footsteps."

In short, my full name is Torrance William Spade. My middle name is honor of Grandpa Tom's FBI partner and best friend, William Rustle. Also, my parents' "occupations" is why I live with my grandparents, my aunt Abigail, and my uncle Jack. Jack's two years older than me and I get the feeling he hates me because I'm the son of the Snypa. Abby's in college. She's a grad student going to Texas A & M for nursing.

I was dressing out for my Weight Training class when I felt a basketball strike me in the back. I turned around and saw a guy looking at me.

"Bitch-ass nigga, what the fuck you looking at?"

I smiled and picked up the ball.

"Throw that at me and I'll buck your ass."

Big tough guy. Dish it out, but can't take it. Another guy was with him. Both of them were black. One had braids, the other had dreads. Jerome and Cornelious. If I had a criminal file for everyone at my school, I could tell you what's up. These two guys are alleged "gang" members and both sell and smoke pot. They were nothing to pay attention to. They were the classic "class clowns."

"Hey, homie...we gotta know," said Jerome. "What's it like being the son of a celebrity?"

I could spot sarcasm a mile away. Very few people knew who I was and my relation to the Snypa and the Black Rose. It was unfortunate that these future convicts knew that.

"It's no big deal," I said and walked away.

I was bench-pressing some weights. About 140 pounds. My classmate Taylor was spotting me. He was extremely tall and played basketball. Only white boy on the team. He finished spotting me after about 15 reps. Jerome and Cornelious came toward me. I never talked to these guys, so they should get a life.

Recently, these two were involved in a mass fight in the locker room. It went from a one-on-one with Jerome against some guy about 50 pounds smaller than him to a mugging. Even this big guy about 400 pounds got involved. This was the day when mini-riots broke out in the school. So many fights took place that the alternative school that students go when on long-term suspension was filled and their principals either didn't bother with suspending them or just didn't care.

I ignored them as I spotted Taylor. I finished spotting them to go work my legs when the two idiots blocked my path. What is it with these niggas, man? I sighed.

"The hell you want from me? To tell my old man to get off your case?" I snapped. "Sorry, I don't see him. Ever!"

Of course, I had a feeling I'd regret those smart-aleck words. When class was over, Jerome was waiting for me at my locker. I said nothing to him.

"Out my way, man," I said.

He shoved me.

"Who you talkin' to, nigga? You don't know who I am?"