All I can do is sit down and ponder on the death dance that was initiated. A cold-blooded killer against a reformed killer, or so he thinks. In his eyes, I’ve grown soft, because I chose a different path. My thoughts drift to a chess game between me and Mzee. “Street partners become open enemies when you walk a path of black love. Checkmate!” he stated. I had to look at the board then paid my debt, a Butterfinger. He broke it in half to give it to me—he always shared. “See, our people been boxed into a certain way of thinking, from the Negros to the gangsters. It is easy to follow what is presented as the American dream. Who really analyzes the philosophy behind it? What does a slave gain from eating off the master’s table?” Mzee sagely laid out. “An unsatisfied hunger,” I added. “Your friends can only remain friends if your interests are the same. When they change…” His expression resonated the finality of what wasn’t said.