Back when every nigger on every corner was a straight up addict, and people would do anything for there next fix. Back when all those niggers were addicted to Craft-Cocktails... It wasn't always like that though. But in the 70s and early 80s, niggas started to get a taste for the soft stuff. You know, maybe a Martini there, and a Tom Collins here. Stuff that could maybe pep up your Friday night, but you weren't about to ruin your life and take out your life savings drinking that shit. But then the CIA got word, and they needed money to fund the Iran-Contra scandal. So they decided to introduce real Craft-Cocktails to the hood. Started importing small-batch gin and obscure Italian Amaros to the hood, to help them launder money. Suddenly, everyday black folks had access to something stronger, more potent, something they hadn't had before. Once niggas got a taste of the Boulevardiers, they couldn't go back to weak ass martinis. They needed something special, something individually crafted, a cocktail with a real story behind it. Soon the local gangs took over distribution. Crowds of hoodlums would stand out on the corners, day and night, hollering at passers by, trying to sell to anyone looking for a taste of that classy life. >"Got that small batch shit yo, Small Batch!" >"Yo nigga, you want some of dat copper kettle distilled shit?" >"Barrel-aged Gin! Got juniper and vanilla on the nose! Perfect for a negroni, my negro!" The crew that ran my 'hood was the *Poplar Street Gin Boys*, and they were untouchable. Rough as fuck, running around with gunz blazing and corks popping, they dressed in baggy tuxedos with glocks tucked into their cummerbunds in case any shit went down. But they took care of us, and defended us from the outside gangs. One time, the local Mexican gang, *Los Jimadores*, tried selling some low level cocktails to kids outside the elementary school. Real fucked up shit, they tried to get those kids started on craft Cocktails by giving them Strawberry Margaritas and Banana Daiquiris, turning the youth into cocktail-heads too young. Not only were they encroaching on the *Gin Boys'* territory, but they were also getting some of their younger brothers and cousins tasting shit too young. So they rolled up on the *Jimadores* hideout real late at night, and dumped over-proofed spiced rum all over the front door, and lit a match. Niggaz was hiding out in the back alley, too, so when the spics tried to escape, they all got stabbed with corkscrews, right in the eye. A few people died that night, but *The Gin Boys* celebrated that night, drinking on the corner, occasionally pouring a dry Martini on the sidewalk for their fallen homies. But some people were hit hard. I remember walking by the traintracks when I passed by a real grimey cocktail-head with a butane torch and a block of cedar wood. Nigger was trying to smoke some bourbon for a Boulevardier! "Imparts a real subtle smokey flavor to the bourbon, almost make it taste like scotch! I'll suck your dick for a gimlet!" And don't get me started on the abandoned houses that they turned into speakeasies. Burnt out shells, mostly, and some of them didn't even have dress codes. Niggers would stride in without wearing a tie, or even a jacket, sometimes. Some didn't even care if you were wearing dress shoes or not. Addicts were sharing dirty cocktail shakers, passing around used muddlers, not chilling martini glasses properly before serving. Fucked up times. But I learned a lot, not gonna lie. Made me the bartender I am today.