A GROUP OF YOUNG KIDS sat on an abandoned row house stoop on 45th Street and Aspen Avenue, exhausted after playing a game of tag. As they chilled, they began to crack jokes on each other. They quickly went from jokes about each other to mother insults.

“… Ya mother loved Skippy peanut butter so much she skipped school,” one boy cracked.

“Ya mother’s so nasty,” another commented, “she puts ice in her draws to keep da crabs fresh.”

Back and forth they went exchanging insult for insult, much to the delight of the onlookers. They laughed up a storm at these vulgar jokes. But one boy in particular, Kat’s son, Eric, laughed a little too hard and a little too long, for one kid’s liking.

“What you laughin’ at, Eric?” the kid asked, taking offense. “It wasn’t dat motherfuckin’ funny, nigga!”

Doubled over in laughter, Eric tried to ignore him but the kid put a strong enough emphasis on his statement that it was like he was calling him out. “Nigga, what da fuck iz so funny?” he asked again. “I know you ain’t laughin’? At least my mother ain’t no fuckin’ stripper! Dat’s how she got dat fat-ass truck. And how you get ya gear. Ya mother shows her ass, all fuckin’ night. Now, nigga, how ya like dat? Let’s see if you find dat so funny.”

“Shut da fuck up, nigga!” Eric demanded. “You don’t know what da fuck you talkin’ ’bout. My mother ain’t no stripper. You betta take dat back.”

The boy laughed. “Yeah, right! Sure she ain’t … I ain’t takin’ nuttin’ back! It’s true, whether you know it or not. Nigga, da joke’s on you …”

“Take dat back!” Eric insisted again. “Stop lyin’ on my mother.”

The boy continued, “Why you don’t live wit ya mother? Huh? How come she only comes ta visit but never stays over? … Cause she can’t! She works in da strip club at night. E’rybody knows too, my big brother told me …”

Eric’s eyes were watering as his temper was rising. He spoke with his fists. He pummeled the boy to the ground.

“Don’t talk about my mother like dat! Take it back! Nigga! Take it back! …” Eric ordered him, as he connected with punch after punch. It happened so fast the other kids barely had time to react. Seeing that the fight was one-sided they quickly broke it up, not wanting to see a fight among friends.

NICOLE CARTER, affectionately known as Ms. Nicky, was presiding over one of her weekend marathon card games. All night long, she and her girlfriends drank hard liquor, chain-smoked cigarettes, traded insults and stayed at each other’s throats over small amounts of money wagered. It was as much of a social event as it was a card game.