# NYC GOONS: THE UNTOLD STREETS

Yo, these streets is wicked, straight wicked on the mean side, mean streets. The other guard on one ready to kick you safely. The police saying they got reason to believe that deadly explosion and fire that went down in Queens wasn't no accident, feel me? Word is the attacks might've been more than just some random acts of violence—these was signals sent loud and grimy to Fat Cat that he wasn't running with the top dogs no more. At least that's what Richard Papano from the Queens District Attorney's Office was suggesting. That statement set the whole stage for a wild, chaotic narrative that unfolded after the firebombing of Fat Cat Nichols' family crib. The aftermath? Pure devastation, yo. Not just burned up property but lives scorched and scarred, for real. Fat Cat's 50-year-old sister Marie, bedridden from an illness, she ain't make it. Her son got torched too, barely holding on. The firebomb barely spared any family members, including his moms, who was seriously injured. The May 20th, 1988 edition of The New York Times wasn't sugarcoating nothing. These attacks showed the new generation of drug lords wasn't just trying to make a name for themselves—they was sending a message loud and grimy. The chaos might've been about taking over Fat Cat's territory, Captain Mads from the Queens Narcotic Squad said, but it was bigger than that. This was a statement, almost a year to the day from a message previously sent from a notorious Brooklyn gangster named King Aula.

Before I speak on the bad blood between the two heavyweights, you gotta understand where Kelvin King Aula Dove came from and what he stood for. So for the people that don't know, what is the five percent? The five percent nation of Islam is a division of the nation of Islam that was created by the father, Clam, and 13-X. So he used to be a Muslim, used to be a part of the nation of Islam. He was one of the head generals of the Fruit of Islam, which is Muslim security at the time. And this is back in like the 1930s and the 19th, 1930s, 1935, 1934 time frame and all that. And he goes inside the city. So I'm sure 35 percent of the people in the world, five percent here is to put their real righteous brother, very righteous, supposedly. The parents in a very near future, when they see themselves not fit to educate and qualify their children, will come and recommend them to be a five percenter and the children get a duty job to teach the parents to be civilized people because the world is uncivilized and these are our works, our children and all come in the name of our love with this supreme being name.

Based on how the streets see it, some people might label the five percent nation as a black power movement or even a gang, especially with the way cats like King Allah and other members moved. A lot of that perception probably comes from the fact that the five percenters had the strongest ties behind the wall. A lot of dudes found their knowledge of self while locked up. And for them, when they hit the streets, it was still the same cold game out there. Before bloods and crips really took over New York, the five percenters was already making noise. Back then, when Spanish gangs like the Latin Kings and the Netas were running the jails, dudes got down with the five percent nation for protection. At that time, you know, I look at nowadays and you got the bloods, crips in New York and it's like, when I was growing up, like you couldn't sell drugs in front of old people. Like you had to have respect and that was all from the five percent nation of Islam, because, you know, oh shit, I never did that before. It was because like, it was a righteous standpoint. So when we started and then we went to jail, it was like, it was a whole bunch of five percent influence. There wasn't no gang members and things like that. So you would have to be tough, but then you would have to know your lessons. You would have to know your math, the math, you have to know what you were talking about. On the outside, they might not have had the numbers, but in the system, the five percenters were deep. That was their way of holding their own in a world that wasn't built for them.

Some cats say Fat Cat and King Ola first crossed paths back in Harlem during the 1960s. With Fat Cat being one of the founding members of the legendary Seven Crowns, it's not hard to believe. Exactly what sparked the beef ain't clear, but with King Ola being five years older, he probably saw Fat Cat as easy prey. Whatever the reason, by 1987, things had escalated big time. Even though Fat Cat was locked up by then, serving time from that raid on Big Max Deli where they found two guns and $180,000, it seemed like his problems were far from over. In fact, being locked up only made him a bigger target. Dudes was hungry, and Fat Cat had that kind of name that made you a target whether you were in jail or not.

Just a year before that violent war with King Ola, Fat Cat was already making moves. In 1986, he ordered two hits, one of them being the cold-blooded killing of Isaac Baldwin. It wasn't just some random body either—it was a message to anyone stepping on his turf. And honestly, what Baldwin did to incite his death wasn't even as reckless as what King Ola would do just months later. Fast forward to 1991, when Fat Cat did his first interview with Vanity Fair. The writing was already on the wall. The article said there were signs Fat Cat's grip on the block was loosening. Despite all his brutality and reputation, Nichols couldn't avoid looking vulnerable from behind bars. A man like Fat Cat with that much clout and respect wouldn't have ever had to worry about someone kidnapping his wife. But sure enough, while he was locked up, it happened.

On May 22nd, 1987, right before Memorial Day weekend, Joanne Nichols was driving her black Mercedes to the store near their crib in Elmont. Some cats in an unmarked ride pulled up, flashed fake badges, told her she was wanted for questioning in her husband's parole officer's murder. Next thing she knew, they cuffed her and hauled her off like she was nothing. At that point, the men moved quickly, covering her eyes with surgical cotton and gauze, transferring her into a van. It wasn't until they were inside that they let her know—she wasn't dealing with some fake badge-wielding cops but straight up kidnappers. She'd later recall freaking out, throwing up from the stress of it all.

For two long days, they kept her blindfolded and shackled in some apartment in Brooklyn. She'd testify later at King Ola's trial that him and his goons had their threats. They talked about unleashing pit bulls that would maul her, take her breasts if the ransom wasn't paid. They wanted 10 kilos of coke, probably thinking Fat Cat couldn't go to the cops if they got what they asked for. That was the level of madness Fat Cat was dealing with. Fat Cat actually thought the kidnappers were the cops running some kind of sting operation, which tells you just how deep the paranoia and distrust ran.

King Ola and his crew didn't get the memo though. Soon enough, they figured out they weren't getting any drugs and instead of striking a deal, they dropped Joanne off for a ransom of $77,000 in cash, handed over at a White Castle in East New York. Luckily for Joanne and Fat Cat, but unfortunately for King Ola, Joanne's family was nearby and got the kidnappers' license plates before calling the cops. Two days later on May 24, 1987, Joanne was free and not too long after, on June 28, 1987, King Ola and two of his crew members got arrested in an apartment in Maryland. The Maryland PD acted on info from Nassau County and NYPD, locking them up on charges of conspiracy and kidnapping among other things. But the drama wasn't even close to slowing down.

Almost a year to the date of his wife Joanne's abduction, Fat Cat's sister, Mary Nichols, became the next victim of an absolutely devastating firebomb at their family's residence in Queens. The assailants would either firebomb the house and shoot it up while people tried to escape, or shoot it up first and then firebomb it while everyone was in chaos inside. Whatever the case, it was some straight up sinister ish. Not only did Fat Cat's 50-year-old sister Mary perish in the flames, but her young son was burned beyond recognition and Fat Cat's mother barely escaped with her life, her skin scorched and her lungs filled with smoke. The message was crystal clear—King Ola was coming for everything Fat Cat held dear, and he wasn't stopping until the streets knew who really owned these blocks.

The firebombing marked a turning point in the war between these two titans. Fat Cat, already facing multiple prison sentences, was now helpless to protect his family on the outside. The psychological warfare was worse than any physical attack could've been. Every member of his family became a target, every night a potential death sentence for the people closest to him. King Ola had succeeded in doing what bullets and blades couldn't do—he'd broken Fat Cat's spirit by attacking the one thing a street king could never defend while locked behind bars: his family.

But the streets don't forget, and neither do the goons. Fat Cat's name would echo through the prison system and the neighborhoods of New York for decades to come. King Ola got his prison time, served his years, but the legacy of these two figures and the era they represented became something way bigger than both of them combined. The NYC goons of the 1980s and early 1990s weren't just drug dealers or gangsters—they were products of a broken system, symbols of a generation that chose the streets over survival, and ultimately, cautionary tales written in blood and fire. The rivalry between Fat Cat Nichols and King Ola Dove represented the peak and the fall of street power in New York City, a reminder that no matter how much money you got, how many people you control, or how feared your name is, the game always extracts a price. Their legacy lives on in the streets, in the stories told in barbershops and corners, a dark chapter in New York's history that shows exactly how merciless the streets can be when power, ego, and desperation collide. These weren't heroes—they were monsters of their own making, and their war left scars on families and communities that never fully healed.