Brutha

I use this opportunity to slide Eric's draft closer to me. I drink, I think.

How's this to be decided, then?

The usual way. An issue of finances. You're a pretty high end prize, for once.

Yeah, well.

There are a lot of people lookin' for you. West End dogs, I-talians, our boys, I even heard a rumor about the Russians?

Ha, yeah, the russians. I almost forgot them.

I have to laugh at that, the Russians. Ha. They hardly count. A misstep with a climbing soldier's daughter. It's always someone's daughter.

You almost forgot the Russians? They haven't forgotten you, in fact, last I checked they're my highest bidders.

You're really gonna sell me, then? Your brother, your friend? Are we forgetting all those times I covered your scrawny paddy ass?

There's a moment of awkward silence here and I can feel the boys behind me reaching for their heat. I'm pretending not to sweat, it's all for show but a reps a rep and I've got mine.

Brother Eric. Do we remember?

Of course little bro. Of course

Here is the longest pause in my life.

Little bro? I can see you sweating. You've got the same tell you always have.

My fingers twitch, looking for Clarice's trigger, but she's not here. Neither of us move for the longest time, then Eric breaks one of his giant shit eating grins and laugh laugh laughs like the maniac he's always been.

Little bro, I'm only having a laugh. You're fine, you're safe, you're welcome here.

You little piece of shit, I hate you.

Don't forget to breathe. Have a drink. Let's talk.

The bar scene

in this town is lacking that certain sparkle it had when I was a kid. I'm meeting Eric on his turf. I haven't been safe here in years. Even with your best boy leading the gang there's only so much he can do to hold back the rabid pack of those who'd like to cash in on my bounty. There's no way to get around it, I'm not welcome in my hometown. Can't say I blame them.

Eric's already waiting when I trip into the bar. He's eying me over his glass of dark while his soldiers pat me down. They take Clarice. I'm not happy.

Eric, how's it been, brutha?
Not bad. Brother.
Fill me in then. What's the news on me?
Why should I know?
You know everything Eric.
You flattering dog. You haven't changed. How's Angel?
Who's Angel?
My ex. Your girl. Angel.
Oh. Right, right. I don't know. Haven't seen her around in, hell, months.
You bastard.
Yeah.

It's at this point I realize Eric's not in an informative mood. I'm wondering why he agreed to meet me if it's not to help me. I think I know.

Eric, are you gonna kill me now?
Kill you? No, brother, I'm not gonna kill you.
Who is?
That is yet to be decided.

The cut on the roof of your mouth

I've planned to meet with Eric, my associate from days and days back. Eric and I went to grades together, were practical brothers and learned the tricks of the trade side by side. Eric's one of those kids who fought and fought against the system. He runs it all now. Even though he has his rep to keep up, he's agreed to meet with me. It's been along time since the brother not brothers have sat together. Probably has something to do with his last girlfriend, hell, his last few girlfriends meeting me. The grapevines tell me there's a new one around. I don't think he'll introduce us.

This is what I'm thinking about while I'm grabbing my gun and cash and praying the fire escape will hold my weight. I'd take the front, but hotel management seems to be having difficulty settling their deal with the Wops. My head must be pretty expensive.

Eric, Eric is waiting.

Bleeding from the Gums

I keep a bowl at my bedside to spit in when I cough it up again. The blood, I mean. The point of this is that i don't have anything to spit in here. I'm in this shitty little dogtown hotel for a few days while I wait for some heat to die. Everything about the place screams Paddy-lice. I step out of the shower and my unwashed, threadbare towel smells like bad Italian food. This catches me off guard for two reasons. One, no one wants to smell old lasagna so early in the morning. Two, why would a Paddy fuck hotel towel smell like their arch enemy the I-talians? This is bad news for your anti-hero here. If the Pads and the Wops team up, my little game is over. I thought i'd be safe here.

I was wrong. Time to call in the team.

monologues

are more fun to write than one would think.

"You flinch back from me, as though my very hand would brand you.

Are these fingers poison then?

These lips drip lead in place of words,

This forked tongue curled behind serpent's fangs?

Is this what you see? It is him.

No doubt you're warned these tears are farce,

this pain a practiced melancholy.

He is a prophet foretelling the past,

a silly magician's parlor trick!

Go then,

before I further sear your flesh with these

all too filthy palms.

Remember though, I would sooner scratch

out mine own eyes, than put a single fleck

in the corner of yours.

This body is of no use to me now.

Blood does not boil and bubble

as the inexperienced will say,

rather, it flows in communion colored rivers.

Too much liquid for so small a vessel.

Streams of this from self opened arms will spell my innocence."