Dirty City

Striped to the nines these cats carry pig stickers animal kingdom death comes quicker shoeshine, no sunshine, grease ain’t slicker chalked out in lines lead bellies line mines outlaws make laws, break jaws drop jaws, buy cars, bank rob live like all-stars, a full-time job all-grime, an all-crime job a romantic era of terror splashy ink does injustice while they sidle Fords with Thompsons every John a Dillinger, every Romeo a Clyde everybody comes to terms with hunger and iron everybody comes to town either starry or steely eyed they leave or stay forever, never rich enough to justify why these are the streets they had to die on it ain’t pretty black eyed beauties and black tied beaus lies as easy as blood when the liquor flows guns and love and money, everybody knows it’s all business, question contracts and the details get gritty you can get in clean but you have to get your hands dirty in this city. A blues musician blew through the nightclubs with his sound the rhythm of struggle, poetry and soul come alive one with his voice, his guitar, singing of how he strived to make it to the bright lights, he thought it was a miracle he survived songs of Southland and heartache, the sounds of a segregated culture thriving above ground what scratch he could collect he would make if he had to play until he broke his guitar’s neck wise enough to only accept cash up front, no checks he was not ashamed of a spotlight a bluesman can’t be afraid he tore down the house six nights and on Sunday he prayed when he heard his music on the radio, riffs and lyrics ripped and splayed the mournful soul, howling moon, woeful pontifications and rhythms all butchered onto a premier a darker, sadder set of eyes than he had ever seen fell back on him from his own rearview mirror outside of a studio, champagne bottles broken on his back for white rock and roll at some hour when the sun was too far to imagine rising he found himself peering over the edge of a darkness in his soul and the liberating relief was frightening, he wanted to force it to feel surprising a brown neck and a half ago he traded his first guitar, offered to sign it, too pawnbroker bought it off him for a bill or two, said “Why, who are you?” He swapped for a pistol under-the-counter and the bullets bought a couple bottles of liquid encouragement to help him think it through he drove out to the record label where the thief was lauded on the air sitting is his car with his last guitar, barrel scratching his head, parting his hair he was half-awake, about to leave when he saw four people walking out of there a quick release, trigger, clutch and gas, the conspirators who stole his soul collapsed, he drove into town to sell it back one piece at a time just as fast. Putty in palms men melt in her gaze Medusa couldn’t seduce a man as easily Penny flies with fancy and never stays she was the high school sweetheart, girl next door, to the star quarterback, to the class president, who fought viciously over her who were sidetracked brawling while she was romanced by promises of city life which swept her off the suburban sidewalk, and deposited her in a diner where a man would come to blows over her, promising to make her his wife she led men to collide with one another, they called her the Lucky Penny she loved the attention, flirtatious eye-batting and men being reduced to fools it was nothing shy of flattery, her chest felt empty without superficial value and what is a better showing of what you’re worth than what someone else is willing to do to someone else to keep you? She never really cared beyond the surface for any of them at all, until, of course, she was ensnared herself by becoming a moll Penny would only go steady with someone as beautiful as she was, this invited trouble to her diner, because a pretty-boy gangster oversaw collections in the area, just as handsome, just as clean every bit as petty as Penny, twice as angry, twice as spiteful, and twice as mean he carried a switchblade knife, a jackboot blade, he would love an excuse to cut ribbons out of skin he had the sharps in spades, sharp wits, looks, angles, and cuts, when they met Penny was already done in pretty boy promised her the moon, gave her a pad, he made sure she stayed living in the lap of luxury as long as it was his lap, and she’d never step out of line after the first time he got mad she was number three in a marriage, in over her head and scared for her life Penny, the apple of every man’s eye, a prisoner, mistress, and second to a mafia wife. Ruthless killers aren’t these snarling giants they’re scrawny, little, barbed wire, white men capable of extreme and unconscionable acts of violence you never see them until it’s too late for status quo, still water silence deeper though, you never know, a gun is just bamboo, a ball and black powder, light it your next-door neighbor could be the next news-maker, a headline teenager used to be you’d never know somebody got shot if they popped 911 on your personal pager the world isn’t spinning any faster, but these gray matters will age ya, I say, going postal isn’t even a clever turn of phrase yeah? Sunup in the city, Chicago typewriters were dogearing a page in history like firecrackers going off just before dawn, you could see them from a sky penthouse the locations of every execution, it wasn’t a mystery a plan went off without a hitch, an overtaking in the criminal industry you can say it, business is booming body-bags went out by the half dozen to a dozen spots, by noon sirens were still zooming out of precincts, hearses and coroners, ambulances and firetrucks, police too it wasn’t a warzone, it was a crime scene, every block everywhere, put tape around the whole county you could bring every citizen in as a witness, they’d probably all have a statement, it was anarchy, an entire organization was weeded out and killed, with efficient brutality, and get this, no payment offered up for a revenge bounty nobody retaliated, they were emasculated, eviscerated, devastated and decapitated, nobody knew who held the keys to the city, but we knew to revere the new monarchy and for months there was humidity so thick it made me sweat through my collar, an air of anxiety terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see… So, I’ll put a bomb in the mail, watch his face turn pale, stand outside the window make his wife a widow, I’m not settling for the ironic justice he doled out my life wasn’t nothing, but now it’s always something, ever since I sold my route a job in this town is a weapon in the wrong hands, if you work for good folks, you’ll be met with injust demands I delivered payroll for a law firm, took an armored van and stuck to plans making sure paralegals and secretaries and partners see their paychecks, private sector, shotgun overhead on the rack, nine-millimeter on my side, and rifle in the back same three to a car, I always drive, if you’re gonna hit us in broad daylight, it’s gotta be on Monday when we’re fully loaded, as we cross this bridge and you better promise we all stay alive I get my cut, a quarter million, a Judas’ fee to guarantee the financial security of my family and we’ll be packing live rounds if you think of double crossing me, for our own safety that day hits, we come across the bridge to a traffic stop I was sweating bullets, my partner rolled down the window to talk to the cop an accident ahead, then a sudden, deafening pop now I feel the adrenaline flood, my face is covered with my friend’s blood I’m kicking at the door, a ricochet bites my ear, I think my head is gone but even if I’m dead I’m still running for dear life, I’m going on I hear screaming, automatic gunfire, he’s shooting, taking them out with him, he’s dying, I’m ripping my uniform off and ducking out, half-blind, the lights get dim it’s days later, I’m contemplating the darkest things I’ve ever thought, outside a dirty cop’s residence I’ve barely eaten, I’ve barely thought of anything except tracking this heist crew down, and now I’m showing hesitance I’ve followed them since that day, I know this is it, they’re all inside, four bad men got rich and two good men died one coward allowed it to happen, I’m gripping my sidearm, they won’t strip me of my pride, I don’t need any evidence He kicks the door in, gun drawn on four men, their families just outside, seconds tick away, sweat drips, feet sway, chairs slide and casings clatter, he serves up an equalizer on a platter, that day it’s not a blue matter, it’s a blood splatter, eight dead, four thieves and three collateral, with a lone gunman at the heart of it all. Fisticuffs always calls up a type of fighter, former priors agents looking at delinquency like juvenile homes are boxing regency adopt a son, own a slave, train him to fight for his home and do it all legally coattail riding, meal ticket punching, a prizefighter raised from adolescence to do one thing as soon as he enters a ring, turn lights out, win a money bout, leave opponent with no recollections a colored boxer, killing competition in a record winning Olympic position never shies away from trouble he tucks his chin and takes it double always looking on the uppercuts, combinations break safes, open faces and break up guts a contender for a spot, he’s dreamt of this, he’d give everything he has now away for this shot it’s a chance at a chance, the only one he’s got he loves his foster father and his foster mother and it feels like they’ve worked to give him a lot sitting front row in reserved seats, while ten rounds pass, his brain rattles in his skull, while they eat popcorn and sit on their ass hands trembling in his gloves, slumped in the corner, cut the swelling eyes to let him see he is dying ninety seconds at a time, how long can he last? His masters don’t stand unless he falls, their love is slavery these gloves that keep his hands in fists are new cuffs, they contain him, set him free! He spits blood on the mouthguard, leaves his teeth on the mat, presses off on his knuckles and clears the ten count with the referee eyes like a monster, he finally snapped, and wore the leather out he proved his love was stronger than anyone and anything, by beating his opponent into a fatal coma, in twelve rounds, blood pooled at silent spectator’s feet, as he continued to swing it was an undercard they never forgot when he went back to prison and left it all in the ring. Terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see and for months I dreamt of what I saw that day with no lucidity I was locked down in the tragic relivings of a marred, scarred up, firebomb charred memory they look for the truth in their ink, why does that burden fall on me? All I am is all I could ever be! Dogged, damn tired, I put a cigarette out on my arm to see if I’m awake sometimes sometimes I do it to see if I’m alive, after bearing witness to fresh hell, in some crimes investigative journalism, my life’s work, it’s all dirt digging for one breathtaking coffin, until my lungs hurt it’s misery in a city of misgivings on loop for eternity they know no one can stomach the bottom; even the bottom falls out and the bowels and the guts spit up their disgust, the bile discussed their vile supremacy in doubt but the duty still lands in my lap and I carry it readily if wearily a good deed is unheard of, which is why the death of all factions all fractions of crime, all at one time, all one action done on a dime, is killing me I know there’s something more behind it all, that kind of slaughter would take an army where does it begin, who’s covering up, lying and playing pretend, where does one thread stop when another one ends? Am I standing in a web or a noose? Am I cutting through a conspiracy or am I cutting myself loose? I feel as if I’m suspended by my own suspicion! I am lost and I’ve been more directly involved, more focused on a mission! There are laughs in the walls of motels where I stay, when I take my pills and check out for the night they giggle “Have a nice day!” I’m sure of nothing, why do I know there must be foul play! The streetsweepers must have an agenda, they must profit in some way but they don’t come out of the woodwork to claim any coercion or pay any heroics or fame, if any figurehead stood behind them, that person stands at bay while I wait with bated breath, knowing one thing of murderers who achieve a getaway that they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death… Once an aging prima donna fell upon a spotlight with all the natural talent of the charismatic, valorous and gallant, a comet in the starlight she could sing and act and dance and grant wishes with magic if directed so so, she was a child when she graced stages with her presence every night crushing the pressure of performances that sink politicians by the sheer size she could captivate and entertain, dazzle, razzle, sizzle, and shock a crowd ahead of her time and curb and curtain, her cast and calling, producers she seemed to hypnotize evoking the ire of every other actress, singer, dancer and magic woman living loud she burst with color onto silver screens and took the world that was hers by any means, the masses she could mesmerize even in black in white they fell in love with the gaze of her baby blue eyes and the only thing to slow or stop this comet’s meteoric rise was time, she was too old for the parts they wanted every woman for, tapdancing and vaudeville, lounge singing and musicals, from the ivory tower to the first floor, an aging prima donna, who would never want to play a bit role or a fill a hole well, she was a goner she wanted to trailblaze, turn these old ways into new days and she only needed new opportunities, a chance to shine in her advanced age for the elderly actress desired to perfect an archetype in drama, beginning with one screenplay page she wrote herself a major part, around the central cast, so the young talent could shine in the brighter lights, while she would create a legacy to outlast and they look for her today in her films and wonder what changed to make it so, that the energetic and happy woman lost all her glow, to go and wither into shadows where she would play the crone and cantankerous, conniving, lonely gypsy or old widow. In a new era, a new form, the prizefighter came back, weathered the case five to ten years off the prime of his career militant Islamic conversion in the joint, scowl permanently on his face disowned his adopted home, disemboweled his circle to scorch earth for some personal space and worked harder to prove he deserved to earn the boxing commission’s good grace got his boots back on, never out of shape, kept them laced older and slower, but stronger than ever, a lifestyle change is a new pace he met a new agent, a man with his true interests at heart, cross it and hope he’s representing the same faith, referral by a cellmate, representing the same race he’s educated and well-dressed, his lawyers got lawyers who all send money upriver so why would he ever sell a fighter downstream? He’s all about one color, one power the power is cash and the color is green! He’s selling prizefighting like a butcher sells liver looking at his prime killer like he’s working by the hour, like the man has never been here he’s lost speed, gained mass, sore in the bones from time’s past and passed in the joint, he’s one night away from an official anoint- meant, appointment with the king, a racial salesman who takes advantage of the divide to provide a talking point with his melanin when he doesn’t care, he doesn’t even see people before him as more than cattle or less than human and with every victory he’s seeing clear, the field he’s standing in is tall grass he’s struggling to see the path he walked in on, but he’s got to keep burning through the gas promotion, fight, rounds of blood and sweat, hand held high, interview gab, it’s not over yet locker room politics, agents and deals, brands and lawyers and contracts, contacts, pagers and producers, politicians and televisions and business meals he’s got a clear role on only one side of things, that’s why he lets the bird out of the cage because money talks and sometimes bullshit sings but when it comes down to trimming the fat, he earns his living in training and between the ropes in how he lives and how he wins when he swings and he goes out with a record of sixty fights with eight losses and no contest, one of the most controversial champs to duke it out in those rings. That they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death I swear to fucking God I’m being followed ever since I left the last spot, it’s like the city knows I’ve been holding my breath it started choking me, hands wrapped around my neck, I’m cut off from my office I can’t even cash a field check, I left my kids in the separation, this story is it, I don’t have nothing left I’m chasing lights where there’s only flickering projectors, looking for the big picture at the point of origin it’s never going to reveal itself to me, I hear the voices of professors trampling my voice again the streets don’t just open up and take every killer, thief and rapist back, every assault charge and corrupt landlord, cop, lawyer and councilman all the big fish swam away after the attack, like rats on a sinking barge, it’s their word full stop, against the everyman but if the system breaks down at the point of their cogs, the people who do their dirty work, and witnesses all suddenly outnumber them with righteous indignation, armed and willing to catch a case then… Who’s going to be left to clean up after that? Three days, five days, eight, fully awake with the full realization, a health hazard with walls where I sat the story of the century in my lap, I looked like warm crap, like something the buildings and streets formed teeth to chew up in their maw and back out they spat figures not even the bones of this old gal would like the flavor of an emissary to the truth I rattled my fist to the ceiling on the ninth day, kicked a rat of my mattress, pulled the story off my typewriter, and muttered “Let’s see how they like that!” for the first time I saw daylight, I saw a kid standing outside waiting to rob me, hand in his pocket, he cocked a hammer and told me to drop it, I stood frozen, sure everything was true if they were waiting to stop it going through the presses, I was ready to die when an old man came by, chased him off with a cane and yelled “Stop it!” this boy dropped two rocks he clicked together to make a gun noise in his coat and ran, I was stunned and I just studied the face and thanked God for the old man I interviewed him, a source for my civilian militia, and next week I was in a real bed in my apartment when they ran the issue. Many months ago, something crazy happened, our family had a tight net over the whole city then it snapped and lieutenants, enforcers, soldiers all turned on each other on the orders of opposing captains we turned to our cops, sergeants and detectives, turns out their own were capped before then cops were tied up with corruption and a lone gunman who hit their families and crossfire killed three kids, four men, rich thieves died poor men, every single lawyer and city politician at that time was locked up with all eyes on the boxing commission and a homicide spree tied to a fuckin’ blues musician it was like all the focus left and they let clowns just step in, meanwhile we were undermined by our own kind, greedy backstabbers and they cost us the whole operation, cannibal rats, growing fat off our own hind end in the confusion every two-bit hood and crook, every able-bodied gun and bookie, every veteran and rookie, all the way from the bottom to the Consigliere got took, I found the underboss hanging on to evidence that shut the Don out of the state from a firebombed butcher’s shop in the back by a meat hook, bullet riddled legs limp and falling off, a dozen dead thugs by a card game in the back, plates with cold steak and scrambled eggs papers ran facts on the carnage, questioned the anarchy, only one washout journalist tried to explain he must have racked his brain, put himself through so much pain, in a blind spot there was just another crime, on a scale that looked insane he said good people were out there, outnumbering the bad that no matter the hard times, those breed helping hands from survivors who know what they’re like, because they see you having the same day they’ve had his words were in print, but I felt them reaching out and the fingertips fell short of the grasp he was a man drowning in senseless slaughter, coming up for air and that was what he saw in a gasp I know they need hope, but they don’t know it like I do, it’s the environment that breeds the opportunity, otherwise we would never get away with what we do people don’t make the city clean you know what I mean there’s a system, they operate it, a monolithic, twisted, broken glass jaw of a weaker species that spits spiteful and sick shit, it’s full of hatred, eyes red, bureaucrats that cripple cats to see them land on their backs, it only speaks the language of violent acts so it only understands you if you attack, everything in the string-pullers is the least of actual humanity, it’s forsaken because they are the most of what a person lacks, and we answer to their highest calling it’s brass tacks, it’s a blood tax, it’s a wish come true light the candle at both ends and wait until there’s no more wax, the city isn’t dirty, it was built by us, it wasn’t perfect when we got here, but we damn sure broke her trust, you either live the life you want or you die how you must.

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Written by

Evilhappy

28 / M / Texas

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