Part III

You will never know what the inside of my apartment looks like.

Part II

 I was a loaded fucking gun. I didn’t fire though. I didn’t need to. He staggered out half drunk and half covered in his own piss, which left this remarkable smell of vodka and raw sewage lingering in the air around him. I could almost see it; like a shit-cloud that this asshole must’ve spent the last ten years in. His blank stare was fixed on something behind me, but I didn’t care enough to find out if there was someone there or if he was just damn good. I could have matched the fuckhead with my knife drawn, but he had a solid three fingers on me, and a good foot and a half’s worth of striking distance. I decided not to. Instead I stood him off, waiting for the genius to wrap his head around the situation. He didn’t seem to manage too well. His pale eyes darted off behind me again. No one was there. I didn’t look, but no drunk is that light on their feet. His eyes narrowed slowly and the whites disappeared. I took my out and ran with it, leveling him with a swift kick to the chest. I don’t particularly like violence. In fact I only carry a knife as a scare tactic. But I’ve gotten better. I used to carry a 10” lead pipe on me to account for my lack of height. Truth is I’ve learned to get by without having to fight. I’m no pacifist, not by any means, but if you put me up against any sober human being, odds are I’m not coming out on top. So I avoid the fight, most of the time. This was not one of those times. He hit the ground like flight 800 hit the runway. His face was still intact though; still had all his teeth. I turned his head with my shoe so that he was facing my ankles, and thought about it. He was shaking the same way I shake when I need my fix and know I can’t get it. But his unzipped pants reminded me that I was short on compassion; ran out when the skag addict on the train died. His eyes darted back and forth, like he had just woken up and realized that he was two blocks away from the last place he had passed out. I didn’t kick his teeth in. Instead I moved my foot over his proverbial knife and let my weight down. He hardly made a sound, so I kicked him awake, and dragged myself across the street to the front of my apartment. I finished my smoke – you, cautious reader, need to know that I smoke quite often. And while I will go out of my way to mention it every now and again, I don’t want you to feel like I owe you a goddamned thing. If I “toss” or “stub” one out then it’s because I didn’t mention that I lit it. Don’t get hung up on that – and flicked it into the street, a good fifteen feet from me. I used to think that they should hold Cigarette Flicking Competitions, ‘cause I was sure I would win. But then again I used to believe in Santa, ride a skateboard and get laid. A lot of things change.

Part I

I was a loaded gun. The city was filled with shit-eating deadbeats, but I was a loaded fucking gun

* * *

I rarely make it back home without the scum of New York making a pass at me. I'll rephrase that for the cautious readers: I never make it home without drawing a look or two. If I ever do, though, I'd imagine it won't feel right. 

Some poor fucking junkie was passed out at the end of the subway car. It was the first hint that the ride home would be rough. I let it pass though, and thought little of it. The car wasn't empty. A loud group of puerto ricans or cubans, or some other minority I constantly stereotype, was making enough noise to let me slide under the radar. The ride home  was safe. I still clenched my knife in my pocket. 

96th street used to be a breeding ground for addicts and users alike. The city changes though. Now it's an all night lounge for the sick fucks looking to pick up the freshest piece of meet they can find. Of course, I have to live at the end of the "long, dark" block. Right out of a god damned horror movie, before Giuliani, that is. But even he couldn't cleanse New York of the maggots and leeches that still scored off the working class. The train station on Broadway was packed. They had shut down an entire platform and condensed train traffic because my tax dollars let them do what they want. I shuffled through the lifeless crowd, trading my knife for a smoke. Oh, some half passed out stiff sitting on the platform bench tucked his foot in so I could get by. That really threw me off. The street was quiet. There are no bars in my neighborhood which only means two things: if people are being loud you should probably run, and late night train rides are something I'm used to. There wasn't much to take note of, but that's never a reason to stop me. I made my way to Amsterdam and threw a quick glance behind me to see if someone was throwing one back. Nothing. I was a loaded gun. The couple across the street had no idea that the city was happening around them. They were walking loud enough so that I didn't have to worry about them. The traffic was accounted for, and the bus that had just pulled in made a nice makeshift streetlight. I kept walking. There are few times my gut shoots its load right into my bowels, but there are fewer times its wrong. Something wasn't right, but there was no one behind me. I took my hat off anyway. The dumbest fucks wear hoods at night. It wards off most attention, but the attention they'll never see coming is the kind that couldn't give two rat shits if you see them coming. So I took my hat off. The end of the block was maybe thirty feet away, but so was the corner, which I could not see around. I go through extensive lengths to make my presence known. While the assholes in hoods will disagree, this is to my advantage, especially when the building on the corner isn't made of glass. I walked heavily on my feet, and swung about ten feet wide, just to find the fresh flesh hunter himself stagger out of the dark with his knife in his hand and his chalky dick in the other. I was a loaded fucking gun, and this scumbag was my excuse to fire.