Part I

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

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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.