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.