Cigarettes & Mirrors - Chapter Six

My eyes snap open with the sound of the alarm tone blaring from my phone. I roll over and shut it off. 11:30. It’s time. I grin as I roll myself off of the broken bed and pop my bones. I feel much more rested now after my nap. I do a few quick exercises to get my blood going again. Jumping jacks, sit ups, pushups, jogging in place. That’s more like it. I can feel a sheen of sweat on my face as I jump up and down. The blood is rushing through my body, my heart pounding. I make sure my muscles are loose and relaxed. 

I dress quickly and step into my bathroom, flicking the light switch. The fluorescent monster roars and stabs into my eyeballs, dazzling me as it often does. I take a bottle of amphetamine capsules and a bottle of propranolol from the cabinet and down two of each with a gulp of water from the faucet. They will keep me alert, and hopefully not too twitchy. Twitchy is the absolute last thing I need to be on a night like this. On a job like this I need absolute focus. I walk out of my bathroom and into bedroom again, staring outside through the filthy venetians. I put my phone, keys, wallet, and Zippo back into my pockets. The slightly squashed pack of cigarettes goes into my jacket. I roll my shoulders one last time and look outside again. The city never really sleeps, but the people in Antonio’s neighborhood, the normal ones anyway, will be indoors and feeling safe behind their barred windows and triple dead-bolted doors.

Let’s do this.

I walk into the living room and out into the hallway, locking my door behind me and walking briskly down the hallway to the stairwell. There are many good things about amphetamines, but an unfortunate side effect is an increased sense of smell. Maybe I’m imagining it, or maybe it’s true, but this hallway really smells like thrice cooked cabbage and terrible sulfur farts. Eugh. I trip on the last stair and almost smack my head into the doorframe at street level. God damn this fucking building.

As I walk down the block to the parking deck, I can start to feel the amphetamines coursing into my system and caressing my central nervous system with its lovely tendrils. I love the feeling of an amphetamine high. Makes me feel fucking fantastic. I’m sure a few of you can relate, right? Of course you can. A blacked out police SUV rolls by and stops at the streetlight. I can’t see inside it, but I’m sure the thugs inside are watching me closely. I stop outside the parking deck and pull out a smoke, lighting it and flicking my Zippo closed. Exhaling a cloud of blue smoke, I shudder. Nicotine and amphetamine make for a nice combo. The light changes and the police SUV peels out from its dead stop, roaring down the street at 80 MPH in a matter of seconds.

I suck down half of the cigarette by the time I reach the second level of the parking deck. The teenager from earlier in the day isn’t there anymore, instead a heavyset black woman is inside the booth, reading a magazine by the looks of it. Dead end duty. I’d be bored stupid if I had to work that job. I take another hard drag of my cigarette and flick the rest onto the pavement as I come to my truck, parked just as I left it earlier. I hop in and turn the key, hearing the angry, throaty roar of the Hemi engine. I check the box behind my seat to make sure the grenades are still under the jacket where I left them. They are, thankfully.

I pull slowly out of the parking garage and into the street, driving carefully just under the speed limit. Antonio lives in the West Ward, known colloquially as the West Side, off South Orange Avenue. The projects. The marsh there stinks almost as bad as the stairwell in my fucking apartment. It only takes me a few minutes to get into the area. I park behind a closed down liquor store on the corner to hide my truck, and jump out, stuffing the grenades in my pockets. The liquor store is about 2 or 3 blocks from his house, roughly. I make sure to lock the doors of my truck, but that won’t stop some hood with a tire iron if he really wants into it. Most of the streetlights here have been broken or just burned out. Public Works doesn’t like to come down here, and I don’t blame them. But I’m about to perform a little neighborhood maintenance of my own.

I make my way through the alley a few blocks up the street, about 7 houses from Antonios. The entire street is a collection of crack dens and gang hideouts. The burned out hulks of brownstones dot the streets every few houses. There’s the stereotypical burning barrel surrounded by drunks or strung out addicts on the corner of South Orange and S. 19^th Avenue. I make my way past on the sidewalk, nodding to them. They pay me hardly more than a glance. I seem to have that effect on people. Or maybe they’re just hurting for a rock or a stamp, who knows. Antonios hangout is about 3 houses down from a BBQ joint on the corner. I can hear loud rock music and voices inside as I walk past the few people outside dragging on their cigarettes. They’ll draw a crowd when I make a move.

There it is. A stubby, filthy two story house in desperate need of a new coat of paint and a mown lawn, surrounded by overgrown bushes. I can smell the acrid, sickly sweet smell of crack even out here on the sidewalk. I creep into the yard slowly, keeping low so as not to be seen. Surprisingly, there’s no one sitting in the collection of chairs on the front porch, but I can see the lights on inside and can hear the heavy bass thump of trap music rattling the windows. I raise my head slowly and peer into the bottom of the front room window. Antonio and a few other people are sitting on a filthy brown couch each taking hits from a crack pipe, laughing and simultaneously drinking from the collection of liquor bottles on the coffee table. There’s a massive black guy with his back to the window in front of the stereo, on the other side of the room, doing some kind of dance move with an absolutely disgusting looking woman on his side. I grimace, imagining the stink of them all.

Time to cleanse this fucker.

I pull the White Phosphorous grenade from my pocket and slowly take the pin out, slipping it into my pocket. Best not to leave that evidence. I hold the spoon of the grenade to the side of it, and take a step back, winding up in a classic baseball stance and whipping the grenade directly through the plate glass window. It lands on the coffee table, but that’s the last thing I see before I run out of the yard onto the street. With a WHUMP noise and a loud whooshing, I can hear, feel, and see the room light up and fill with sparks and white smoke. I can hear them all screaming as the sparks rain down on them and melt through the skin. White phosphorous burns through just about anything and doesn’t stop until it’s deprived of oxygen. The smoke they’re inhaling is horribly toxic, scarring and burning through their respiratory systems. They’re literally burning inside and out. I grin as I pull the other grenade form my pocket, pulling the pin and throwing with all my strength. The grenade smashes through a second story window, presumably a bedroom, and goes off with another WHUMP sound followed by a loud whoosh and a flash of orange light. Within seconds I can see the living room is aflame and the thermite grenade has set the entire upstairs bedroom aflame. The combined effects of them both will have the house consumed by fire in minutes, and there won’t be anything left by the time the fire department responds. If they respond.

With a grin, I run back into the alleyway and slide into the shadows, watching the grenades do their work. The only thing that emerges from the house is a large plume of thick grey smoke. And the only thought in my mind, is...

We don’t need no water, let the motherfucker burn…

Cigarettes & Mirrors - Chapter Five

I already know who it is. I recognize that greasy voice anywhere. I turn around slowly, and of course who else is it but Antonio. He’s grinning at me with those nasty, crooked yellow teeth. He's got a dirty white bandage on his now crooked nose. He cracks his knuckles and looks me directly in the eyes. I shift my center of gravity preparing for a fight. I can see the murder in his eyes. The sound of a shotgun being racked makes him turn around. The clerk is aiming a worn out Remington shotgun directly at his head. “No trouble in my store! You get out, now you get out right now or I blow you!” he’s yelling in broken English. The whole thing would be pretty comical if he wasn’t aiming a gun at us. Antonio turns around and grins at me again, and spits at my feet. “Your lucky day mang, next time you won’t be so lucky.” Sure man, sure. He walks out of the store backwards, keeping his eyes on Arabian Nights behind the counter. The clerk doesn’t lower the shotgun until Antonio is out on the sidewalk. He turns to me, “You bring trouble in my store?” “Of course not sir, he’s obviously high.” I say, fishing a cigarette from the pack and placing it in my mouth. The clerk smiles grimly, showing his own crooked smile. “Good, I no want trouble here in store, you are understanding me?” he says. I nod, and turn back to the cooler. I select a six pack of Miller Genuine Draft, bringing it to the counter and paying with a crumpled ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change for the trouble my friend.” I say to him, turning to leave. I have to get home. He smirks and puts the money in the register, and gives me a jaunty wave with his thumb-less hand as I exit the building.

I look left and right as I step onto the broken sidewalk, making sure that greasy fucktard isn’t around. I don’t see him, maybe the shotgun gave him a case of the Hershey squirts. Hopefully, anyway. The wreckage of the Civic is still across the street, half on the curb and half on the street. People are starting to crowd around it. Someone had the good sense to reach in and take the dead woman’s head off of the horn, so we don’t have to fucking hear that anymore. I shake my head and light my cigarette that I had in my mouth, and quickly walk the few blocks north to my apartment building, drawing hard as I keep looking behind my shoulder. That cocksucker has me looking over my shoulder for fucks sake! Me! Looking over my shoulder like I’m some kind of mook. My face contorts with fury as I get to my apartment building. That asshole won’t make a fool out of me. He won’t live to see the dawn. As that one old guy in the suit commercials from years ago liked to say, “I guarantee it.” Even the ever present odor of cabbage and asshole that permeates the hall is lost on me as I fly up the stairs to my door.

I quickly unlock the door and step inside, slamming the door and locking it with haste. I set my beer in the fridge, taking a bottle out and snapping the top off on the counter. I chug half of it as I sit down on my couch, without even really thinking or tasting as the frothy bitter liquid gushes down my throat. I’m too lost into my hatred of that ghetto trash fucktard piece of shit. I slam the now empty bottle on the coffee table and stand up to stretch, working the kinks out of my back. I sit down and take my phone out to check the time, and notice that I have a message. Huh. 

Carla.

I arch an eyebrow as I open the message. Just the passive aggressive message I was expecting her to send me for how I was earlier. I scoff and toss the phone onto the coffee table. I’ll just give her Ivan the Terrible later, if there is a later. Ivan the Terrible is my cock, by the way. A sudden wave of realization washes over me. If I fuck up tonight, I may not live to see the dawn instead of Antonio the greasy cunt. No. There is no margin for error tonight. I will not fail in this. I slap myself a few times to get the blood rushing to my cheeks. It gets me angry again, but the Xanax that is still in my system keeps me sane. I focus and think better when I’m angry, unlike many people. It sharpens me. I stand up again and jump up and down a few times, doing a few jumping jacks to get my blood going. I roll my shoulders again and walk into my bedroom. 

I debate on wearing a mask tonight, but I’m not feeling THAT theatrical. I walk to my desk and take everything out of my pockets. I need an ice cold shower. It’ll wake me up and keep the nerves steady, along with the drugs and nicotine and everything else in my system right now. I walk into the dingy ass bathroom and peel my clothing off, and jump into the shower. I need a cold shower to bring my mind into sharper focus. The cold water feels like needles on my skin but it serves its purpose of washing the days grime off of me and helps center me. Never underestimate the power of a good, cold shower to help keep you alert and awake. You may not be able to get a hot shower in this bullshit building, but at least a cold shower is easy enough. I stumble out after a few minutes and stand there looking at my reflection in the mirror. I’m breathing heavily, the water rolling off of my face and body onto the towel. No matter what, I am always as pale as a piece of computer paper. I always look strung out or like I’m on a bender. Maybe I am strung out. Who the hell knows anymore? I don’t even recognize this gaunt motherfucker in the mirror. I look at the clock on the desk. The red digits glare at me like tail lights in a fog, 5:14. I want to wait until at least midnight to make a move.

I step into my bedroom and move back to my closet to set things out. Black jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and my black leather motorcycle jacket. Non-descript, and easy to blend into the shadows if I need to. Excellent. I set an alarm on my phone for 11:30 and lay on my bed. A nap will leave me rested for tonight. Shit, maybe I should have waited to shower until later. Oh well. As I drift away into Xanax fueled sleep, there’s only one thought in my mind.

Eat shit and die Antonio.

Cigarettes & Mirrors - Chapter Four

I turn into the parking garage with a squeal of the tires, and park my truck in the usual spot. I turn the truck off, and sit for a moment as I pull the next cigarette out and light it. I procured two US Army surplus grenades from the Russians, for the low, low price of $2000. Un fucking believable. One grenade is a standard Model 308-1 napalm grenade, and the other is an M15 White Phosphorous grenade. Nasty stuff. Ought to burn that cocksuckers house right to the ground, and take everyone in the house with it. The city could do with a few less cocksucking wannabe gangbanger types. I see another shadow out of the corner of my eye, and whip my head around to look. I don’t see anything. Fuck. I need something to clear out these god damned drugs addling my head. These shadows are starting to wig me out.

If the grenades in my truck were to detonate right now, the truck and my body would be turned into a melted pile of slag and ash. Thermite can melt through an engine block, and white phosphorous burns through skin like it was a match against paper. Burns right to the bone. I grin as I drag on my cigarette, thinking of the destruction, and hop out of the truck, locking it. It’s a risk to keep the materiel in the truck, but it’s a bigger risk trying to carry the shit down the street. People might get the wrong idea seeing a shifty looking bald headed dude in an army jacket carrying a few grenades. I look at the teenager manning the parking booth absentmindedly. Still stuck into his phone. Fucking kids. Go do something. Smoke a joint with your friends, sell Ecstasy, go get laid, spray some better graffiti than that Asian kid. Fucking something.

I walk out of the parking deck and glance at the clock outside the club next to the parking garage. 3:30. I’m going to wait until the middle of the night to make my move against the house. Less chance of anyone seeing me, more chance of Antonio and his dime store wannabe hoods partying inside and burning alive in the ruins of the house. I grin again and feel a shiver of anticipation go up my spine. It’s time someone taught that cunt and his merry band of cunts a lesson. I throw open the door of my apartment building and climb the worn out stairwell with a resigned sigh. The familiar stench of cabbage and rotten ass still hangs heavy in the air. I cough and stub my cigarette out against the wall as I reach my apartment door, unlocking it and stepping inside. I need a fucking drink. My mouth is dryer than the fucking Sahara right now. Common side effect of the methylphenidate analogue.

I step into my kitchen, momentarily dazzled by the intense white glow of the fluorescent lighting and pull my dented fridge door open. Nothing. Shit, I drank the last cider earlier. Fuck me. My vision suddenly swims and flashes, and I nearly collapse, but thankfully the counter is there to keep me upright. Holy shit. My vision is crackling like snow, coming and going in waves of rippling intensity. My vision grays out at the edges and then surges back into ultra-high definition. My eyes are numb. What the fuck? My vision is flashing like distortions on a broken computer monitor. I can feel my heart speeding up, beads of sweat popping out of my forehead. I sneeze suddenly and a mist of blood sprays onto my formerly white cabinets. I’m coming down from the drugs. Or am I fucking overdosing? I shudder as I can feel the muscles in my back tighten and release simultaneously, causing me to shiver repeatedly. But it’s nothing close to cold in here. I sneeze again, causing another red mist to blow forward from my mouth and nostrils. I hang my head over the sink as I shudder again, back muscles tightening, and a deluge of blood starts flowing from my nose like someone turned on a faucet. I’m starting to really wig out. I can see shadows in my peripheral vision as blood pours down my face and into the drain of the sink. It's filling the bottom of the stainless steel basin. My back is arching involuntarily as my muscles continue to freak the fuck out.

I sneeze again, and the torrent of blood suddenly stops. That's fucking weird. My arms are shaking, and now I’m soaked in a cold sweat. I twist and pop my back, shuddering as my muscles release the tension and finally settle into their normal routine. I turn the faucet on and wash the puddle of bright red blood down the drain. Jesus Christ that was some powerful shit. I stumble into my bathroom and flip the light switch on, my eyes twitching and wanting to shut as the fluorescent tube above the mirror sends a million needles into my optic nerve. I cough and look at my reflection in the mirror. Now I really look like some sort of addict. I’m chalk white, my face smeared with very bright red blood. I grab a rag and rub my face clean, scrubbing hard until my skin stings. My face, now devoid of blood but still chalk white, jumps out of the mirror at me. Like a ghost. I’m normally pale, but not this pale. I reach into my medicine cabinet and pull a bottle of Xanax out, popping a 2mg bar into my mouth. I chew the bitter pill and rinse it down with a swig of water from the faucet. I stand at the mirror, watching myself in it. My mouth is already dry even after that swig of water. I need to fucking calm down. Waiting for the chemical to enter my bloodstream and relax me. My arms are shaking as I grip the side of the sink, staring intently at my reflection. It does not change. It does not blink. It does not move. I only stare back at my real self from the mirror.

I stumble out of the bathroom a few minutes later and collapse onto the couch, shuddering involuntarily every few minutes. I stare blankly into the wall for what seems like hours as I feel the chemical bliss finally enter my bloodstream, releasing my tension and bringing me into a state of tranquility once again. I sit up and look at my phone. It’s not even 4:00 yet. My entire psychotic break occurred in less than twenty minutes. Interesting. I pull the slightly crumpled pack of Marlboros out of my jacket and shakily light one, drawing and exhaling quickly until I can feel the nicotine hit me like a punch. I shudder as I can feel the nicotine and Xanax wrapping me in a cocoon of lucidity and calm. I slump back on the couch, drawing on the cigarette. I find myself staring off into space as I drag on the cigarette, letting it dangle in midair, before the ash dropping onto my other hand snaps me back into the present. 

Focus, you fucking asshole. 

I wipe the ash off my hand and my pants and stub the cigarette out, standing up, trying not to fall over. I can feel the weakness in my legs, threatening to tip me over back onto the couch. After a few minutes of standing there my leg strength starts to return. I am steadier on my feet, finally. I gotta go to the store and buy something to drink.

I walk out of the apartment, patting my pockets to make sure I still have everything. I almost fall down the stairs stepping down them. The fat fuck that owns this building needs to fix them but he’s too busy getting his dick sucked by some 11-year-old prostitute to worry about it. Sick fuck. I step onto the sidewalk, smiling at the crimson blood stain in the middle of the street. The corpse isn’t there anymore but the memory still is. A light note of thunder rumbles in from the distance. I look up to the sky. It’s the color of a dead TV screen from years past. It’s going to rain soon, I can smell it in the air, mixed with the grease of the McDonalds down the street and the pall of that Asian dude’s death. I light another cigarette and drag on it, and walk down the block on my way to the corner market, my thoughts still not quite in order. I’m not quite in a state of euphoria yet, but the 2mg of Xanax have me in a cocoon of just…calmness. My muscles are loose.

I step into the doorway of the corner market, as it begins to rain, slowly at first. I take a drag of my cigarette, and the heavens soon open up into a torrential downpour. It’s amusing to watch the ignorant masses of this city react to storms. As in most big cities, people don’t know how to fucking drive in the rain or in the snow. A prime example is the Honda Civic that just smashed into the side of the building across the street, obviously going too fast. I can feel the impact in my bones, can feel the crunch of the distorting metal, and see the drivers head whip forward into the steering wheel as all the glass shatters. The airbag does not deploy but the woman’s head keeps going. I watch her neck break like a twig. Oops. Her head is resting against the horn, making it blare with a solid whine. Reminds me of Grand Theft Auto. I laugh, before I take a final drag of my cigarette and whip the butt into the gutter. The one-eyed clerk is at the window by the counter, staring at the wreck. He does not notice me. Suits me just as well. Another rumble of thunder, closer now, erupts overhead making the building vibrate slightly. The open door lets the breeze come in, mixing the fresh rain scent with the Indian food smell that is always hanging around like it was a crack addict, desperate for a rock. I don’t know how these people can stand that smell. I’m standing in front of the cooler trying to decide what beer I want, when I hear a greasy voice behind me, tinged with malice.

“Hey, pendejo.”

Fuck me.

Cigarettes & Mirrors - Chapter Three

I throw on my mirrored shades and slip a cigarette from the pack into my mouth. I feel my left hip pocket to make sure I have my wallet. As I light the cigarette and snap the Zippo closed, I hear a sudden, piercing scream behind me. Like the keening of a thousand banshees reaching delayed intense orgasm. I turn my head, eyebrow raised, drawing on my cigarette, when I see him. A young Asian man, no more than 18 or 19, running down the street in a green hospital gown. His wrists have brown leather straps attached to them, trailing behind him. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs, zig zagging down the middle of the street weaving between traffic, running like a meth fueled Kenyan marathon runner. Some nut on the loose from University Hospital I guess. I draw on my cigarette again, suppressing a grin. Just another day in the city. You’d be surprised to know that things like this aren’t terribly uncommon. As I start walking I can hear the whine of a police cruiser coming up the block, sirens screaming and engine roaring like a pissed off dragon. It slams on the brakes and curls into a turn in the intersection just in front of the Asian man, who collides with the side of the car and collapses. Before he can get to his feet, the body-armored behemoths jump out and hold him at gunpoint, shouting at the man to calm down and stop resisting. Before he can react, they open fire, pumping round after round into his gradually slumping body. They keep squeezing the triggers of their guns until they are only rewarded with clicks. Empty. One officer kicks the dying man in the face, and they step back into their vehicle peeling away down the street. Fucking pigs. But routine cold blooded murder by the city’s finest is just something to get used to here.

As I walk past, his screams wind down and eventually peter out into gurgles as he chokes on his own blood and eventually stops moving, succumbing to the blunt force trauma and rapid blood loss that multiple gunshot wounds tend to inflict. I turn my attention to the parking garage down the street, the now dead man forgotten. I’ve seen stranger things on these streets. But today I have business to attend to. I need to pick up some party favors for Antonio’s house. I enjoy setting things on fire, as many people do. Do I simply want to burn it down? Or do I want to blow it up? I take a drag on my cigarette as I ponder this.

The Russian Mafiya operates a few different business in this city. Your typical immigrant businesses, such as bakeries, bars, cabaret. But they keep stockpiles of equipment as well. Just in case. I am not thrilled about having to talk to them. They are as liable to shoot you as they are to shake your hand. Ruthless is the word that springs forward first when one thinks of them. But at least they always have the types of anti-social merchandise the East Coast black market needs. Guns, ammunition, explosives, various drugs, vehicles, manpower. Pretty much anything you need, the Russians have or can procure for you. As long as you can pay, of course.

I raise a hand in greeting to the teenaged parking attendant in the booth, who merely glances up and back down again, returning his attention to his ever present phone, wearing out his thumbs. That’s all you little cunts do anymore, wear out your thumbs and your eyes on phones. My black Dodge truck awaits me. As I approach, I unlock the doors with the electronic key, giving it a once over to make sure no one has fucked with it. I start it up, and pull the truck out of the garage slowly, watching the crowd gathering around the formerly deranged and now very dead corpse, then gunning the engine and screaming out onto the street with a squelch of tires and a puff of smoke. Time to go talk to the hammerheads.

As I drive through traffic, I take a final drag on my cigarette and cram it into the overflowing ashtray in the center console. I should really clean it out one day. I make a right turn onto Elm Street, laying on the horn as I narrowly miss one of a million fucking petulant homeless children running out in front of cars. A few minutes later I park down the street from the former Delaney Hall. The white building is just one of many warehouse facilities that fill the city. People rent the buildings and store anything and everything here. Collectibles, clothes, musical instruments, drugs, weapons, industrial tools, vehicles, bodies slowly dissolving in drums of lye. Anything. The stench of the heavily polluted river is almost unbearable here. Chemicals, sewage, and the lingering odor of one thing or another that has passed from this life. I resist the urge to gag as I turn the truck off, and think about what I am going to say to the Russians. I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye, and almost have a heart attack. But it’s nothing. God damn these drugs.

I step out of my truck, and light another cigarette. Chain smoking as always. I walk around the corner of the building, and I see a black BMW parked in front of what used to be the storefront, with two very large slabs of beef from the Motherland standing around, eyeing me back. I slowly approach the larger of the two men. “I’m in the market for a few things.” I say to the man, who takes a drag on his own cigarette and raises an eyebrow. “You police?” he says, in a deep voice filled with gravel. “No. Just another customer.” I say, taking a drag on my cigarette. He nods, and beckons me toward the front door. The other meathead watches us walk inside, unblinking.

Have I mentioned how much I hate dealing with Russians?

As the door closes behind us, my eyes adjust to the gloom inside. The warehouse is filthy, stacked with thousands of crates and boxes adorning shelves along the walls, and in rows on the floor. “You wait here. Yuri!” the hammerhead screams. After a few moments, I see a portly, greasy, balding man with a pedophile moustache emerge from a doorway. “What?” he says in heavily accented English, eyeing me. “I’m in the market for an incendiary device. Might you have such a thing?” I say to the ratty little man. He strokes his moustache for a few moments, and then laughs. “I think we might have thing or two my friend.” I grin as the man leads me into an aisle.

Fuck you Antonio.