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.
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