THE PIECE
Charlie came up with a lame excuse to miss work the morning after he bought his tool.
"I gotta go to the doctor, I gotta stomach ache and I need medicine," Charlie lamely said to Ms. Wong.
"Okay Charlie! You make noodles when you come back though," Ms. Wong replied.
"Alright. The noodles, I got it." Charlie replied.
Charlie stepped out the noodle store and jacked the nearest bike he could find. He came upon a beautiful BMX bike with the black mags so nice, and he had to have it. Charlie whipped out a pair of metal cutters, busted the lock, and was rolling out in under 30 seconds. He popped a few bunny hops and wheelies, trying to look natural on his newly stolen bike.
Then Charlie remembered he had to stay focused. He scanned the worn out dump of a town that laid out in front of him, it wasn't New York and subways, but it would have to do. He had to throw up one of the biggest graffiti pieces he had ever done. All for her. He rolled down several roads but couldn't find the right spot to sketch out his master plan.
Soon, Charlie came upon a local, but lovable bum named Fil. He bought a couple of soggy newspapers from Fil, and inquired about some of Fil's favorite chill spots. Charlie knew bums always knew where straight spots to sleep were, and where there were bums, there was always a good spot to do some graffiti.
"Well, I don't know mister, some times when it gets really cold I will climb into the old warehouse at the edge of downtown and sleep in there," Fil replied, leaking out a breath that smelled of raw sewage and rat piss.
"Thanks Fil, I can always count on you," Charlie said.
Charlie popped a ill barspin of the curb and quickly pedaled away. As he looked at the sky's overcast clouds he could almost make out his mother's face smiling down onto him. He was surprised and felt chills go down his spine, Charlie looked up for one more glance; but didn't see the open manhole.
Blackness.
Charlie slowly lifted his head from the pool of salty sticky liquid around him. It was nighttime now, probably eight or nine o'clock. Charlie turned down to realized that his head was resting in a pool of his own blood. He remembered the feeling of the curb smacking him in the back of the head now. He got to his feet and felt light-headed. He could barely mount the bike to ride home.
When Charlie finally had ditched the bike and stumbled into the Chinese restaurant, it was probably one in the morning. He made noodles like a zombie, emotionless and tired. He fell onto his cot, and the blood on the back of his head had just started to coagulate, it had also stopped bleeding partially because of the immense amount of dirt in the gash.
Charlie slept deeper than he had in his whole life.
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The Car That Almost Finished Him
Jefferson's string of Robin Hood-like robberies had been successful up until that night. He had amassed a small collection of riches hidden under his floorboards that he had purloined from undeserving drug lords, which he intended to distribute to the poor somehow. But he made a mistake; he had to have the car. It was a beautiful yellow Lamborghini Miura he had found in one particularly well-off drug dealer's garage. The Lambo was pristine and collecting dust, proof its owner didn't use it. Jefferson didn't know how he would return it to the community; he just knew that its current owner didn't deserve it in the least. So Jefferson stole it. The theft wasn't difficult; cars that old didn't have that much of a security system. The garage, on the other hand, did.
As soon as Jefferson started up that glorious engine, three thugs with machine guns ran out of the dealer's crib. Jefferson gunned the Miura in reverse and broke through the garage's wooden wall. He slung the car around and flew down the street. The thugs peeled out of the garage in two black Cadillacs. The Miura was much faster than the Cadillacs, but the thugs had machine guns, and he couldn't outrun a bullet. The thugs fired at him; his car was riddled with bullets, and his rear window shattered. Jefferson swerved left and narrowly missed hitting a minivan. The Cadillacs followed easily. Jefferson weaved through traffic wildly, but the thugs still kept up. Then he saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror - three police cars had not surprisingly taken notice of their activities. Two of them rammed the Cadillacs and forced them off the road. The third followed Jefferson. Jefferson floored it. The police car could barely keep up, and Jefferson almost got away. Then it began to sleet.
The sleet made a sound similar to the bullets as they hit his car. Jefferson could barely see. A truck pulled out in front of him and he swerved into the left lane, then back into the right as another car almost hit him head on. Jefferson spun out of control, but regained it and sped down an adjacent street. The police car was still hot on his tail. Jefferson slowed down; the Miura's speed was no use to him if he couldn't see. The hail grew heavier. Jefferson looked in his mirrors. More cars had joined the chase. This would have to end soon. The lights of Washington Heights stood out in the darkness. He would have to ditch the car; he knew this now. At least it wouldn't be in the hands of a drug dealer. Suddenly, a black van pulled out in front of Jefferson. He swerved right. He didn't see the small coupe until it was too late.
The coupe backed out of the garage. The Miura's headlights illuminated it suddenly. Jefferson didn't have time to think. He slammed the brakes. It was useless. The Miura slammed head on into the coupe's trunk. The trunk was obliterated. The Miura lost contact with the ground. It flipped over several times. It landed in an abandoned storefront. Everything stopped.
Jefferson came to. The hail had stopped. He was lying upside down in an upside down Miura in the front of an abandoned building. Everything hurt; something was bleeding. Cars that old didn't have much of a safety system. Jefferson laboriously pulled himself out of the wreck. He knew he didn't have much time before the police got there. He peeked out of the gaping hole in the front of the building. The coupe was sitting in the middle of the street, its rear end completely smashed in. A trail of glass and metal lay between it and the Miura. The coupe's owner was climbing out of his car. Jefferson recognized him as Ryan Ford, one of the tenants of Washington Heights. He looked shaken but mostly uninjured. Then Jefferson saw the police cars zoom around the corner; they must have been stopped by the black van. Jefferson stumbled out the back of the abandoned building and into the street.
He was able to evade the police as he limped back to his apartment. He walked behind the Chinese restaurant near Washington Heights so that he could get in through the back entrance. He saw the kid who worked there speed away on his bike. He hoped the kid didn't see him. Jefferson snuck in through rear entrance of his building and into the elevator. He pressed the button to his floor. He felt terrible. His mind raced and he couldn't think straight. He pulled a shard of yellow metal out of his bulletproof vest and dropped it on the elevator floor. The doors opened and he walked awkwardly into the hall. He stumbled to his room, opened his door, and fell straight onto his bed. He felt terrible. Sirens sounded throughout the night.
The tune of his song still sang in her head,
As Snazy sat down on a bench painted red.
But noises soon crowded her thoughts of the guy,
As a siren broke loose beneath the sleet-laden sky.
She looked out across the blank building blocks,
The streets half way-paved, filled with unsteady rocks.
She studied the cracked chunks of asphalt that broke,
Beneath a large black van, until someone spoke.
He muttered some words that she never did use,
With tears wiped away, he seemed lost and confused.
Like he saw something horrid from within her eyes,
He took a step back as pain bled from his sighs.
She reached out a hand, to guid him away,
From the misery scarring his heart everyday.
But he sharply turned back out towards the town,
Passing the black van that still drove around.
She wondered what he had seen with that stare,
Why couldn't she help him, life never seemed fair.
Typical
Smoking his pipe on the corner, Holger readjusted his leather coat that he fashioned from a road-kill he found in West Virginia - where it is also legal to eat road-kill. The sleet pelted his animal pelt coat. Suddenly, he viewed a most amazing chain of events where he saw a Lamborghini speeding away from the chasing Cadillacs and coppers. A black van pulled in front causing the Lamborghini to become Kersplatten. There was no need to be riled, this sort of thing was typical. He refilled his pipe with fresh tobacco he got from his friends in southern Virgninia. The sleet began to fall more heavily.
He turned to his left watching the other side of town. The manhole was open but the road workers stopped weren't working. "Typical." The government spends money to pay people for jobs they aren't doing. His hand dug through some keys, a knife and crumpled bills before finding another match in his pocket.
The sleet momentairly subsided as a kid on a bike rode past. Of course that hoodlum had no helmet on – he was too B.A. for that. He was going so fast that he couldn't evade the manhole in time. Holger's deep, booming laugh forced his abs to expand and contract so ferociously that the last piece of dough in his chest popped out and rolled off the curb onto the street into the manhole. "Die Ratten werden keinen Hunger haben."
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