premium cocaine to top it off, make himself forget, come down a bit, make everything alright. He turned on his tunes. The Police’s, ‘Roxanne’ began to play. It soothed him somewhat, the music of long ago; however, some of the tetchy, disconcerting images from earlier in the work day held tight to him like lint balls on an old, forgotten Christmas sweater. Maria’s face kept flashing in his mind, haunting him…
Ma, who did this to you? Who hurt you? Maria, did Miguel do this? I’m gonna kick his ass, Ma. I mean, Maria…
The heated confusion spread across his brain like fungus. He was hell bent on flushing it away for good.
Roooxxxaaannne! You don’t have to put on the red light! The music droned…
The brand spanking new beauteous bottle of Patron he’d just purchased the night before—or was it last week?—called his name. Just what the Devil in the details ordered. He poured a tall glass of the stuff, prompting the deliquescent gates of heaven to creek open right before his soon-to-be bloodshot eyes. He drowned in the hallucinogenic clutches of the rapture until his face numbed and his body morphed into nothingness.
Calm after the internal storm.
He had more where that came from and now, he no longer cared.
From a sweet heat, mellow and warm, his cells incubated and cared for one another with the sweetest kisses delivered via inebriation. A few moments later, he was back in his bedroom, hyped and ready to roll. The shit in the room grew vast wings and spun around him like tiny rock star angels, making him laugh with spirit manufactured mirth. He continued to burst out in fits of deranged laughter, his eyes glossing over in strange delight. He swiped at his nose, removing the chalky residue, as if he wanted to look presentable for no one in particular. Lying back on his bed in his uniform, he tossed his police hat across the bed like a newspaper from the paperboy’s route. He felt like a mountain that couldn’t be moved.
My name is Officer Nick Vitale, and I’m a spectacular motherfucker! The motherfucking greatest!
Fuck the world! None of you appreciate SHIT!
Fuck Miguel and everyone else, too!
He shifted back and forth, casting his arms into the air as if in a boxing ring with a million and one opponents.
Fuck Santiago for killing my best friend! Fuck Dad for never showing his rotten face! I didn’t need you anyway! I don’t need NOBODY!
…Fuck everyone who said he’d be nothing but a petty, two-bit half Wop, half Jabaro son of a bitch. A crooked thief who tore up the Brownsville streets as if he had scissors for feet!
Fuck!
Them!
All!
His high began to even out, and his anxiety dissipated as several more minutes passed, rendering him finally still after his violent, albeit brief outburst.
Silent.
He could barely move, but his thoughts turned sensual and hedonistic nevertheless. Sumptuous contemplations took over. He curled his hand over his thickening cock, deciding to get the motherfucker some service as his deviant deliberations turned more and more sexual, borderline perverted. Before he could fumble about and make the call for some pussy delivery on speed dial, his cellphone rang, interrupting his internal proposals.
“Yeah?” he answered after two failed attempts to grip the damn thing with a steady hand.
“Hey, you still sick?” Officer Tomas questioned, his slightly nasally voice piercing the line. “I hope not, Nick, ’cause you won’t believe this shit.”
“What do ya mean? What’s going on?” He ran his hand roughly through his hair, messing it up, trying to massage himself sober so he could follow what the hell was being said.
“Some son of a bitch has a three year old boy on top of his building on Livonia and is threatening to jump with him.”
Nick jerked like a lightning bolt tied to a tether pole. He tried and tried to gain full control over his damn watered down muscles, but couldn’t get his body to cut him a break. Forcing the issue to the point of
Ma, who did this to you? Who hurt you? Maria, did Miguel do this? I’m gonna kick his ass, Ma. I mean, Maria…
The heated confusion spread across his brain like fungus. He was hell bent on flushing it away for good.
Roooxxxaaannne! You don’t have to put on the red light! The music droned…
The brand spanking new beauteous bottle of Patron he’d just purchased the night before—or was it last week?—called his name. Just what the Devil in the details ordered. He poured a tall glass of the stuff, prompting the deliquescent gates of heaven to creek open right before his soon-to-be bloodshot eyes. He drowned in the hallucinogenic clutches of the rapture until his face numbed and his body morphed into nothingness.
Calm after the internal storm.
He had more where that came from and now, he no longer cared.
From a sweet heat, mellow and warm, his cells incubated and cared for one another with the sweetest kisses delivered via inebriation. A few moments later, he was back in his bedroom, hyped and ready to roll. The shit in the room grew vast wings and spun around him like tiny rock star angels, making him laugh with spirit manufactured mirth. He continued to burst out in fits of deranged laughter, his eyes glossing over in strange delight. He swiped at his nose, removing the chalky residue, as if he wanted to look presentable for no one in particular. Lying back on his bed in his uniform, he tossed his police hat across the bed like a newspaper from the paperboy’s route. He felt like a mountain that couldn’t be moved.
My name is Officer Nick Vitale, and I’m a spectacular motherfucker! The motherfucking greatest!
Fuck the world! None of you appreciate SHIT!
Fuck Miguel and everyone else, too!
He shifted back and forth, casting his arms into the air as if in a boxing ring with a million and one opponents.
Fuck Santiago for killing my best friend! Fuck Dad for never showing his rotten face! I didn’t need you anyway! I don’t need NOBODY!
…Fuck everyone who said he’d be nothing but a petty, two-bit half Wop, half Jabaro son of a bitch. A crooked thief who tore up the Brownsville streets as if he had scissors for feet!
Fuck!
Them!
All!
His high began to even out, and his anxiety dissipated as several more minutes passed, rendering him finally still after his violent, albeit brief outburst.
Silent.
He could barely move, but his thoughts turned sensual and hedonistic nevertheless. Sumptuous contemplations took over. He curled his hand over his thickening cock, deciding to get the motherfucker some service as his deviant deliberations turned more and more sexual, borderline perverted. Before he could fumble about and make the call for some pussy delivery on speed dial, his cellphone rang, interrupting his internal proposals.
“Yeah?” he answered after two failed attempts to grip the damn thing with a steady hand.
“Hey, you still sick?” Officer Tomas questioned, his slightly nasally voice piercing the line. “I hope not, Nick, ’cause you won’t believe this shit.”
“What do ya mean? What’s going on?” He ran his hand roughly through his hair, messing it up, trying to massage himself sober so he could follow what the hell was being said.
“Some son of a bitch has a three year old boy on top of his building on Livonia and is threatening to jump with him.”
Nick jerked like a lightning bolt tied to a tether pole. He tried and tried to gain full control over his damn watered down muscles, but couldn’t get his body to cut him a break. Forcing the issue to the point of
Similar Books
