in the deck today

That sickness,
I killed fifty people and they’re haunting me
I sit in the middle of a star
with some candles lit thinking
maybe I should do that
It’s killin’ me softly
my brain is gone and it ain’t coming back
I could’ve swore I saw my nigga Psycho
standing over me
I know it wasn’t him
cause he’s been buried for a week
The silence of the black sheep
deep in the middle of the night
I start to sweat
window wide open
with two holes in my neck
and can’t nobody tell me shit loc
cause everytime I close my eyes
I hear Psycho say
“Yo cuz, I thought we had a deal”
Mouth wrapped around the barrel and I taste steel.

X-Raided, “That Sickness” Psyco-Active

lucky guy

It’s summer and we’re at a house party in wife beaters and t-shirts. Capone and I are in the backyard smoking with Tony and Big Man. Capone’s telling stories and the local girls are listening.

”...so then D says ‘you better give me some fucking room to move!’ So I’m laughing my ass off…”

Big Man elbows me in the arm. “I’m taking a piss,” he says to me, “keep an eye on my shit.” He sits down his beer and gets up and walks to the house. Capone keeps telling his story. I watch Big Man walk to the house.

”...So I say to this guy, ‘How about I take yours instead?’” Capone tells a punchline and the girls laugh.

Big Man steps inside the house. Through the glass patio door I see him walk down a hallway to the bathroom. As he reaches the door I see a guy walk up behind him. Big Man stops and turns.

Capone continues his story, and I’m half-listening. I lean on an elbow and take a drag off my smoke. I’m watching Big Man in the house. I can see something’s wrong.

* * *

Big Man and the guy are standing face to face now. I hear a muffled shout through the glass and then Big Man’s face changes. He reaches for his waist and pushes a pistol into the neck of the guy in the hallway. The guy takes a big step back.

“Oh fuck!” I say and stand up, scooting my chair out. I drop my smoke and head for the house. Capone stops mid-sentence and looks, and everybody turns. He and Tony get up also and head for the house.

I push open the sliding glass door and the guy from the hallway rushes out past me into the backyard. He’s fucking pissed. Tony, Capone and I step inside. Big Man is drunk, really drunk, and trying to stuff the pistol back in his pants.

“Fucking asshole” he says. “Who says I can’ t smoke in this motherfucker?” He’s got a big drunk grin on his face.

I look behind us and see the guy out back shouting at his friends. They look at the house, then at him, then back at the house.

“You fucking idiot,” says Capone, “that’s the fucking owner of the house. The fucking Mexican everybody’s here with.”

Suddenly the voices outside get louder. Fuck, here we go, I think. I take off my watch and stuff it in my pocket and screw the cap on my beer bottle. I can feel my hands tingling.

There’s a big noise off to the right, and then a rush of guys comes through the door. Tony, Capone and I step back down the hallway and Big Man reaches for his pistol. They’re on top of us as he draws.

* * *

Next thing I know I’m wrestling with some fucking kid, being pushed into the kitchen. Somebody’s trying to kick me and I’m holding the neck of his shirt and pounding his ear with the bottom of my bottle. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. We fall and I feel a kick in my back.

Shit, there’s a lot of guys hitting me. I’ve got somebody in a headlock. There are feet kicking my arm, my head. I try to kick back and hide my nose. I’m struggling now.

I hear a loud metallic “clack” sound. Big Man’s pistol drops to the linoluim kitchen floor. Oh fuck, I think. We’re fucked now.

I’m trying to cover my face. Gotta get up. Gotta get out of here. There are guys in every direction swinging and kicking, and I’m punching back into it. I feel the hits, the push of their blows, my wrists hitting people at weird angles.

I get pushed down again and pull somebody’s shirt on my way down. I kick something. It’s getting hard to breathe, these fucking assholes. Fuck, I think, I’m going to die tonight.

I have no idea where Capone and Tony are. They must be getting beat too. We’re outnumbered 10 to one at this party. Should’ve had a knife, I’m so fucking stupid…

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. BAM BAM.

Suddenly there’s a huge clapping sound of a pistol shooting in the house, and shells pinging off the walls. The crowd of guys moves off me. I can see the kitchen ceiling light as they run.

I roll over and try to stand up. Fuck, my knee is killing me. I see blood on my pants and my face is wet. People are running everywhere.

Capone comes running in the kitchen and grabs my back. His hand is hot.

“C’mon mutherfucker let’s go!” he yells. He’s got a pistol in his hand.

We run down the hall and out the front door of the house and down the porch steps to the street. My ears are ringing and I feel weightless. I’m hurt, but can’t really tell. My teeth feel weird.

I see Tony and Big Man jump in our car down the street. I look over and see Capone is bleeding from his mouth.

We’re halfway to the car, walking in the middle of the street. I look up to see how dark it is, how the streetlights shine off the cars lining both curbs, how grey everything looks in the city at night.

I hear shouts coming from behind us, getting louder now. Capone lets go of my shoulder and turns around.

Here they come. I see a dozen guys heading toward us running.

Capone, arms hanging at his sides, steps away from me looking back at them. I see a white flash down the street. It’s the Mexican shooting back at us.

BAM BAM BAM BAM.

I drop and feel the pavement hot on my hands. Capone doesn’t duck. He’s standing strait up, walking backward. He raises his pistol back at them. “You fucking die mutherfucker!”

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.

I see the Mexican fall. Another one falls. A half-dozen others scramble for cover.

Capone runs for the car. I get up and run close behind him, running for my goddamn life. We pile in the back seat.

I think, we’re pretty much fucked now. It might be over for good this time.

* * *

Tony slams the car in gear and swerves onto the street, engine roaring. The wind is cold from the window.

My face is sort of wet and I feel my cheeks swelling, thick and numb.

“Yo, take the backroad route,” says Capone. “Pretty sure that shit woke up the neighbors.”

Tony turns off and heads toward the neighborhood. Big Man is still drunk in the front seat, leaning with his arm out the window. I look around the car. Everybody’s looking out the windows, quiet. I sit up and check my pocket for the watch. Still there, thank god. Thank god I didn’t lose that fucking watch.

I punch Capone in the arm, “Thanks bitch.”

“Fuck you,” he says, laughing. “How about you give me a smoke before I fuck up your other lip?”

We laugh at that. I feel the breeze on my face and watch the streetlights go past.

Shit, I think, everybody stayed to the end. These are good guys. I’m a lucky guy.

* * *

in the headphones today

Perhaps I was blind to the facts, stabbed in the back
Couldn’t trust my own homies just a bunch a dirty rats
Will I, succeed? Paranoid from the weed
And hocus pocus try to focus but I can’t see
And in my mind I’m a blind man doin’ time
Look to my future cause my past is all behind me
Is it a crime, to fight, for what is mine?
Everybody’s dyin tell me what’s the use of tryin’
I’ve been trapped since birth, cautious cause I’m cursed
And fantasies of my family, in a hearse
And they say it’s the white man I should fear
But, it’s my own kind doin’ all the killin’ here
I can’t lie, ain’t no love for the other side
Jealousy inside, make ‘em wish I died
Oh my lord, tell me what I’m livin for
Everybody’s droppin got me knockin’ on heaven’s door
And all my memories, of seein brothers bleed
And everybody grieves, but still nobody sees
Recollect your thoughts, don’t get caught up in the mix
Cause the media is full of dirty tricks
Only god can judge me.

Flatline!

I hear the doctor standing over me
screamin I can make it
Got a body full of bullet holes layin’ here naked
Still I, can’t breathe, something’s evil in my IV
Cause every time I breathe, I think they’re killin’ me
I’m having nightmares, homicidal fantansies
I wake up stranglin’, danglin’ my bed sheets
I call the nurse cause it hurts, to reminisce
How did it come to this? I wish they didn’t miss
Somebody help me, tell me where to go from here
Cause even thugs cry, but does the lord care?
Try to remember but it hurts
I’m walkin’ through the cemetary talkin’ to the dirt
I’d rather die like a man than live like a coward
There’s a ghetto up in heaven and it’s ours, black power
is what we scream as we dream in a paranoid state
And our fate, is a lifetime of hate
Dear mama can you save me? And fuck peace
Cause the streets got our babies, we gotta eat
No more hesitation each and every black male trapped
And they wonder why we’re suicidal runnin’ ‘round strapped
Mister police, please try to see that it’s
a million motherfuckas stressin’ just like me
Only god can judge me.

2pac, “Only God Can Judge Me” All Eyez On Me.

what do i know

“Is this air conditioning okay sir?”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“OK, you let me know if it’s too cold.”

I’m in a suit in a car downtown heading to a TV appearance. It’s early on a weekday, lots of people on the street. I’m looking over my notes for the interview.

“Would you like the radio on sir?”
“That’s fine,” I say.

The driver turns on the radio. It’s the news. Weather and traffic as usual. I’m half listening, reading over my notes. A news story comes on. I look up and listen.

“And now, a tragic shooting in College Park last night as a 19 year old man was gunned down in a drive-by attack. Authorities on the scene are searching for a green 4-door sedan with Maryland plates…”

I put my notes on the seat next to me and loosen my tie. I look around at the black leather seats and the newspaper and bottled water prepared for me. Like a hotel. The interior seems huge. I stare out the window listening.

“Fucking kids,” I say.
“Yes, it’s a shame sir,” the driver says.
“Yeah,” I say. “You don’t know the half.”
The driver slows down for a stoplight. At the light he looks at me in the rear-view.
“And you” he says, “what do you know about it?”

* * *

We’re at the beach and it’s late. Fingers and I are smoking a joint in the car in a corner parking lot.

I take a long hit. The paper is hot on my fingers. I inhale, and smoke rolls up my face. I hold my breath and pass.

I look at the street. There’s a blue sedan in the intersection. I exhale through the steering wheel and squint to look closely. Two guys up front are looking at us.

“What the fuck they looking at?,” I say.

Fingers takes the joint down from his mouth and looks up. He squints looking at them.

“Aint’s shit,” he says. He looks away and ashs the joint. “C’mon, hit this bitch before it’s out.”

The blue sedan starts rolling and turns into the parking lot. I watch the wheels bounce up over the driveway and head our way.

Fuck. I reach for the shotgun between the seats—the new Mossberg, my 18th birthday present to myself. I pull it over my lap. The barrel’s cold on my leg.

Fingers is serious now, staring hard. The sedan rolls up next to my window.

“What’s up main?” says the passenger. Fingers and I stare.

“Where the fuck you from?” I say.

The passenger has a smoke in his lip. He looks at me, then at Fingers, then at the driver. Then he lifts a pistol at the roof. He cocks the slide. It’s a big pistol, and the CLICK CLACK sound is heavy and metalic.

He says something but I can’t really hear what he says.

Here we go, I think. I look at Fingers. He’s got a huge grin on his face, staring straight at the guy.

Their car starts rolling forward. I watch Finger’s eyes follow them. They dip out the other end of the lot and pull back onto the strip. Their stereo goes back up. They roll off looking back.

“Motherfucker,” I say. “Did you see the size of that shit?”

Fingers is dialing on his cell. “Capone, what up,” he says. “We need some shells.”

* * *

“There they go.” Fingers points at a parking lot up ahead. It’s the blue sedan.

“Alright, you ready motherfucker?”
“Get em,” he says.

I slow down and turn into the parking lot. It’s late, and the Safeway is closed. We roll slowly past the front of the sedan. Their stereo is all the way up. I lean way out the window and throw up a middle finger.

“Fuck you ho!” I shout. Both guys in the car sit up straight. I hear their car start.

We pull out onto the strip. They pull out behind me, and a half block later they’re tailgating us, waving us over. We drive straight up the arterial.

“Alright,” says Fingers, “let’s fucking blast.”

“OK, here we go,” I say.

I slow down, turn on my blinker, and take a left off the arterial. All I see in my rearview is their grill and headlights tailgating me.

Fingers is sitting way up in his seat with wide eyes, both hands on the shotgun. His window’s down. It’s windy and warm. He’s been chain smoking all night. I can hear my pulse in my ears.

At the corner, I take another left. The sedan’s right on my tail. Now we’re on a residential backstreet.

I slow way down and click off my lights.

“Now motherfucker!” I yell. Fingers slides up out the passenger window. He sits up on the window sill.

There is this incredible moment of silence. I hear the wind out my window, the keys clinking against the dash. It’s very dark out.

BAM. The huge sound of the shot splits the night air.

CHICK, CHICK. BAM.

CHICK, CHICK. BAM.

CHICK, CHICK. BAM. CHICK, CHICK.

Fingers drops back down through the window into his seat. I floor it.

In the rearview the sedan is way back. The windshield’s frosted. Their lights are on. They’re stopped.

“Fuck the motherfuckers! Fuck that shit!” Fingers is yelling.

I’m flying through backstreets, engine racing, lights off, trying to make it home. My heart’s racing. I can smell the metalic dust from the fresh powder. I’m pretty sure we’ll be in jail by morning.

“I hope you wiped those motherfucking shells for prints,” I say. “This is deep shit.”

“Ain’t no thing,” says Fingers. “Hey, take the right up here. It’s faster to my pad.”

* * *

“Here we are, sir.” The driver pulls up to the studio. Lots of suits around, gridlocked traffic. He double parks and gets out to open my door.

“Too bad about those kids,” he says. “The driving-shooting. It’s the worst sir.”

“Yeah,” I say. I hand him a bill from my wallet. “Just hope they wiped the shells.”

The driver looks up. “Excuse me sir?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Keep the change.”

I step onto the street. It’s weird thinking about Fingers while in a suit, I think. Weird thinking of him in this new city. I miss him.

Fuck. I better read my notes again and forget this. Got an interview to get through.

* * *

a way you'll never be

“As part of my Ph.D. research on criminal genius, I conducted 44 semi-structured interviews. One of the 44 subjects, in particular, stood out. This noteworthy individual claimed that he had killed 15 people. His story was particularly interesting because—unlike most social research involving serial killers—he claimed that he had never been arrested or convicted for his homicides. Compelled by his account, I met with this subject on five additional occasions, and gradually compiled his criminal life history. Ethical and legal considerations limited inquiry into several dimensions of this subject’s life history, but over time, an interesting and richly textured narrative emerged…

“Official criminal statistics and self-report studies traditionally support the claim that the average criminal offender has a slightly subnormal IQ score—about 92, or eight points less than the population average. However, because criminologists have historically focused their research on vulnerable populations such as juveniles or prison inmates, almost nothing is known about the patterns of criminal behavior among gifted adults with exceptional cognitive abilities. Indeed, prior to this study, no criminological data had ever been gathered on adult offenders with IQ scores in the genius range. Intrigued by this enigmatic topic, I studied the crimes of geniuses—offenses committed by people with IQ scores of 132 or higher…”

Read the full study here (PDF).

feels the same

I’m playing guitar in the bathroom, recording it with a small tape recorder. I finish a song. Sweating, I pick up the recorder and rewind. I hit play.

I didn’t rewind far enough, so I hit stop. It doesn’t stop. I hit stop over and over. The fucking stop button doesn’t work.

God damn it. I feel heat rising in my neck and temples. God fucking damnit you fucking piece of shit.

I stand up and kick the stool from under me. I make a fist, but stop mid-punch and think better. I head for the closet.

I dig around for something heavy. I throw clothes around, realizing there’s nothing. No baseball bats, no golf clubs. Left them behind when I left the old life.

My head is hot. I stomp into the kitchen. On top of the fridge is an old street knife, the kind with brass knuckles. It’s been there for years, an artifact from my old life.

I grab it.

***

I remember the story. It was late at the bar. Big Man was telling jokes, something about a house robbery where the owner surprised him with a knife.

“Don’t bring a knife to the gunfight motherfucker” he says, making a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. “Cut him with his own godamn blade.”
“That’s funny shit” I say out of my beer glass.
“You know I’ve got it right here” he says.
“No, get the fuck outta here” I say.

He tamps out a cigarette, shifts in his chair and slides a knife out of his back pocket. He clunks it down on the table.

“Get the fuck outta here” I say.
“What, you think I’m gonna leave it sticking in his ass?” he says.

I pick it up and try on the brass knuckles.

“You like it?” he says. “Go ahead, it’s yours. Fucking bad luck in my hands anyway.”
“No shit?” I say, folding it open and closed. “Thanks, bro.”
“Maybe that shit will keep you out of gunfights” he says.

I laugh and clink his glass.

“Two more Henry’s” I call to the bartender.

***

I fold open the knife and head for the bathroom. The recorder’s on the floor. I feel much more drunk now.

“Thought I was done, huh you fuck?” I say.

I grab a shirt from a laundry pile and wrap it around my hand. The hard knife handle hurts without an insulator. I remember this from before.

“You fucking die motherfucker!”

I drop to my knees and take a full swing. I crush the 6-inch blade through the tape recorder and into the carpet underneath. I swing again, stabbing hard, gripping through the towel. I feel my arm muscles, the strength in my shoulders. The knife crashes and sticks in the floor. I twist it out and swing again and again.

My arm gets tired. I grab the recorder and pitch it against the living room wall. Parts spray.

I relax on my knees and drop the knife. My head is drunk with adrenaline. I look around at the mess and take deep breaths. It’s very quiet.

I stand up slowly, rubbing my shoulder. I walk to the kitchen for a waste can. I carefully collect the parts and put them in the can. I put the can back in the kitchen. I sit down. Everything is in order.

I turn on music. It’s an old Brotha Lynch Hung CD. I listen to the lyrics and think. Not much different from the real thing, I think. Not much, just the mess. Feels the same.

I think for a minute about the weight of a body, how hard that is to deal with, how you need friends for that. Guys who know the wilderness spots. Guys like Big Man.

***

I pour a fresh whiskey and get ready for bed.

I think about my life now. Gotta pick up dry cleaning. Maybe stop in the office for a few hours. Got a presentation next week.

I think about Big Man’s trial. We haven’t talked since. Police went nuts looking for that knife. Hell of a lucky move giving it to me. Thanks to that he’ll be out in… What is it now? 71 months? Shit, better than never.

I take a big gulp and ice clinks against my nose.

I climb into bed and close my eyes. I wait for sunrise so I can finally sleep, as usual.

* * *

forgiveness

It’s a cold fall evening. I’m about 10. I’m watching TV with my dad in the living room. Mom’s reading magazines in the kitchen.

There’s a knock at the door. Mom answers through the chain-locked door. It’s a guy in his early 30s, white-trash looking with red skin and long-ish hair poking out from under a baseball hat.

I hear him say he’s down on his luck. I get up and listen behind the door. He’s got a bag of supplies, and says he wants to repaint the house number on the front steps. For some cash.

There’s that tension that always accompanies a handout. Dad sits on the couch glaring at mom, mumbling passive disapproval. The guy gives his pitch again. Mom is looking between the guy and dad.

Finally dad turns back to the TV, indifferent, leaving mom with the situation.

She says “OK, hold on,” and shuts the door. She goes to the kitchen and returns with a $10 bill. Dad notices, and scoffs. He turns back to the TV.

Mom opens the front door.

“OK, so you’re gonna to do this now right? You need light?”

“No ma’am.”

“OK then.”

“Thanks, ma’am. Just be a minute.”

“OK then.”

The guy goes to work on the steps. Mom shuts the door. He’s done in a few minutes and leaves.

Dad’s blurry-eyed again, watching the news. The tension subsides.

***

I wake up the next morning to shouting. Dad’s voice is the loud one.

“Goddamn it, stupid sonofabitch!”

“But Jack…”

“You see this godamned mess?”

“OK, I’ll fix it…”

“I fucking told you, those fucking bums. They suckered you again.”

“I’ll fix it, Jack…”

The front door’s wide open. Mom’s in the kitchen crying. Dad storms out to spend Sunday at his shop, leaving the door open. I walk outside, still in pajamas.

The concrete porch is cold on my socks. I step down the stairs and see what the shouting’s about. I see the guy’s paint job from last night. It’s a disaster. Crooked numbers, running paint. Looks terrible.

I step back in the house, and mom rushes past me. She’s got a paint can and brush. She furious, mumbling to herself. She paints over the guy’s work with white wall paint.

She comes inside, puts away the paint and sits down to read magazines. Dad comes home early afternoon. No one talks. Dad sits down and turns on the TV.

***

It’s early the next day. A knock at the door. I’m eating Cheerios at the table, getting ready for school. Mom answers in a bathrobe.

It’s the guy.

“Ma’am.”

“What the…?”

“Ma’am I’m sorry… I… the other night… I did some drinking. Did sloppy work all down the block. Here to fix it.”

“Oh. Well, uh…”

“Really sorry ma’am. Just be a minute.”

“Well, OK…”

She shuts the door. She returns to the kitchen, quiet. I hear my spoon clink against the cereal bowl. I can still hear the yelling from yesterday.

I get up and walk to the window and push aside the curtains. I watch the guy.

He’s on one knee, concentrating hard on his paint stencils, paint cans spread next to him. The early morning’s very bright. Guys are coming out of the neighbors’ houses for work. They stare at the him rudely as they climb in and start pick-up trucks and sedans on the street. Not much money in this neighborhood, but not many bums either. Took guts for him to return.

The guy finishes up, wiping his hands on a rag. He moves carefully, packing the cans into a canvas bag and zipping it, slinging it on his back, looking things over. I notice the thin legs, worn jeans, steady eyes. The sloppiness from the other night is gone. He’s a worker. He’s no bum.

He disappears down the street.

***

Later that day I see the freshly painted house number. It’s a perfect piece of craftsmanship. My relief is cathartic. Mom is vindicated. The tension is gone.

Later, no one talks. Dad sits in front of the TV. Mom reads in the kitchen. I throw the ball out back and think about the day.