Your Children Are Not Precious

I often go back and forth with the idea of having my own children. Some days I'm thrilled with the idea of extending my lineage, another generation of proud people who happen to share my last name. Other days, I gag at the idea of bringing a defenseless child into this world. This is usually brought upon by seeing how other people interact with each other on our shared planet. Do I really want to subject another living person to having to deal with 6 billion dicks, pussies and assholes?

I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.

When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.

You child unleashed is one of them.

I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.

Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.

Thanks, you worthless cunt.

This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.

My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.

Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.

They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.

God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.

Trust me.

Crossfire (with Apologies to SRV)

He's walking down a dirt road, a few pieces of strewn garbage lazily scrabbling across the turf before him. He's content, happy, the stress from the past couple of days at work finally easing off of his hard tensed shoulders. He looks forward to getting home, climbing into bed to listen to an episode of 'Mythbusters' or 'How It's Made' while he reads his book about the Westies.

Then, out of no where, there's a heavy thudding BR-RRA-A-A-AATT that cuts through the calm. The dirt kicks up in front of him, he freezes out of shock for a second, and then dives down behind a trash can.

Another burst of automatic gunfire cuts from the other side of the street. A few strays whip over his head, his too-short hair bristles. He clenches shut his eyes, clasps his laptop to his chest (Huff Post or Gmail's been left open on it) and bares down to what's going to be an ugly, long-lasting battle.

This isn't Iraq in case you were wondering (I don't think they have Gmail out there... probably Jihad-mail... rimshot!) this is my apartment. And I've been caught in a wicked crossfire between The Lady and the Roommate.

Something in the back of my head tells me that this was inevitable. The two of them don't get along very well at all, and at the risk of further alienating them from each other, and even me, I'll break down how the other sees their advisory.

The Lady sees the RM as an awkward annoyance, a child that she's been prematurely saddled with. A slob that seldom picks anything up and is a thieving anti-social dullard. He's pathetic and a nuisance. She often wonders how he even made it through bootcamp.

The RM views The Lady as a interloper, the succubus that's robbed him of his best friend and roommate. A point of conflict and contention. What he sees is a house thief who does nothing but plot against him when he's not here, laying traps (or pubic hair) in his room.

(Update: As I was writing this, the RM came back from the store, where I sent him to get me a Snickers with Almonds and an orange Gatorade. When he came back, he burst into my room and started to jabber on in a non-sequitor that involved Alec Baldwin, the film 'We Own The Night' and the letter 'X' , he then placed upon my head the Gatorade and said 'dude, listen to the wind outside, and feel the coolness on your head. Doesn't it feel like a tropical storm?!)

The fact is, I'm trying to have my cake and eat it too. I love having The Lady living here with me, because I don't get to see enough of her during the week to begin with. With her here, it takes away all that lost time where we're traveling to see each other. It's also beneficial to her as well, because we live in such close proximity to her job, that she can walk and leave the car parked. With gas at 4.00+ USD, that's a huge check in the plus column.

With the roommate, it's nice to have him around because he's genuine comic relief, and I feel like I have an obligation towards him as his 'older brother.' But he can be tedious to deal with as well, as he seldom does chores and often parades ugly t shirts he buys into my room for my approval/disapproval (there's really never an 'approval' since he refuses to buy clothes meant for an adult).

These two don't like each other and I don't like having to be the go-between. I hate having to spend a good chunk of my work week counseling my roommate on getting along with my girlfriend, and I don't want to deal with The Lady's attitude towards my roommate, which makes her pissy, which she'll take out on me.

All I want to do is come home and relax, and not feel like I have to be a referee. I did this for twenty-sum-odd years with my parents, and now that I've moved out (again) I see it as wholly unnecessary to do it with two more people I care about.

I think this will be easier to explain to the readers if I break down the latest point of contention: Being that my name is on the lease to the apartment, I take a more ... presidential stand on the happenings of my little two-bedroom country. When I invited The Lady to move in, we agreed that we'd split the rent (Update 2: The Roommate just walked into my room, head partially shaved, to show me the 'upside down vag' he shaved into the front of his forehead. It was a downward pointing triangle. He was also only in his underwear.) three ways, and her share of the utilities would be spent on buying groceries. We all agreed to this, and it was fine.

Then the RM started to have an issue when his share of the utilities came out to 90 dollars for the month. And then when he went to a fit when he was looking for something to make for dinner, and there was nothing he liked.

The Lady and I like organic products, so we shop at an organic grocery store. The RM likes to eat cardboard and other crap of that nature. So I can understand his befuddlement.

"Dude, weeks ago I told you to make a list of shit..."

"Well... will she shop at someplace other than Trader Joe's?" I didn't want to argue with him, because it was a stupid argument to have. And then he launched into a tirade about the utilities. "We're only here half the month, how is it so high?!" I, again, didn't see a point to arguing with him, nor did I feel like bringing up the fact that we've been running the central air a lot lately, as well as the dishwasher... plus he has a huge tendency to leave the living room tv on when he goes into his room, or vice versa, along with the lights.

The Lady has threatened to move out, trying to avoid a nasty confrontation. I've implored her not to, to just talk it over with the RM.

And that's how I get sucked into being the go-between. Why is it, the guy who's always caught in the crossfire is unarmed?

An Ode To Living Recklessly

I'm a shitbird.

A total dickhead, scumbag, perverted shit-stain on society.

I love to drive drunk with very little regard for other drivers. Fuck'em: the car load full of kids or the soccer team, or the prom dates.

I love to drink too much and pass out at people's houses whom I don't know.

I love to correct people's grammar in public, with only the most condescending tone.

I drive like an asshole (when I'm not drunk), I seldom wear my seat belt, never use my signals, and expect everyone else around me to abide by the same traffic laws I disregard. I speed and swerve and drive with my windows down in all types of weather.

I like to keep a loaded gun on my person at all times and often pick fights with people I know could kick my ass. I don't give a shit, I have a gun.

I like to fuck without a condom on. I almost never pull out, and if I do, it's to cum on the girl's face or tits. I never hang around after, I just get up and leave.

I bet on sports when I don't have the money. I do the same thing with my bills; I pay my bills with checks that I know will bounce. Same goes for my rent.

I vote Republican in the 21st century.

I sneer at children and wolf whistle at their moms. I grab my crotch in line at the grocery store.

I play with knives, especially when I've been drinking.

I may or may not have children someplace else in the country.

I tell fat women they're fat. To their boyfriend's faces.

I drink Tecate and eat microwave burritos at 3 am on Monday nights.

I wake up hung over for work at 0630 in the morning, when I have to be in the office at 0715. I don't call ahead and I don't give a shit.

I throw things.

I make my roommate do my dishes and scrub my shitty toilet.

I plug in my amp and play horrible guitar at all hours. When the neighbors show up to complain I tell them to go fuck themselves while blowing pot smoke into their faces. When they inevitably send the cops over, I pretend I'm a disabled war vet.

I rent movies and don't watch them. Weeks go by and when the store calls about their movies, I tell them that I just moved into the address and have no idea what they're talking about.

I sleep on park benches. I clean my gun on park benches.

I stroll by high schools and ask the girls walking on the side walk what grade they're in.

I play pool in bars and don't pay for the games. I let my friends buy my drinks for me and never pay for a round.

I demand a buy-back from the bartender. When he cuts me off, I go outside and slash all the tires in the parking lot, hoping I got his.

I eat like shit. Wait, let me rephrase that... I eat shit. My arteries are so clogged with shit that my insides look like an LA Freeway. My doctors yell at me, my girlfriend yells at me, and I don't care. If it tastes good, I'm eating it, whether it's deep fried, bathed in butter or beer battered, I'm going to ingest it until my heart gives out under me. Fuck it.

I smoke cigarettes but I never buy my own pack. I'm that asshole who's hanging outside of the bar bumming smokes off everyone. I never apologize for it either.

I'm inside the bar smoking.

I'm your co-worker who talks too loudly on the phone and ignores your emails.

I'm the dickhead on Facebook who won't return your Friend Request.

I listen to shitty music loudly and at the same time tell you you have no taste in music.

I'm at a rock concert feeling your girlfriend's ass.

I'm doing hits of extacy around black guys and telling them "thanks for not kicking my white ass"

I'm an asshole, a dick, and a douche bag. I'm your neighbor, your brother, your father and your son. I'm your boss and your employee.

I'm You.

Short Fiction: Immigrants and Out of Towners Part 2 (These Guys Are Cops?)

Captain Frank Blits was a twenty year veteran of the New York City Police Department, and hated the Vice Unit. He hated it in the sense that even being around the Vice Unit would give him gas. And it was gas that was troubling him all the way over to the apartment complex on East 8^th Street.

Vice, unlike other non-uniform details, didn’t report to a station house because they were strictly undercover. If someone saw a Vice officer step out of a station house anywhere in the city, instantly their cover was compromised. Therefore, Vice was one of the only units in the city that got to report to apartments as headquaters.

Blits had his driver wait outside as he walked up the three flights to the condo where the city’s 4-7 Vice Squad was quartered. He grumbled along with his stomach, as he made sure to break wind on every new flight of stairs.

The condo was accommodating, even to Vice standards. They had a large living room with leather couches that they used as a squad room, with the bedrooms and offices as private offices and seldom used interrogation rooms. Only in rare occasions did members of the 4-7 bring witnesses or suspects or even their bread-and-butter, Criminal Informants, or “CIs” back here. If word got out that the cops were laying low in a condo, everyone’s lives were at risk.

Blits knocked on the door to number 3H and waited impatiently. He looked around door the hallways and knocked again before cutting another fart. He groaned, knowing that the Chinese food he had at lunch wasn’t the only thing disagreeing with him.

After twenty long seconds the door unlatched and came open on it’s chain. Standing behind the door was a young man with shaggy black-as-a-subway-tunnel hair and green eyes who appeared not to be wearing a shirt looked out at him. Blits lifted his wallet badge and ID and showed it to the crack in the door without saying a word. The shirtless officer closed and unchained the door and opened it up.

After closing it he introduced himself and Blits could see he was only wearing a towel and wet.

“Officer, can you… can you explain, why…” and the young naked officer sniffed the air and turned his face down. “Can you explain to me why you’re out of uniform in the middle of your shift?” The dark haired officer looked over his shoulders as if someone were to materialize to help him answer the question, and when he saw no one he simply shrugged at the captain.

“Sorry sir, I just was in need of a shower, I guess?” And with that, the 4-7’s commanding officer, Captain Carlos “Tiger” Ramirez walked out of one of the bedrooms and stood holding his coffee. He smelled the air as well and looked down into his coffee cup, curious if the crème had gone bad.

“Captain Ramirez, I demand to know why your officer is out of uniform in mid shift!” Bellowed Captain Blits. Tiger Ramirez looked at his young officer clad in only a towel, and then looked back at the other captain. He sighed and gestured with the coffee cup.

“Officer Clark, why are you only in a towel, in mid shift?”

“Well sir, I needed a shower. I don’t see anything wrong with that,” Officer Clark said. He then excused himself to go get changed in the bathroom.

When the two captains were alone, Ramirez motioned that Blits follow him back to his office in the master bedroom.

The office was typical of what you’d find in most inner city station houses. A desk with a computer, a chair, filing cabinets, a big cork board with black and white photographs with pins and index cards stuck to them. Ramirez told Blits to close the door behind him and told him to have a seat.

“What do you want, Frank?” Ramirez said as he sat. He smelled the room again and his face went foul on him.

“Jesus, it’s me, ok! When I have something I hate to do, I get the shits, ok? Lay off!” And Blits went red in the face. Ramirez simply nodded, got up and opened a window and sat back down.

“So what do you want,”

“I’ve got the go ahead from Police Plaza to share this information with you, because those in charge think you might have something to offer us, in the grand scheme of things,”

“I’m listening,” Blits paused, choosing his words carefully and then looked back at his counter part in Vice.

“Last week, one of the guys down in Brooklyn Homicide picked up a case on two dead goombas in Red Hook. It looks like it was a planned hit out front of a diner. The guys were Capasso foot soldiers, low ranking little shits. But they were also the fourth Capasso men, particular to ‘Dollar Bill’ De Luca’s old crew to end up dead in recent weeks. When this dick out of Brooklyn Homicides started piecing together some facts from other unattended deaths that the city was looking at as suspicious, it started to paint an interesting picture.” Blits pulled out a manila folder and from it took some glossy color photos and laid them out on Ramirez’s desk. The Tiger bent over his desk and took a look at the grisly crime scene pictures.

The first was a rather large white man on his stomach, his back exposed, hairy pimpled, a pool of blood underneath him. Blits picked it up and tapped the man’s back.

“This guy here is Bobby ‘The Tooth’ La Dente, he was found in his basement in Brighton with his mouth and nose taped closed, and a razor cut across his neck. Initially it was believed it was a robbery homicide, but the dicks on the scene never found anything out of the ordinary. No windows broken, no doors kicked in, nothing stolen. Only this fat slob in his basement, taped and cut up.”

“Who tipped Homicide off, I mean, he could’ve been down there for weeks,” Ramirez said as he put the photo down.

“He was CIing for the Narcos on the Russians. So the focused naturally turned towards the Russians. This was three weeks ago. Then, we have Signore Ralphie Bambito,” and Blits pulled out the other photo, a glossy color of a blue faced older gentleman with obvious bruising around his neck. “He was found hanging in a meat locker at a deli on O Avenue. The owner of the deli didn’t even know he was back there until he went looking for a particular slab of beef, when he came across Mr. Bambito hanging from his neck. This time around it was unknown why Bambito was executed, and that was two weeks ago.” And Blits pointed to the final photo, Jimmy lying on top of Mikey, each with a wet patch in the backs of their heads.

“These two unlucky fucks walked out of a diner in Red Hook last Friday or Saturday night and were ambushed. Witnesses in the diner are slim picking, but word is that they were targeted. Now this is where the new intelligence comes in: Apparently the Don Giovanni Capasso is fed up with his weak leadership. He was never happy with De Luca, and since De Luca’s gone to Jessep, no one has really shown initiative to step up. So word has it that he’s contracted an outsider to take over the crew.”

“Ha, the Mafia’s outsourcing!”

“Believe it, they’ve brought in, get this, a twenty-four year old woman, who I guess is Queen Shit in Canada, to take over operations. And this did not sit well with a lot of the soldiers in De Luca’s old crew.”

“So you’re thinking that this dragon lady cleaned house?”

“Either that or Capasso ordered it himself, regardless, the Italians are making a move, and with them on the brink of being stamped out of this city forever, Police Plaza does not want them to regain any of the ground they’ve lost.”

“So how is this a Vice issue, Frank?” Blits picked up the photos and put them back in the folder and then produced a bound report and slid it across to Tiger. The cover was slicky produced with the NYPD logo and “Confidential” stamped under it. He flipped through it quickly, and then closed it. “Ok, and?”

“And we need someone from Vice to get in. It’s a gambling operation, and that’s Vice’s territory. It’s going to be multi-departmental, with Homicide running the show, Narco running the surveillance equipment, and Vice,” and Blits smiled “doing the leg work.”

“So why the 4-7?” Blits stood up, collecting his things.

“Intel believes the gambling den is going to be in the Meat Packing District, which is your jurisdiction. This is a short notice operation, so have your team prepped and ready to go by 2300. The rally point will be the roof top at 2372 West 7^th Street.” Ramirez stood and escorted the captain out through the living room/squad room, where Clark was sitting on the couch, now dressed, watching tv with his feet on the coffee table.

Blits stopped short of the door, holding his stomach and grimacing.

“Is this what Vice officers do all day? Watch tv with their feet up?!” He yelled, and Clark turned to face him, but didn’t get up. He looked back at Tiger who rolled his eyes and motioned for him to take his feet off the coffee table. Clark did so and soon Blits was gone.

“Wow that guy stunk, who was he?” Vice Officer Sean Clark asked when his captain returned alone. Ramirez sighed and slumped down next to his star officer on the couch.

“He’s a ball breaker. He was a ball breaker in the academy twenty years ago, he was a ball breaker as a sergeant, he was a ball breaker as a lieutenant. He’s a professional ball breaker, don’t let him bother you Sean.”

To say Clark was dressed casually would be an understatement. He was young, mid twenties, been on the force for New York for the last four years, with Vice for two and a rising star in the ranks. If Clark, who would easily convince people he was Red Sox pitcher Josh Beckett’s twin brother, wanted rank he’d easily be a sergeant by now. But he wasn’t interested in stripes or bars or even oak leaves, he wanted to make cases. That’s why he joined Vice after a short jaunt in patrol.

He graduated second in his academy class, first in firearms and physical fitness, second in testing. He was originally from a small town outside of Boston and moved to New York City for school and ended up here permanently after he graduated. He wore tattered jeans, a tight fitting Red Sox t shirt, with his badge hanging around his neck, and gun holstered to his hip.

Vice primarily was a “nickel and dime bust” unit. But what attracted Clark to the line of work was that he was in effect his own boss and he could dress pretty much how he wanted to. He even let his black hair grow out a little bit and sported stubble all day. He work black Converse canvas hi-tops and a digital sports watch. He looked like he could blend in on any campus in the United States.

Ramirez clued Clark in on the meeting he had with Blits, giving Clark the bound intelligence report that the captain had given him. Clark only really half listened, paying more attention to Sports Center high lights on the big screen tv, which was forfeited property from a drug den their seized a year ago.

“And this is going down tonight?” Clark asked after his captain recapped the events of the meeting. Solemnly Tiger Ramirez nodded. “Wow, that’s pretty deep, a female capo? Well, I guess even the wops have to accept that it’s 2007,” he said and reached for a bottle of water.

“I’m thinking of using you and Harper on the inside,” Ramirez said. Clark nodded and swallowed his water and flipped through the report.

“Yeah, but how are you planning on getting us in. It seems like it’s pretty exclusive company,” and Clark tossed the report back on the coffee table, where he replaced his feet.

“You know Jimmy Tattoo?” Ramirez said.

“Jimmy Tattoo, the guy that bar tends down at the Churro Lounge?”

“Yeah, he owes us a favor right?”

“Yeah with that thing, the heroin thing; we turned the Narcos off from sniffing around his boss’s place.”

“Let’s go pay him a visit, huh?” And Clark smiled.

They pulled up in front of the Churro Lounge on East 15^th Street and Broadway, a lowball place that served stiff highballs all day to the mostly punk-chic crowd that wandered over from St. Mark’s Street.

Being that it was middle of the Fall, Clark was wearing an Underarmor jacket which helped cover his gun, and he tucked his badge under his shirt. Ramirez was in a dress shirt and tie, being a bit older than his Vice star, he also displayed his badge and gun on his hip.

The two walked into the bar and found it empty, which wasn’t surprising being that it was before eleven in the morning. Behind the bar stood a big biker looking guy covered in ink. Jimmy Tattoo cleaned a glass and looked up as the door swung open.

“Hey Jimmy!” Clark yelled out as he pulled his badge out from under his shirt. The big inked freak stood stalk still and inched towards the register with his hand. Clark pointed with his hand at the bar tender, “hey! Don’t you fucking move asshole!” And Ramirez was quick to get around the bar.

“You’re coming with us, and if you do anything dumb I swear to god I’m going to make it so you piss out of your asshole,” Ramirez cuffed the hunk of colored meat and shoved him in front of them. The three walked out of the bar into broad daylight, and stuffed the thug into the back of their unmarked Crown Victoria.

They drove out to the Battery in Lower Manhattan, away from the docks and prying eyes of the tourists and uncuffed the oaf. He looked up at them and blinked with a “what, me?” look on his face.

“We heard something today that we thought was sort’ve interesting Jimmy,” Clark started.

“We heard that you might know how to help us out with it too,” Tiger said right after. Jimmy Tattoo looked from one to the other, his big wet lip quivering slightly

“I don’t know what the fuck you two are talking about,” he said. Clark nodded and rubbed his face.

“We know about the gambling casino in the Meat Packing District tonight and we know your boss has access to it. We know he’s going to be there tonight, and we know he told you where he’s going to be, because like the pimple on his ass, you’re never far behind him, right Tattoo?” Ramirez said.

“I heard something about that, yeah,” Jimmy brightened up a little bit and Clark smiled.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, so listen up,” Clark smiled and took out a piece of paper from his pocket. “We’re going to bring you down to a station house and dump you off with some uniform prick. We’re going to tell him to book you on a jay walking charge you dumb son of a bitch. When you get punted out with your cite, you go back to the bar, and go talk to your boss Milano and tell him that you met this guy, and this is his number. He’s from out of town, you don’t know where, but not from around here. He wants to know where the big money games are and is looking to make a few new contacts for his Ecstasy racket, you got that you big dumb ox?” And Jimmy Tattoo nodded along.

“You fuck this up Jimmy and next time we take you out for a talk, it’ll be in East New York and we’ll let the homeboys cut the bacon off your back, you got it? Ramirez added. And again Jimmy nodded along, licking his big wet lips. Clark reached into the car and produced a hand held radio and keyed over to central dispatch.

“Charlie-One-Nine-Four-Seven, central” he spoke.

“Go ahead C1947,”

“Yeah I need a pick up, one ten46 male by the battery, could you send a blue and white?”

“Ten4 Charlie-one-nine-four-seven, you got a better ten20?”

“In the area of the uh,” and he unkeyed the mic and looked around. “In the area of all the seagull shit.” Ramirez shook his head and rolled his eyes. Clark chuckled and the dispatcher came back with a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

“Be advised C1947, you’re on the central channel.”

“Copy, ten4 central, ten20s going to be by the Waste Management Building at Cross Street, over,”

“Copy, Waste Management Building at Cross, over.” And Clark tossed the radio down into the car. A short while later an NYPD cruiser pulled up and took Jimmy Tattoo to whatever station house they came from while Clark and Ramirez went over their game plan.

It was on the rooftop that Sean Clark had a clear idea how big this investigation was going to be. It was a windy and cooler than usual night for October, and there had to be a dozen or so people standing around under a collapsible awning with tables of electrical equipment. Guys in NYPD windbreakers drinking coffee out of paper cups, flipping channels on closed circuit tv feeds, speaking into ear pieces.

Clark and Ramirez were the only members from Vice, but there weren’t too many dicks from Homicide either, as they were lead to believe. The bulk of the unit was guys from Narcotics who were busy tweaking their equipment.

The plan was to go like this: The number that Clark gave to Jimmy Tattoo went to one of the many dummy cell phone accounts the Vice unit kept with prepaid service. This made it easy to change out numbers on cell phones whenever they wanted. When Milano called the number later that afternoon, the script was already set up. Sean Clark was an Irish Mob member in town for the weekend looking to set up contacts for a shipment of Ecstasy he was looking to move. He wanted to rub elbows with the right people and was looking for new clientele. Milano of course, seeing an opportunity to make nice in the face of the new lady boss (as well as a chunk of profit), took the bait and invited Clark along. Milano was going to pick up Clark at the Embassy Hotel in fifteen minutes, which was across the street from the op center.

A narcotics officer walked over to the well dressed Clark, wearing a Christian Dior Homme chocolate colored suit and a plain black t shirt from Banana Republic with a tiny fiber optics cable and battery pack.

“What the fuck is this?” Clark asked both his commanding officer and the narco.

“It’s a surveillance recorder,” the narco said dumbly.

“I fucking .. know that, but I’m not wearing it.”

“Then, how are we going to know what’s going on?” Ramirez interjected.

“My man here isn’t going to wear a wire. I’m almost certain that if Milano doesn’t pat him down in the car, the goon at the door will. And if he’s caught wearing a wire, they’ll most likely kill him where he stands. Nope, no guns, no wire. That’s how Vice rolls,” and Ramirez crossed his arms. Clark nodded and crossed his arms too. The tech looked back at the table of monitors and computers under the awning and sighed. He coiled the wire around his hand and shrugged. “You better get down there kid, it’s show time.”

“It’s too bad Harper couldn’t get in on this,” Clark said. “Oh well,”

“Too many people in on a sting like this isn’t a good thing. Remember to just take note of everything you see, and come out in one piece. Don’t get cocky, don’t get arrogant, just observe, ok?”

Clark was outside the Embassy waiting under the awning, making idle chatter with the doorman when a black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the curb. A goony looking guy got out from the driver side and called out to Clark, while opening the door to the rear of the vehicle. Clark said good bye to the doorman to be polite and got in.

The interior was dark, but rich with the smells of leather and cognac. He sat across from a rather large man sipping on liquor and breathing heavy.

“You must be Mr. Milano,” Clark said from his side. In the dark the man just sat and nodded and sipped his drink.

“What family, up in Boston, did you say you were with, Mr. Clark?” Said the voice in the dark. He sounded like someone with thick phlegm in their throat.

“The Sullivans,” Clark responded. The man nodded again.

“I don’t know if news spreads up that way, but we have a new capo being introduced to our family tonight,” Milano said.

“Oh really, can’t wait to meet him then,”

“Her, meet her.”

“Her?”

“Mm, yeah. She’s this Canadian from our Families in Montreal. She I guess, has new ideas on making money. Don Capasso wants to restructure things, move into a more secure way of earning outside of the usual garbage truck routes and cabbie shake downs. It should be an interesting time to say the least.”

They pulled into a lot by the loading docks of a butchery factory and got out. It was quarter after midnight and a small line of well dressed people stood at the manager’s door by the big bay doors to the factory. Goons in pinstripes were waving metal detecting wands over party goers and waving them in slowly, eying everyone suspiciously. Without incident Clark and Don Milano were screened and sent inside.

Much to Clark’s amazement, amongst the cutting machines and meat hooks were tables of green velvet and chips. Women in gorgeous gowns and men in top tailored suits were standing around drinking and laughing amongst the obvious security prowling the floor.

It wasn’t a big casino floor, maybe a dozen different tabled games ranging from blackjack to roulette to poker. A lot of the men were old, and a lot of the women were young, maybe some still in high school. Clark caught a glimpse of some of the underworld’s heavy hitters, guys like Tony “Bats” Battaligia, a guy who did fifteen years back in the 1980s for numbers running and attempted murder of a federal witness. By the bar was Charlie “Two Shoes” Schemani, a pimp who broke the skull of an off duty city fire fighter who happened to try to stiff one of his girls. And then by the money cage, surrounded by four goons in Armani, Jeffy “The Croc” Carmella, an old war horse and alleged hitman for the Dibiase Family in the 1970s, who switched families after the Dibiases planned a hit on him in order to make things right with a family across the river in Jersey. This was a regular Who’s Who of the Tri-State Underworld.

Clark made his way over to a back jack table and bought chips from the dealer. He was issued petty cash from the department with the instructions that it was to be accounted for when the arrests were made in the case. He bought five thousand in chips, and started playing with the dealer and two people at the table. While he was waiting to hit or stay he glanced around at the scene, making note of the security cameras in the place.

An hour went by, and being up ten grand and a little tipsy things suddenly got very quiet and the gaming came to an abrupt halt. Suddenly, the slight bent little old Italian man, Don Giovanni Capasso stood on top of a sturdy butcher’s table with his arms spread wide.

He wore rose tinted glasses, and a sharp suit with no tie, and he shook a little when he spoke. Close by was his right hand man, Consigliore Jack “The Carpenter” Carpicize who watched over everyone closely.

“Ladies and gentleman, friends and family, let me please be the first to introduce you to Ms. Martina De Rossi,” and from behind him through a small narrow dark door way, emerged De Rossi in a beautiful gown and diamonds. Her hair up, but curled, to Clark it looked like she was going to prom. She was so young, that he wasn’t sure if she was the new capo or Capasso’s granddaughter. She had a radiant smile and it seemed that all the air was sucked out of the room. She curtsied and then took Don Capasso’s hand and kissed his ring. The Don turned back to the room and continued his speech.

“Ms. De Rossi is going to be overseeing the earning in Brooklyn. She’s been in charge of many different money generating operations in her native Montreal, and she is on loan to us from the Panera Family. She is to be treated as a capo first, and a lady second!” And to this there were a few chuckles from the crowd. De Rossi beamed elegantly, her shoulders exposed and slender. Her lips the color of rosewood that matched her dress and shoes. “Most importantly,” he continued “I want you each to enjoy yourselves and of course, spend some fuckin’ money!” And he got a big laugh from those in attendance.

From behind, Clark’s ribs got a poke from Milano who had gotten next to him during the introduction.

“See, that’s what I was talking about. Some sight, huh kid?” And Clark nodded. He saw that she was making her way slowly around the room, introducing herself to people, shaking hands and being a typical hostess. She didn’t fit the typical archetype of the Mafia woman, who was usually held together in cheap knock off designer clothing and Aquanet. She seemed to have a stately presence, almost like Jackie Kennedy. Clark slid away from Milano and got himself close to the new lady capo.

De Rossi was just finishing a short conversation with another Mafioso when she turned to see Clark standing there, with his tailored chocolate suit and little green handkerchief planted in his breast pocket. She gave him a quick once over and then pasted on a fake looking smile as she extended her gloved hand.

“Martina De Rossi,” she said with a heavy accent.

“Sean Clark,” and he took her hand.

“That doesn’t sound very Italian, Mr. Clark.”

“It’s not supposed to be. I’m with a different outfit,”

“And what would this outfit be?” She was trying to stay composed but he could feel her boredom radiating off of her.

“I’m with the Irish out of Boston. The Sullivan Family actually,”

“Oh, and how did you hear about our little gathering this evening,” and De Rossi looked around the casino.

“I got an invite from a man named Milano, do you know him?”

“I’ve heard of him yes, will you excuse me Mr. Clark?” And De Rossi slipped away to join another small cluster of men around a roulette wheel. Clark felt dumped and kicked all at the same time. He bit the inside of his cheek and walked back towards the gaming tables.

Things began to wind down and people were leaving. Clark had eventually lost the money but wasn’t sweating it much. He no longer saw Milano in the crowd and wondered where his ride went. When he left the factory floor to the lot outside, he still saw the Mercedes but the driver was missing too. Clark stood by the car, leaned up against it, taking note of the other people who were in attendance.

There was Micky “The Frog” Fattamia, who was linked to contracting jobs. He would sell under-spec materials to big contracting firms, who would then use the materials in non essential parts of big building projects, knowing that building inspectors will never get around to checking those parts. Another was Irving “The Slug” Santabello, known for getting shot in the mouth at a night club back in 1995. A metal filling in one of his molars stopped the bullet cold. An unusual party member was rapper/actor Millionaire, who was known for his catchy top 40 rap songs like “I Was a Burglar,” and “Bullets Don’t Phase Me.” Even a professional baseball player, an outfielder for the Yankees, was walking back to a car with two girls under his arms. If he didn’t play for the fucking Yankees, Clark thought, he’d go over and get his autograph.

After twenty minutes went by since the last car left the lot, and Clark was left alone standing at the Mercedes with no one around it, he decided that Milano wasn’t coming and he should probably head out on his own. He was wary of making any calls from his cell phone to the op center to send someone to pick him up, at least, this close to the Meat District. He decided to walk a few blocks back towards Broadway.

He got about two blocks when a blacked out GMC Denali came to a skidding stop in front of him on the wet pavement. Clark froze as the doors opened up and two shaved headed goons in windbreakers grabbed him on each arm and started to drag him to the rear of the SUV.

“Hey, what the fuck!” And Clark put up a fight. One of the men punched him in the kidney which made him go limp, and the other put a pillow case over his head with a drawstring and pulled it tight. Clark could feel himself being lifted and placed in the cargo section of the truck.

When they finally stopped, they hadn’t driven far at all, maybe a handful of blocks. Clark could sense that they were probably back at the butchery, and let himself be carried by the goons from the SUV.

He was sat in a chair and handcuffed behind his back. The hood was then pulled from over his head and he was looking up at De Rossi, the two shaved goons, and Don Capasso.

Clark didn’t know what to say or do, so he didn’t say anything at all. De Rossi walked up to him and pulled the Kelly green kerchief from his suit coat and balled it up in her hand. She walked over to one of her goons and whispered in his ear. The goon then marched over and slugged Clark in the face, rocking his head back.

Before he could regain his senses, the other goon was punching him too, and both men worked over Clark’s face til it was purple and puffy.

“Assez,” she said and both men stopped. Clark’s head swam and he tried to focus on De Rossi who was slowly walking over to him. Her heels clicked on the cement floor, and when she got in front of him, she dabbed the blood from his face on his kerchief.

“I know everything, Mr. Clark, so it’s in your best interest to tell the truth, capiche?”

“Ok,”

“Why were you here tonight?”

“I wanted to set up a trade market for some Ecstasy I’m running out of Boston,” Clark said by rote, hoping this was the truth she was referring to, and not his real story. She dabbed again.

“And you know that the Italians are no longer dealing in narcotics, no?”

“I wasn’t aware, I’m from out of town,” and he winced.

“This is why we tell you fucks to stay the fuck out of New York!” Capasso shouted from his corner of the room. “Are you trying to get us all indicted, Mr. Clark!”

“No, just trying to make money,” De Rossi smiled at him.

“Aren’t we all, Mr. Clark? Aren’t we all?.” She walked over to a freezer and pulled the door open. Her two goons walked in and wheeled out Milano and his driver’s body on two slabs. They were cut from their chins down to their testicles; eyes plucked out and mouths sewn shut. Clark didn’t want to look, but didn’t dare turn away either. So he fixated himself on Milano’s oddly shaped oversized nipples and wonder if he had cancer. “You see Mr. Clark, Don Milano didn’t tell the truth until it was too late, and he and his associate paid for it. You were wise and trusting. We can maybe make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“You forget the drugs, and come work for us. I’m sure we can find something for you to do in our organization.” He looked from De Rossi to Capasso to the two goons who were waiting on the word to beat the shit out of him again. He glanced down and saw his own blood puddled under the chair. He sighed and looked up at the lady capo.

“Mm, work for you huh? Yeah, you can go fuck yourself. I’m not switching teams to work for some meatball cunt,” and to this De Rossi was stunned.

There was about five seconds were no one could say anything. Even Capasso was stunned, as were the two goons. But Clark was smart and he knew the game that was being played. If he immediately jumped ship from his “family” he would be viewed as a spy and possibly killed. He had to show some resistance.

“Ok,” De Rossi started slowly. She walked back between her two men. “That’s unfortunate. I hope you’ll have a chance to reconsider Mr. Clark. My two associates will make sure you get home this evening. A good night to you.” And she and Capasso left the room arm in arm to her clicks and shut the door. The two goons spent an hour taking turns beating on Clark.

As the sun was rising over the city, with it’s golden glow reflected off the glass facades of the buildings downtown, the blacked out Denali stopped hard in front of the Embassy in downtown Manhattan, and a beaten and bloodied sack of shit Sean Clark fell to the curb. The door slammed and the truck took off.

Clark rolled to his back and sat up, leaning against a trash can. His left eye was swollen shut, his jaw couldn’t move, and all he could taste was blood and teeth. He took a few minutes to get his bearings, as early commuters stepped around him on their way to work. He picked himself up, and sat on the stoop, watching the world start it’s day.

New Short Fiction: The Lies We Tell, Part 3 (Conclusion)

You create, usually, more problems when you hire another killer to kill a hired killer.

I was convalescing in my hotel room; I was going to give myself half a week to lick my wounds before I would try to fly back across the Atlantic in my cut up condition. I wasn’t as bad as I thought I was initially. There was a lot of blood of course, but most of the wounds were superficial at best. I had one nasty gash from my left middle rib down to just short of my hip. I stitched it as best I could, using the expensive whiskey in the duty-free mini-bar as an anti-septic and thread and needle from a tailoring kit I purchased in the gift shop in the lobby.

It was going to scar nastily but it beat an infection.

I was waiting on a steak from room service and a knock came at the door. I glanced at the little brass alarm clock at the side of the bed and thought to myself that room service was rather quick this evening. I stared long and hard at the door when again there was a knocking.

Slow to my feet I was up and by the door with a slight hobble. My body was very achy and I was dehydrating quickly. I cleared my throat, leaned against the jam, away from the center of the door and called out.

“Who is it?”

“Room service, with your steak,” came a heavily accented Jamaican voice. I peered through the peephole and saw a rather slow looking Jamaican standing, dressed in a bellhop’s uniform of red and gold, complete with the cylindrical-style hat on top of his waist-long dreadlocks. A tiny elastic held it in place, slightly askew.

I opened the door slowly and gave the waiter a once over. I stepped back from the door, closed it, unlatched the chain and beckoned him in. He wheeled in a sliver cart with a silver serving tray.
***

The tray was high polished silver that reflected everything in the room, even the cold concentrated stare of the Jamaican pushing it. Jimmy caught him sizing him up, and knew what the deal was just as the Jamaican struck.

The Jamaican threw the top of the silver platter at Jimmy and caused the killer to put his hands up defensively. Under the tray sat a silenced H&K USP 9mm which the dreadlocked killer picked up and fired twice.

Jimmy knew just then that this hired killer sent to do him in was not of the same skill set as he. The bullets went wild in the frantic may-lay, even at close range. Jimmy closed in on the Jamaican as he was trained to do when confronted with an assailant with a pistol and wrestled him to the floor.

The two killers grappled on the floor, Jimmy’s body slick with sweat as he felt his stitches popping from his side. He grunted and grimaced as the Jamaican started to throw punches at Jimmy’s head with his free hand. As soon as he took his hand off the gun, Jimmy knew the Jamaican was going to die.

Jimmy leaned forward and bit hard into the dark hand holding the gun. Bit so hard that blood gushed into his mouth, causing the Jamaican to curse in his native tongue. So hard that Jimmy felt a hunk of flesh in his cheek and when he turned to spit it out, he saw bone on the hand he took it from.

The gun came loose and Jimmy pointed it at his assassin. The Jamaican scrambled to his feet to break out from the room, but Jimmy took steady aim, in spite of everything and squeezed once. The sharp whip of the muffled muzzle cut the air and thudded in his hand, the Jamaican spinning by the door and crashing into it with a bang that was louder than the report from the pistol. There was a rather large splotch of blood on the wall next to him.

It wasn’t a kill shot, he merely grazed him. Jimmy forced himself up on his left elbow and felt a sear of pain shoot up his side. He cursed and bit into his lip. He reached to the top of his bed and pulled himself up by the covers. His hand was a bloody mit and it smeared over everything. He got to his feet, unbalanced and then sat on the bed panting.

He looked down at the Jamaican squirming at the door, plaintively trying to reach the knob with his own bloody hoof. He’d touch it and it’d slip free, leaving thin streaks of red down the white door. The killer, with his long black ropes of thick natty hair was mumbling under his breath, bent backwards against the door, his legs lifeless and sprawled out behind him. From his left side there was a slow spreading patch of darkness.

Jimmy caught his breath and tried again to stand up. He wavered a bit and there was another rush of pain, but he was a little better off and was able to limp over to the slow-to-expire killer who was sent to squash him. With his foot, he nudged him until he flipped on to his back and sat against the door, looking up and holding his guts.

The shot had been slightly better than he expected. The bullet went in at the Jamaican’s left side, in the fleshly ‘spare tire’ area, but exited at about just above the naval. A decent backwards gut shot.

“Bombaclot ya shire ma man,” the Jamaican panted up at Jimmy. Jimmy had no clue what that meant but figured he was saying something about being shot or he was in pain or something. He flashed back momentarily to Iraq. There had been a bombing in a town market and his unit had been the first to respond. When he climbed out of his Humvee, there had been a man at his feet gasping for air like a fish, as the Jamaican was now.

At first it seemed like there was nothing wrong with this guy; he was just in shock. There was no blood, no torn clothing, no markings or singes or anything. Jimmy had wondered what this guy’s deal was until he glanced down and saw that from his waist and below, there was nothing there. He would’ve been actually standing on the poor son of a bitch’s dick, had he one left in tact.

The flashback ended in an instant and he was again in his London hotel room with quite a large mess on his hands. The Jamaican was still babbling about Babylon, or something, gasping for air in deeper and deeper gulps as Jimmy assumed that his lungs were slowly filling with bile and blood from his torn to shreds anatomy. That’s what he loved about the 9mm; when they impacted soft tissue they shred apart (similar in a sense to the 5.56 NATO), becoming razor sharp fragments inside whatever they hit. So in theory, a single bullet hole into some unlucky dreadlocked bastard-murderer would cause insurmountable damage to his insides.

Jimmy had to act fast if he wanted to learn anything from this amateur. He stood over the crumpled, nearly lifeless body of his latest victim and stared down into his eyes. He observed how dry the lips were and how white and big his eyes were. It made him blink and lick his own lips in response.

“Who sent you,” Jimmy started.

“Damn you, clownboy, no rasta talka that nonsense inna this house!” He wailed.

“What?”

“Rudeboy no tell!” Jimmy understood that -sort of- and took it as a sign of non compliance. He lifted one foot and grabbed on to the door frame for balance. He then pressed down on the seeping wound in the middle of his Jamaican counterpart.

“AHHH, bombaclot on yor porn one head, sar!” The Jamaican shouted. Luckily, Jimmy thought, in these swankier hotel rooms, the rooms were usually sound insulated. He pressed harder, causing the big white eyes of his victim to nearly pop out of his head.

“Give me a name,” Jimmy said after the rasta cooled out. He panted for a long while, probably thinking in his head if it was at all worth protecting whoever he was going to protect. He was dying; he was actually already dead, just Death was late showing up this time around. He looked up at the ceiling and then to Jimmy.

“No name, justa clownboy like you…”

“Russian?”

“No, like you, mon.”

“American?”

“That’s ire,” Jimmy let that sink in. He let off the stomach and sat back on the bed. The rasta panted and rolled over on to his good side.

“What’d he look like?” The rasta closed his eyes and moved his mouth, but nothing came out. He grunted, shit himself and coughed up a little blood. He was starting to drown on his own fluids. “Quickly, what’d he look like?!” Jimmy tried to stand but found it too difficult. The Jamaican let out a long spit string of blood from his mouth and slumped on the floor.

He no longer moved.
***

I got some rest, despite that there was a dead body in my room. It wasn’t the first time I took a nap next to a dead guy. When I was in Iraq we were pinned down by Insurgents outside of Ramala for 17 hours. I ended up dozing for about an hour, and when I woke up, I realized the pack I was using for a pillow was still attached to one of my dead squad members.

I was very cautious leaving the hotel, making sure to take the pistol with me under a long coat I had bought when I had come back from the barber shop. The coat was dark and let me bleed without drawing too much unneeded attention to myself. I re stitched my side, took a few shots of the expensive stuff in the mini bar and did my best stiff walk impression out into the cool wet London night.

A cab ride to the airport and a ticket home and a day later a cab’s pulling in front of my apartment, with me in it.

I’m pulling my suit bag out, limping a lot, dry-mouthed and jet lagged. All I wanted to do was crash into bed and avoid explaining anything to her.

I bought her a few nice things at the gift shop: A nice pen set, a t shirt, a fridge magnet, a tourist information book that I somehow got signed by David Beckham (long story.).

I struggle up the two flights of stairs and key into my apartment. The music’s on, typical. There’s a pizza box, open on the dining room table, next to which is a men’s French cuff shirt in black placed delicately on the back of a chair.

It’s not one of my shirts.

I stand by the pizza box, placing down my things, lifting the lid and pulling out a slice. It’s luke warm plain cheese. I take a bite and toss it back into the box.

I hear voices coming from my bedroom.

I walk. No wait, I stalk, back towards my bedroom, creeping on the balls of my feet. In spite of everything that’s happened in the last week, all the blood, all the flashbacks and all the dead bodies, it’s now that I notice how fast my heart’s racing. My head throbs and there’s a pang of pure adrenaline-fueled panic in my chest. Everything’s tighter, my face feels like it’s about to up and peel off. I take shallow breaths and blink with each step. I feel the sweat drip down into my stitched gash and it feels like someone’s raking rusty razors across my organs.

I push the door open and in the middle of my bed there’s my girlfriend and Casing.

It’s disgusting on so many different levels. He’s probably twice her age, lumpy, patches of hair here and there, still wearing his glasses on his fat glob of a head. Sweat glistening off his shiny face.

Conversely she’s sitting up, her jet black hair tangled but still looking beautiful. She doesn’t bother to cover herself so her perfect breasts simply sit in the open, for the public to bare witness to.

No one says a word for what feels like a decade. Whole trends in fashion and entire seasons of beloved television shows pass before there’s a solitary sound. And that sound that breaks the silence is the gurgling of Casing’s stomach.

“Gino’s Pizzeria is better,” I say from the door, leaning against it. My eyes feel like rocks, my jaw is set back and I’m fully locked on to the gross mass of old flesh laying on my girlfriend’s side of the bed. Her charm bracelet is on her night stand, next to him. The tv remote and a book she was reading is still there too. On my side, on my night stand is a set of motorcycle keys, a music magazine and a pocket knife.

She still hasn’t said anything, and she can’t even look at me. I walk into the room, slowly, sure in my steps, my eyes locked on both of them as they stew in their filth. I open up my night stand and take out my .380, the same one she made such a fuss about so long ago.

“Jimmy, don’t, stop!” She says at last. Her words, I put together in some sort of mix in my mind, where there’s no comma separating the don’t and the stop and it’s Casing’s name she’s calling. I nod once or twice to myself, level the pistol and fire once into her head.

Casing’s stunned, his hands up defectively, a streak of blood is across his face, on his glasses, on the sheets. He blubbers for a second and then regains his composure.

“Jimmy, it wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he starts.

I know,” I say, “I was supposed to be dead in London, right?” He takes his rose stained glasses off and looks down at his lap. “I’ll spell it out for you in case none of this has sunken in for you Casing: You sent me on a job which I wasn’t supposed to survive. And when I did, you sent some two-bit, half-wit jerk off with a high end pistol to snip the loose ends, right? Too bad I’m the best there ever was,” and Casing starts to cry. “You’re fucked.”

“Just get it over with,” he chokes out. I look down at her lifeless body and shed a tear. My lip quivers for a second, but then I get over myself.

“No, she didn’t suffer because I loved her. You, on the other hand,” and my pistol falls to my feet, and I reach back and pick up the pocket knife I left on the night stand, “you, you’re going to suffer.”
***

The police arrived about eight minutes after the first report of a gunshot was taken from a neighbor upstairs. The first arriving unit consisted of a rookie who was out of the academy for three months and had never worked a homicide before. His partner and FTO was a 12 year veteran.

When they both entered with second floor apartment, guns drawn - both started to puke. The rookie puked immediately down the front of his blouse, right in the middle of the crime scene. The vet managed to get to the landing before heaving over the side of the railing down to the lobby below. After two minutes of dry heaves, he managed to call for additional units and an ambulance.

Seriously, write your own joke....

This story, taken from (I think Reuters?), is probably the most articulate description of a New York Yankees fan, ever published. Go Sox.

BOOSH.

Best Of: May 2006

This was my very first "unmailed letters" article (there'd go on to be about five installments, each getting angrier I think...) so I thought it'd be nice to show you guys what was pissing me off roughly two years ago.

Hope you enjoy!

Often times people say that if you have a problem with something, you should write a letter, but not mail it. It helps get all the anger out. Well, for the first time ever, exclusive to this blog, here are some of my more favorite Unmailed Letters....

To the white trash family that lives at the top of the street:

Good morning, crackers! It's your neighbor James, you might remember me from a few weeks ago when I came over to politely ask you to stop having the three of your nineteen kids that drive, to stop driving so fast up and down the street in their shitty cars? Do you remember that? Remember how I even identified myself as a Peace Officer, and we shook hands? You were shirtless at the time, and presumably barefoot as well. Your smaller children were scattered all over your makeshift property? They had dirty clothes and dirty faces? You smelled like burning marijuana?

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how much I love being ignored! Even more so, I wanted to let you know how much I love the fact that you also ignore safety on a regular basis! I love how your property is littered with shitty cars, some running, some not. I love how you all decide to use our tiny street as your personal drag strip! I love hearing the shitty loud exhaust at all hours! I love how you keep me from maybe taking a 45 minute long nap by racing up and down the street all day. Also, that tinny whine from that mini bike you ride, which is illegally unregistered and illegally operated by an unlicensed individual, makes my ears bleed. So thank you for ruining some of my more favorite t shirts with a fad toy from two years ago that you just got off of lay-away.

Also, thank you so much for providing me with a real life episode of COPS twice weekly. Having Biddeford's Finest respond to your domestic issues at all hours, and screaming obscenities into the night air gives me a warm fuzzy feeling down in the base of my balls.

By the way, you're also very poor.

I hope that life finds you all well, with unscrubbed faces and unlaundered clothing. Also, the can of paint I plan on tossing on to that shitty primer gray VW Golf that keeps racing up and down the street is complimentary.

Bests..... James.

To my former upstairs Jewish neighbors in Queens, NY:

Shalom! I hope that whatever crazy Jewish holidays that have passed recently found you all well. I'm so sorry things didn't work out for us better... I was really looking forward to the man of the family letting himself into my apartment to turn down my appliances again. Nothing says "welcome to the neighborhood" like a creepy Jewish guy standing with muddy boots in my freshly washed kitchen floor, touching my property while I'm taking a piss.

I'm sorry that my work schedule was inconvenient for you and your family, and you had to report my landlord to the authorities, after less than a month, instead of just catching me while I was home and asking me to not play my tv/stereo/lady I was having sex with so loudly.

However I commend you on your ability to find a corrupt Russian landlord in a city that's only filled with them, and then reporting him to the City's Housing Board so that the only punishment that would be meeted out was me losing my home.

Anyway, I hope your small child grows up unathletic and greedy.

Mozel Tav! ...James.

To Howard Stern:

Howard... just a quick note to say that you're really not that funny. You're not god's gift to free speech. Just because you can get porn stars to fuck each other with modified power tools on your radio program only means that you were the first to put the idea in action. There are literally a million other people out there that had the same idea/s as you, but you only had the good fortune of getting on the air first.

Good luck with the satellite radio thing. It only downside is that your replacement was a post-rehab David Lee Roth, who is the only person on this entire planet who is more opinionated/bitchier than me.

Oh and I miss the awkward pauses on live radio early in the morning.

Baba-Booey.... James.

To Tv's Jack Bauer from FOX's '24':

You're awesome. Keep up the good work.

Man-crushing on you..... James.

To Olympian Bode Miller:

As if it wasn't already hard enough to be American in the world's eye, you come along and make it that much harder, you fucking choke artist.

Granted, the Winter Olympics in Torino were months ago, but you know, I just wanted to take an extra second here and tell you how much you suck. You suck harder than Howard Stern's show. You suck more than the Yankees, and they suck a whole lot.

All I can think of is the poor kid who worked his ass of, who wasn't born with the same talent as you, who missed the team cut off and was forced to be an alternate by maybe three seconds. He would've appreciated going to the Olympics, and he would've represented America proudly. Instead of going to night clubs all night, fucking ridiculously hot italian broads (the ones with the waxed mustaches), and presumably doing ice booze louges into the wee hours, he would've been at practice, and shit, maybe would've medaled. But no one will ever really know, will they?

So again, thanks for all the unnecessary hype. Thanks for affirming the idea in the international community that Americans are excessive consumers and have zero respect for age old cultural traditions, you fucking hack.

Next time you choke, I hope you die.... James.

To President Bush:

At the risk of having my door kicked in by federal agents (maybe... Jack Bauer? That'd be really hot actually...) I'll keep this short and thinly veiled... you're not doing a very good job sir.

I don't necessarily blame you, I mostly blame your administration. See, as a proud republican, you guys are making it awfully hard for me to stay along the party lines. You all are so super fucking conservative that you make the Nazi Party seem somewhat warm/friendly.

Everyone in your administration is on their own agendas, and quite frankly sir, you were somewhat under-qualified for this job you took on to begin with. When you first took office, we all thought that "hey, we're progressive! This will be a quick four year stint, and then we'll get back to having an actual president, not a funny go-betweener." The 9/11 happened and the shit hit the fan. We all turned towards the administration, with their figure piece, and collectively said "oh shit..."

We still are progressive though, ... we're the first country to elect someone who is clinically retarded to the office of President. Hey, we got a retard in before a black guy! NICE.

You're actions in Afghanistan were warranted, but then the whole Iraq thing happened. Your administration poured honey into your oversized ears and told you to lie to us, to coddle falsified reports about Weapons of Mass Destruction. Cuz I mean, basically, you're just the pretty face on the program. You're the picture of Mr. Clean on the bottle. You don't really do anything at all, except go to press junkets and do photo ops holding a giant turkey at Christmas for our troops overseas. You're a bastard, but the rest of your crew are even bigger bastards.

In closing sir, I'm still going to stay the course with the Republican Party, however, as a formerly staunch Republican, I'm going to ask that you consider maybe lightening up a little. I mean, fuck, you love to quote Jesus this and Jesus That.... dude, Jesus was the definition of bi-partison.

And don't even get me started on gas prices around here... dude, you worked in the oil business... that's no excuse to why I put 20 bucks into my small 4 cylinder truck and the needle doesn't even touch the half-way mark. Goddamnit.

Anyway, good luck with the next two or so years fucking us all in the collective asshole.... James.