Wonder.Years.BUMP-s(p)ot by Sam HaiNe Your body craves it. Needs it. Maybe depends on it. It’s the one thing that lasts a lifetime but no one ever has enough of. It's worth more than money (Time). You want it? Need it? Crave it? Can never find anything to do with it. Waste it. Flaunt it. Run it right into the ground. Put a value on it and give it away for nothing. You wanna take it for granted yet want something for it. Sometimes is never and always is a broken promise. Still need it? Crave it? Want it? That fidgety craving for substance and being satiated. Oh you’ll happen upon it and say it's in the bag. Only thing inside, thou, is sinking to the bottom of a fifth. Eight fingers deep. Perched on a barstool, looking for converts. More time. More time and more excuses to kick sand. Bluer than urinal water. Need it. Crave it. Want it. You seek it in the needle, between their legs, in every second glance. You look for it in politeness, compromise, social media, misdirection. The soundtrack of your life is a warped record repeating the same beats. Insecurity subverted and under makeup – but for how long? ‘Payaso’; a clown-faced-minstrel, playing his cigarette like Chet Baker - solo. Killing the excess with single malt; fucking. Here and there in between the lines. Somewhere in-between bedlam and tranquilized - behind the hourglass tavern is a son of a bitch pitching teabags - (of the past), with enough sweetener. Get your fix in. Nostalgic junkies addicted to the warm fuzz of their youth. Couch surfing through a remote control drip. Jerking the rewind button like a slot machine in a glory hole. Never as good as the first time. Bittersweet. The past playing like a mixtape. Disjointed. Poetic. Disillusioned. Time. Fading. Haunting. Echoes.

"New World" by SamHaiNe New World It's all true God's an absentee slumlord/ The government lies/ And Midian is where the monsters live/ If the streets could talk they'd slur/ It's the future-present. The seedy side of neon. There's meat markets and billiards. Pawn shops and Miller's; Owl's Head to Checkmates, Pubs & Backdoor distillers. Black markets, bodegas, Deep Webs and Gunsmithers. Confessions lamenting. Moonclips rouletting. Memories echoing from the taverns and slums, backstreets and hidden within the trees, behind the alleys, where bouncing Betty's can shred you between the knees. Moonshine and wet dreams, larceny and schemes. Left hands and hammers. Crims unpampered. There's the willing and the wolves. By hook or by crook. No matter it's worth - everyone 's food and food is a square meal. Razors in cheeks and things taped under seats. Bagmen and contraband. The world while you sleep. Residents who owe no one. Misanthropes and runts. Life in the moment. The thrill when you cum. Hardware is guns and knives for wetwork. A burners what you shoot. You frag what you aim at. A shiv in a knife fight. A rock in a sock. You take what you can carry. Vic’s who got knocked. Because everyone is food and food is a square meal. The lost are found or find their way, they say. Outlaws, discontents, outcasts, working class vignettes. Sinners can become civilians. Where marginal personalities can be themselves. Where the broken are healed. Choosing who they are if not who they've been. It can happen. Second chances are everyday, they say. The community supports itself and the community is its people. The stronghold, the outlaw city. The dream for those who live by their own rules to its fullest.

Black Label by Sam HaiNe “It ain’t no sweat off my back” he said into the mirror. His reflection shifting weight from left to right with the motion of the locomotive. He’d been here and done that there. His entire sex life navigated via X’s & O’s from dial ups to wireless; from his teenage years to his cold showers after orgies. The strong pull of his groin after a fifteen minute play date made him drip and wanting for more. He remembered that one evening when he picked a girl up from the internet bulletin board; the way he bit his lips when he hit send and the anxiety of waiting before she knocked on his door; the aroma of danger and the turn-on of unfamiliarity and lack of dialogue. He remembers the time he lured a couple from the hotel bar into their room. He remembered how timid the husband became and how game the wife was. The way they shared and how greedy each could be. He compared her velvet insides to his coarse grip. He’d done this many times and in different ways. He was an apex pervert, an escape artist of consequences. He stroked himself a few times before coming to his senses and washing the smile off his face. It’s been a long two hours on the train; it’s been to long since he’s had release. All he can think about is when and where. He hops off the train and onto the boarding platform. He rushes to the nearest exit and summons an UBER. He can barely maintain a consistent thought. Hands are clammy and his mouth dry. Three sticks of gum will do for now, just to warm up those mouth muscles. He paws himself over his pants at every red light. The imagination is running wild with notions of rushing the door or playing it cool or being eager or remaining in composed. What he did know was that he was going to take control at the first chance. Two months of courting via messenger and he was here to collect his debt - His 125lbs of flesh and nylon that was promised to him. All of the expenses were paid for: the room, the room service, the party toys and nose powder. He had left nothing to chance and was just a few turns away from a new conquest and a fresh face to add to his memory palace. He checks in and waits in his room. He waits and freshens up. The bathrobes are soft. The bed linen is soft too. He could barely keep himself from bursting. The knocking on the door begins and he springs to his feet. The door swings open and there she is, sweet, so unassuming and fresh. She walks in and he opens the conversation with a hello. He offers her refreshments, “Water or a can of Monster?” he asks. She prefers water, very well and good for him; he relies on energy drinks for a second wind. He begins with what comes naturally – he walks forward and takes her in his arms and pushes her back against the door. He feels up and grabs her large breasts. He places his hand down her tights and feels for her wetness. She begins to submit and frisks him for inadequacies. He’s beginning to come out of himself and throws her onto the bed. He fumbles through his fanny pack on the bedside for his condoms. She interjects that she is on feminine contraceptives and assures safety and would rather feel him for what he is – all of him at once and as deep as they can go. He wastes no time and initiates. He lasts, and goes again a few times and each time feels better than before. Like being in a warm bath and anything that can’t be described in words. He exorcises everything that he has and leaves not one drop to waste. Both of them collapsing on the mattress; He is drained and in the throes of some post coital seizure. She massages his forehead and shushes him to relax. As his eyes close he turns onto his back and puts his arms behind his head and tries to take it all in and down his inner thighs. She reaches into her purse and casually places the handkerchief over his mouth and nose. He struggles before fading to black. He wakes up handcuffed to his bed and gagged. She is combing her hair and fixing her makeup. The room now smells foul and the bed is soaking wet but, this isn’t water. His belongings are tossed around the room and what was his fanny pack is now a hollow bag. She picks up his wallet from the dresser and scans through his items. She pockets the four hundred dollars and the major credit cards. Her face is emotionless and callous. She had transformed from a sexy one-night stand into a, what he could only mumble from his gag, -“F#*^@ing Bit@#”. She said nothing. She had no monologues. She had no vengeance or point to be made. She was just doing what she does, the same as he was. The only difference being – one of them was walking out of this room and the other was going to well, you get the point. It took fifteen minutes before a fire engine arrived. The fire spread into two rooms. There were no “unfortunate” deaths; just the residue of a few moments of careless passion during a full moon.

The Influence by Sam HaiNe He never knew he could fly. But he sure bounced off the windshield of that 85' Chevy like he'd wings. December 20th @ 1:55am, dead time. Body parts scattered, broken glass, skipping stones across the pavement. Freaks lined up to watch the limbs tell fortunes like they were chicken bones off a fortune tellers table. A chain smoking rubber neck wax museum; scarecrows, night flyers and street urchins watching all the deputies and EMTs pick up the pieces and put the puzzle together. Yellow tape segregating the intersection. Walking distance, gas station. Two meat suits. Disenfranchised. Lazy. Blocking the door. Pick up truck T-shirts; slap nuts & ass face. Puca shell necklaces, hemp bracelets, skinny jeans and loosies. Too broke to spit wishes in a well. Too stupid for a helmet. Dead beats droning at the the K. whistling Dixie in their Menthols. "Pardon". Door obstructed. Shit boxes. Saggy bottomed douchebags. Frosted tips. Talking spicy with their Red Bull eyes and Vodka in their speech. The volley of bottles followed - Smirnoff mortars exploding my boots. The christening of a Timberland ships. Foot race. Hot pursuit, across the wash, over the wall, into the parking lot. They advance, all offense. The first click, then three, my forefinger coiled around the orange grip. The first slash, took the leader down. His face opened like a gutted baseball. 148 stitches. Laces out. A few more movements from the box cutter and the roaches ran. Blood trails and old spice. They were off. One of the them ran left, when he should've went right, over the headlights and face first into the drivers lap. Broken knees broken everything; eggshells. Tire smoke and loose change. The driver in shambles. The car a tomato can. 85' Chevy. Dead guy - hood ornament. His wallet was in a ditch; now it’s in my pocket. A Coke and a smile on my way to my girlfriend's place. "But, don't blame me". Magic 8-ball. Channel surfing weekend. Tribal dance. Dry ICE. Orange juice and windshield wiper nails across the mirror. Hipsters giggling, writhing, dancing. The speakers must have spirits. Basslines punching. Stomachs turning. Spin cycle. Hand over mouth, saliva. Into the wash room, unattended, vacant, sacred. Kicking the stall door open. Puking, purging, pain, tears, all that shit. Finally, relief. Wake up or rather woken up. Stacey wants attention. "Stacy?" Sad face, pretty, lipstick, smells like sugar. Hands up against the wall. Fingers deep. Clean box, no fish smell, muted. Penetration. Push back. She’s moaning. You leave a stain. She waves you away. She wipes her back. Finds the placebo you spit on her back. Disbelief. She reaches for her cocaine. Disappeared. Empty handed. Slight of hand. "Don't blame me" Days fade, watches break and clocks stop. Sand turns to glass with the hours. Moments are fragmented and imagination mutilated in Technicolor attire and smoking over a rocks glass and ice cube pacifiers. Imaginary drips of candy coated teardrops shimmering of the fingernail of winter. A distortion of a human being. A one man show. The audience an abattoir. The grand guinol. All reality is satire, a parody, the impotent revolver. The pain - a laugh reel. The lemon between your teeth. The bitter punchline. "Step on a crack, shit in your father's hat" "Two tears in a bucket, your mother's a chicken nugget" "Do I play Call of Duty?" I rather play at the gun range. I play a veteran on weekends, shell shocked. Convinced my imaginary friend is my service animal. We shoot what's on the DLC. After a few rounds into the FN57, a loud explosion occurs. Shakes my sternum. It sounds like a howitzer. I checked my feet, it felt like rocks we're blowing by. I saw a nose and a bottom lip whispering into my sneaker laces. Some Fuckhead accidentally shot his girlfriend in the face. Her head turnt to hamburger helper down the range. I peeked from my cubicle and saw the headless debutante on her knees n flayed backwards. Everything above the collar bone looked like disturbed soil and beef stew. Her boyfriend frozen still gripping the foregrip of his gold plated Mossberg. That perfect, pale and matter-of-fact expression of "I fucked up", cemented across his brow. All cellphones were ordered off. The weak boweled were escorted off the premises. Those of us that stayed were fully refunded and given coupons. The coupons were for a free afternoon and reduced prices for ammunition and rentals on the next visit. Many of the patrons were still coping with the traumatic experience. Shit, I was there the next day with new kicks. My better self was out to lunch. "But, don't blame me I was under the influence" -End

"Bagman Blues" (a Richard Applegate yarn) by SamHaiNe It’s one of those wet nights. Wet. Wet. Fucking wet. Jackie likes this shit but, I can’t stand it. My socks are wet and there’s nothing good to eat. Only thing selling food is Taco carts and after spending a few days in Sonora making this money exchange, anybody can take them tortillas and shove’em up their asses. Where’s the hoagies, the beef patties, the plump avocados? Pizza would be God right now. No matter. I did my job and now I’m bringing home my pay. A fresh bag and some celebrating is in order. The Owl’s Head Pub should be popping off. Time to flick this friggin’ cigarette and go in, already. Looks were deceiving. A couple of raggedy bitches and the owners mother slumped over the bar drinkin out of an aluminum mixer... Fresh blackeyes from her Uptown sugar baby, no doubt. Jim was tending still sweating out whatever Kool-aid he was popping into his toes; the remaining toes that dieabetes left him. Bones was there but too busy canoodling with some tomboy, or I think it was, over in the corner. The Owl’s Head had up their Christmas decorations and were playing Holiday music. I hate Holiday music. “What’s under the counter, Jim?” He waved me off and smacked his lips. I asked him again, “What’s under the counter?” I knew he had some type of Blue label or Scotch hidden for just himself. “Stop being the son of this black tooth whore and give me a shot of the secret stuff” I shouted. Jimmy reaches down under the wood, “Here’s what I got” and pulls out a Walther. One of those James Bond burners. “That’s it” I told him. I grabbed his wrist and yanked him over the bar and spiked his face into it. “Don’t you ever pull an airsoft on me ever again!” His mother was laughing out loud by the time I reached under the bar to pull up the bottle - and I pulled up a dud. A bottle of screw top wine. Black-cherry chardonay. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. There was no friggin way I was gonna waste time here. So I slid the bottle over to Mother inferior and took my business elsewhere. Then that awful feeling comes over me and I remember the Dragon lady is still open for business. A massage would be just the thing I need. .... I always tell myself to just go to Celeste’s place and pay full price for one of the girls but, Im feeling a lil tight and absolutely cheap at the moment. Dragon Lady had her own relaxation spa not too far from here in Midtown. By the time I got to the door, Genie was already clocking out and told me Kandy was inside still serving. Bet. Flicking a compulsive dime into the department store water fountain by the door, I skipped into the first bathroom to piss and bird bath some of my kibbles and bits for the massage. Cuz nothing is more embarassing than your massage therapist finding Coco Puffs during a session. She says, “Hello Richie”. Sup, Kandy. I tell her to give me the 30 minute treatment and hand her Forty Dollars. I’m 220lbs of bad food and soda pop but, a few lathers of hot oil and deep tissue care and I become 220lbs of jell-o and melted pork fat. Kandy looks like you’re average freshman at some posh art university. Convincing herself that this is just a stepping stone to higher learning and that Fashion career. And why not? I have no problem helping out the smaller businessman. Feels good to pay it forward, and even better when i’m laying on my stomach getting rubbed all over my body and twice as good as soon as I open my legs a little wider so she can graze my stepping stone and chorizo while she’s rubbing out my tension. After a few light touches and a hotwash from the table shower she tells me to turn over. I love this part. She touches me lightly with her finger nails and makes a motion with her hand asking, “You want?”. Sure. Forty more bucks and she’s working it. But, for some reason my stomach starts rumbling and I can’t seem to concentrate on the coming while my body just wants to go and eat. “Fuck”, I say quiet. But, fuck it, lLet her finish. Ignore your gut feeling. Let her finish and......... Now i’m feeling a different kind of pressure. Kandy decided it was a good idea to shove a finger up my can and approach the battle on both fronts. The fuck? Now she’s stroking harder, damn near hammerfisting my pelvis. Fucking hurts. Like being a lubed up bowling ball. Fuck this shit. I stop the process and she starts crying. I assure her it’s okay. It’s not her, I... just.. wasn’t... feeling good. I dropped another couple of twenties for her and hugged her.. Off I went.. I eat the first Taco I can get. Fuck me, right? But, now i’m horny and I wanna bust. I should just go home.... (Dramatic Pause) The Peep Show at VideoRumble was still open. The place always smells of bleach and was always empty. The video viewers in the booths took tokens but they didn’t waste your money; 15mins a token and 80 channels of choice dvd, blue-ray and weirdo freaky wicked VHS clips. Except tonight. All the booths were occupied and I wasn’t going into the ones with the obvious HOLE in the wall.. I guarantee there’s no side missions there. I pace down the isle and not one vacancy. Then one of the doors opens ominously at the end and there’s a pudgy all glass-eyed piece of shit sitting in a plastic chair staring at me. I tell him, I’m not the fucking one. He says “FINE” and whips out this sandwich bag full of blow and starts banging bumps off a letter opener. I’m not homophobic and definitely not queer but seeing that I figured, “When in Rome”. Closed the door behind me and turned the lock. I grabbed the bag of yayo and took my first blast. Immediately, my throat closed tight and where was hunger suddenly became this phantom pain of a shit that will never come. This was good stuff. My head cocked back into the corner of the booth and my jaw and tongue were doing their thing in some cocaine-fueled frenzy. Two more bumps from the bag and I barely remembered this dude undoing my trousers. I barely even noticed if he was even a human. From where I was standing he looked like an old thumb. Like an ewok was trying hug me if not blow me. Then the door swings open cuz the lock sure as shit wasn’t efficiently installed. And in walks in this Erik Estrada lookalike slamming the door behind him. Now there’s three grown men in a booth made for just one and both these honey badgers are going at it while I’m shoved into the corner with my elbows pushed into my sides; standing there with a sandwich bag half-filled with cocaine and my belt and zipper unfastened, thinking, “What?” Erik Estrada still mouth fucking the fucker, looks at me and asks me if this is my Sub or some shit like that. And I say, “I don’t know what the fuck is happening”. “How did I get here?” “Where’d he get this blow?” “What does this mean?” “I should not have eaten that taco” “I could’ve just had a Hoagie” When I got home. I barely spent any of my money. I wasn’t drunk. I was still geek’ed up but, what did I do? My wife says, “HELLO”. But, I just jump in the shower and sit under the hot steam. Letting the shower circulate the rest of the jitters out of my system. The shower does what it’s supposed to do. I get into my sweats and my wife pours me some corn flakes. She asks if I had a “fun business trip?”.... “Yeah, it was cool.” She then comments on the floral shirt I picked up while in Sonora, “What you turning fag on me?” “Sheddap” “Oh! Ladyboys it is, huh” I look at her. She looks at me. We laugh. We hug. We kiss. It’s good to be back home.

Whiskey Eyes by Sam HaiNe He had “Ride or Die” tattooed on his neck. It was his religion. He never kept a fifth to far from the chest. After twelve swigs he’s already pointing blame and hurling obscenities and table ornaments at a broken domestic. You never saw it coming. Precious moments shattered and ruined across the hairline where the blood trickles. Loose belt buckles and moved furniture, the poltergeist called Step-dad won’t leave. He just lingers and stains the love seat where his Newport burns from his fingertips. Behind the eyelashes and the blushes are blacks and blues and bright flashes of blood vessels bursting, cracked cartilage, a bruised femur bone and there's the unmade dining table. Loretta. Loretta. You could’ve done better. You could’ve done better. You’ve been better. Yet it’s worse. Another go around on Wallace’s spider web threading you into his entanglements and rotten fruit. He treats you like yesterday’s laundry; beaten up and folded in the dark corners behind the dresser. Hidden from the light and masqueraded behind 1950’s type restrictions. It started as a nudge then a threat then a push then punch and now hospital visits, body shots and sometimes a piece of a wooden crutch. New town, new neighbors , the same sad song and tonight’s chaos started over an F on a report card and a suspension from school. You take the hits cuz, you’re almost numb it all, you take the hits so he doesn’t reach the children’s room. He’s slow but, severe. He breaths over you and tenses his frustrations; his failures, his shortcomings. You’ll leave him but he’ll measure your casket before you reach the door. He’s poison. His kiss is venom. His slurred apologies are cancer and his touch is death. This time isn't like the others. He loves you then he snuffs you. He can’t live without you yet, he’s ready to take you both into the grave. You’re children are leverage. He doesn’t care about them. He uses them as insurance to never be left alone. Never be abandoned on the roadside - Never, will he be with just himself in the wilderness. Isolation’s the killer, after all. The truth speaker; they say. The big finish and the never-ending suffering. His dying wish? He’ll burn the bridge while standing on it, just to feel the warmth. He’s a black hole. He’ll suck you inside and crush you in his gravity. Drain you of your essence. Rob you of your identity. Erase your fingerprints from anything worth value. Tonight is different from the rest because, he’s caught a second wind and his eyes look a different shade darker. He chases you around the kitchen and back hands you. You feel your ear pop from the blow. His fists are rough and leathery. His fingernails are filthy and cut into your arms as he tries to grab you. You run in all directions and beg him to stop. He can’t hear you. He hears the drink. The little voice in his head pushing him forward and do more and more in large gulps of malt Iblis. He was your high school sweetheart. You’re first everything. He was the prettiest boy in school. The star of the mock trial team; member of the school band and the varsity wrestling team. He could’ve went to college but, enlisted instead. He was starry eyed and optimistic until he tore his ACL during training. He returned home and worked for his father in the mill until, the economy tanked and his family lost everything. Now he barely leaves the house and collects disability. Dejected and with a bruised ego, little to do but hide inside a bottle and go joy riding with his friends. It’s been two years since your family moved into this town. The last one was getting a bit too nosey for its own good. There were too many noise complaints and gossiping mouths; too many accidental falls down the stairs and just too many questions. You’ve tried to leave but, he always finds you. You even tried to reach out to a friend but, it’s always the same thing, “If he’s that bad why’d you stay with him this long?”. The ringing in your ears starts to die down when you see him making his way to your son’s room. Panic hits your bones and freezes your blood. You call his name and try to distract him but, he continues. Your instincts kick in and your adrenaline pumps; you spring to your feet and try to push him, scratch him, direct his anger toward you. He elbows you and you can feel the crunch of your shattered nose. Your eyes start watering and you can see the silhouette of his fist rising up to strike you. Then your little boy’s door opens up. Horrified, you scream – “Don’t worry, go back to bed”. “Not before I give my two cents.” He says. You kick him in his shins. You kick him in the ribs. He stomps you, beats you. The pain is bad but the alternative is worse. Blinded with rage his kneels down and grabs the sides of your face and squeezes. He squeezes and digs his thumbs into your cheek bones and spits in your face. You spit back into his eyes and he screams at you, berserk, he bangs your head against the wall. He screams and bangs your head. After the third hit against the drywall he stops. His movements stutter. The look of anger is now surprise. He reaches for the back of his head and pulls back a palm of blood. He falls to the ground and begins to gasp. You look and there is your son holding his little league bat. You call out, “Junior”. But he can’t’ hear you. Then you see his eyes and see the same blackness you’ve seen at the receiving end of a dozen beatings. This time colder almost black but, crying. A silent tear streams down your sons face from the black pools of his iris’. You call out his given name and that gets his attention. He looks at you now with innocent eyes and asks, “Are you okay?” “It's alright”. Your husband reaches for you for help. “Baby, call an ambulance. “Babe, give me the phone”. You crawl over to your son and take the bat from his hands. You hug him and tell him it’s going to be okay. You get to your feet and stand in front of your son. You remind your husband that it’s going to be okay. You’re going to take care of things. Finally, a sense of relief, (release) the final purge of emotion and frustration as you swing the bat down and strike your husband across his skull. You swing and swing until the flesh splits and the bones break. You keep swinging even after he stops pulling on your ankles. You keep swinging until the bat breaks. Then, you hug your son. It’s finally over. “Pack your bags, J. We have to go”. You both pack a few suitcases and you’re on your way. Away from the past. Away from the demons - and the drink. Where you're going, who knows? It’s anyone’s guess. It’s a deep city after-all and anything can happen.

'CHINATOWN' The wet blanket of isolation gets under the skin like ants in the carpeting. Insisting, bothersome, nuisances. Afflicted sharp pressure points - chewing into your comfort zones. Snowing- The crack vials have freezer burns where the sidewalk touches rainbows underneath the steamy chimneys of the asphalt earth. Silhouettes once remembered Withering away Leftover Polaroids - now burnt to ashes At the bedside of my cigarette and the shallow of my minds eye. Winter- Streets exhaling words Lacerating from the monologue that cradles razors. The typewriter swigs a slug and laments the inconvenience of compassion The low-water mark on the battlefield. After Hours- When night breeds the neon mistletoe between the flame and the pull. Burning with the beauty of midnight in contradiction to the restless pulse of the fertile evening Buildings stretched vertical Talons scrapping the evening sky Snow fall fills the cracks Counterfeit dreams and authentic scheming Decadence and Vice within the windchill that exasperates the Naked City. Howling parables and loathsome ravings Fire escape romances and vivid memory Larceny and last call with red-light cravings Crimson cherry burns to the filter the taste of yesterday drips - like illicit memories. -SamHaiNe

Gritten Hours (a Jackie Skinner yarn) Between Sutton Parkway and Clifton Square; hidden in the ruins of the old boardwalk.. Jackie remembers living around here as a kid. Back then things were a little better. In those days the boardwalk was a fun place to be and on weekends, kids and grown-ups would take turns jumping off the pier into the river. But things change. Things break down, people and places alike. That’s when the powers that be decided on building an overpass for the express way; casting a shadow over the pier. Soon shopkeepers and vendors packed up and moved out. Then the undesirables moved in. Nowadays nobody comes to this part of town anymore; especially after dark. It wasn’t uncommon to hear about bodies being dumped in basements, sometimes in pieces, for the rats to dispose of. The people go about their business during the day and then the neighborhood shuts down after midnight. Nothing moves. Only junkies and tricks roam freely; except at Patrick’s. You see to the average person it’s just a rundown Irish piss & shithole But, Jackie see’s what’s really going on. To people like Jackie, this place is opportunity and real-estate populated by food. And if you were at the wrong end of his knife – you were indeed food. [Food (n.) target of violence] Patrick’s was secretly hosting a poker game for some of the big earners that were in the know to get a secret invitation. The whole thing was run by a local gang boss. Completely below the radar and unsanctioned by the authority or any elected wolf head. And by being unsanctioned it was fairplay for Jackie to run in and take whatever he wanted. Each person that entered the pub was just another meal flashing dirty money to be had. He’d been watching the place for a month. He already passed up on some money going with Richard down to Sonora for a money drop. He wasn’t into that. The money wasn’t worth the hours traveling with Richie down into the desert to some cactus town. He wasn’t in the mood for the change of atmosphere; wasn’t in the mood to have to be cordial with some other bagman from some place where the locals would rather act like criminals instead of doing crime. Richard was capable enough to handle the suburban gangbangers and border jumpers by himself. Prior to all that one of the barbacks inside had tipped Jackie off and the idea sounded too good to pass up. A road trip would just have to wait for another day. And now the guests were just arriving at Patrick’s. The snow just started to fall when the Cadillac’s pulled up and parked along Calloway. There were no big entourages. Probably four or five actual players, each with one or two goons in tow acting as security, nothing too heavy to handle. Then the last car opened up and there was Sally Martucci in all his Gucci glory; the son of a made-guy from up east that had to relocate here to the ville after some interfamily drama and some approval by the council. The big guy was of interest. Might be a problem but, “Nothings impossible”, thought Jackie. “When there’s a will there’s a way.” The barback that tipped Jackie off about the goings on inside did it for a cut of the take. Apparently these mooks aren’t too generous to the staff. The barback seemed especially salty about one occasion when a waitress spilled drinks on a players shoe and got roughed up by one of their handlers. Not that Jackie needed the incentive; the profit was enough. Tonight was a Fight Night in Boxing so there was more money for the taking inside, dirty money being spread all around. Enough to settle most of Jackie’s interests and leisure and… Well, Jackie just enjoyed stealing from shitty people regardless. Jackie loaded his revolver with moonclips. It was a .38 caliber kind of night. The wrap on the handle felt extra snug. Sliding it into his hip holster and racking the slide of his SIG sauer felt like meditation. The air was still. His pulse was steady. His breathing controlled. The mask he brought along hung from his back pocket like a gang-rag. He could feel the nerve building up. He takes one last drag from his cigarette and flicks it into the shadows. The moment of truth was here; “Time to eat.” Going in through the front door was out of the question. This wasn’t a kamikaze mission. It was a simple withdrawal. The barback that gave him all the intel was waiting at the backdoor for him. Jackie made his move; entering through the kitchen just like he was another member of the staff and stood in position by the dry-storage. According to the barback, all players had to check their firearms with coat check; it was club policy. Jackie gathered himself and prepared; strapping the Kev-vest tighter at his ribcage. He pulled the mask over his head, tugging it down to his neck like a second skin. The mask had no openings for the eyes or the mouth. It was made from a very soft blend of cotton and hemp; micro-woven together in a way allowing the wearer to see clearly while keeping his face hidden. Around his neck was a black sniper veil. He waited patiently; he waited like a bad premonition… then he waited some more. The party guests had all arrived and were well into throwing their money around. The big players were at the poker table. The henchmen lined up the bar to keep watch over their employers and share war stories. The fight was streaming live on the plasma TV’s along the bar’s north wall. The waitresses were busty, foreign with thick ankles. The bar manager, Dino, liked hiring foreign girls and had a fetish for Russian girls. The bartender tonight was Darren. Jackie didn’t know Darren but, the barback assured Jackie that the bartender wasn’t going to be a problem. All bets closed at the start of Round 1. Jackie listened for both fighters to make their entrances and the Star Spangled Banner to be done. He started his breathing meditation and felt his blood starting to rush. He pulled his Sig and stood in the ready position. All sounds felt muted as he waited for the first bell. All distractions were blurred. Time itself slowed to a crawl. In his hands the details of the Semi-automatic felt weightless. The adrenaline is pumping; his breathing controlled, in through the nose and out the mouth; his thoughts are blank; only focus and concentration is on his mind, filtering all the information his senses gathered. Any moment and here it comes - 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Now. Jackie pulls the veil over his face and kicks open the door. One of the suits standing by the door rushes to tackle him. Jackie takes his revolver and cracks the muscle across the face with the glass breaker screwed into the butt of the handle. As the vic drops to the floor, Jackie soccer kicks him in the chin and fires two rounds from the SIG Sauer into the ceiling as a final warning to everyone. Jackie points the pistol at a girlfriend of one of the players and takes her with him toward the betting bar. Jackie shouts to the clerk, “Ayo, asshole!”, “Place the cash in bags and hand it over”. All the players and their bodyguards are getting antsy; looking for the smallest mistake, any window of opportunity to charge the masked man trying make a break with their money. Sally Martucci was one of them. “I suggest you reconsider what you’re doing. Cuz, you’re making a big mistake, my friend. You know who we are? You’re not going to enjoy that money. We can find you and make life very unbearable for you. Better you stop what you’re doing and go back out the way you came”. Jackie curls his upper lip under his mask like a rabid animal and tightening his chokehold around the girl’s neck. Resisting the urge to let his hardware spark and air-out the room. “What do you say, my guy?” asks Sally. Jackie points the SIG and fires a round into the thigh of one of the security detail as a reminder of who was in charge. All in attendance sat back and gave up any initiative to react. The clerk filled two plastic bags with cash. Jackie told the clerk to open the messenger bag tightly slung across his back and put the bags of money inside. The clerk nervously does so and Jackie and the hostage move backwards toward the fire exit. He pushes his body backwards to open the door and kicks the girl into the club as he makes for a fast getaway. “The hard parts done”, thought Jackie. He was always a fast runner and the money wasn’t so heavy that he would be weighed down. He ran down Calloway and behind some buildings. He knew these alleys as a kid; it was no problem navigating. He could hear the feet and shouts of the men from the bar; heavy breathing and boots making chase behind him. Through Bristle houses and around Stapleton square, into the basement of the Carlisle and out the back gate behind the elementary school and he was gone. “Easy work”, thought Jackie. Jackie scales a chain-link fence and sprints across the street to the pickup spot. He could almost see the getaway car behind the Avocado & Sandwich shop when he’s struck from the side by one of those silent electric cars. Jackie rolls off the hood and falls on his side against the curb; rattled but unbroken, he gets up and limps toward the rendezvous point just a few feet away on the other side of a narrow alley. He enters the alley but as he’s halfway through, he is blocked in by two cars bookending both ways out. One a Buick driven by two bodyguards and the other is the same electric ride that tried to run him over a few seconds before. Jackie reaches for his burners but it seems he must’ve lost the SIG he was handling when he was pirouetting off the windshield of that car that hit him. He reaches for his revolver and can’t find it. Then he sees it under a trash dumpster. That too must’ve been knocked out during the collision. Trying to find more of his breathe and think of what to do, Jackie grabs the side of his ribcage that hurts most. The adrenaline pumping through his veins with that loud ringing noise in his ears and his endorphins sedating most of his pain, Jackie plays the wall again and spits some blood on the ground as he takes deep breaths to control his nerves. The two bodyguards start walking into the alley. Both men are looking at the electric car blocking the other exit. The electric car Sally is riding in. Jackie still is seeing stars and flutters. Off balance, he fastens the bag tighter around his torso. “You dumbfuck!” shouted Sally. Sally standing side by side with his Gollum (his paid enforcer) is dwarfed in comparison to his bodyguard. A short little man with a five o’clock shadow for a haircut, two beady little brown eyes and that stupid look of agitation sweating down his face, still pouting like a he sucked on sour candy. “See, I told you back at the pub. You fucked up.” Said Sally “Now give me the money and maybe you might crawl away in one piece”. Jackie takes in one deep breathe through his nostrils, sucking down a hunk of bloody snot and spitting the crimson green glob onto Sally’s shoes. “Fuck you!” said Jackie “Tell Fuckhead and Assface to come get it and see what happens to ‘em”. “Boss, he’s barely standing up straight. Let me go get the purse and we can go back to the games” said Sally’s bodyguard. “Shut the fuck up” Sally said to his man. “I got this.” Sally removes his sports jacket and rolls up his sleeves and fastens his belt tighter around his waist. Then he begins to warm up with a series of stretches and kicks; getting his blood up and his muscles loose, moving his hands around shadow kicking the air like he’s the next Street Fighter. Sally would always brag to everyone about kicking some guy through a window or the time he fought three members of the Hatchet boys down by the promenade when he was fifteen. Those were the only two times he was seen actually fighting in public. All other times he’s been cocooned behind hired muscle and his family’s reputation. Another pampered mob kid with delusions of invincibility is what Jackie always thought of him. “Third-degree black belt, Shotokan, motherfucker. You ready to get lit up?” said Sally “Maybe you’re too stupid to be afraid”. The three bodyguards stand and watch. Jackie can feel his skin itch under his mask. The sweat and heat from his body make it almost unbearable to wear. He wipes the sweat from his eyes and lifts the mask up to just below his nose and gets himself centered. He’s still holding the side where his ribs hurt with his left hand and carefully unsheathes a small keramin or kerambit from his belt. “Let’s just do this already” said Jackie. Sally slowly approaches him and engages with a hard low kick to the outside of Jackie’s thigh; a sharp jolt of pain shooting through his legs – nearly buckling him. Then Sally follows with a kick to Jackie’s ribcage that’s blocked but, opens Jackie up to three hard punches to Jackie’s face. The punches feel like bricks, burning as much as they are hurt under the mask. Sally continues to unload punch after punch, kick after kick until Jackie falls down to one knee; looking like he’s done for. Sally now standing over him, taunting him, “Told you, I’d fuck you up!” Jackie looks up from his vulnerable position and sees Sally lifting his front leg straight up into the air like an antenna, ready to axe kick Jackie as hard as he can and put an end to this thieving inconvenience once and for all. Sally brings down the kick with a loud, “Ki-YA!”, Jackie springs up and catches Sally’s leg and slashes him from groin to kneecap, slicing the femoral artery; and biting Sally’s face like a rabid animal; rough bristly tissue become chunks of warm plasma in seconds when Jackie rips a chunk of cheek off and spits it into the air like chewing gum. His teeth are crimson and his eyes as black as they’ve ever been. He headbutts Sally with all his weight crushing the bridge of his nose with a loud crunching sound between them. Sally chokes with pain. Jackie throws the bleeding mafioso with whatever he has left at the approaching henchmen then, makes a mad dash towards the dumpster to reach for his revolver. His arm lunges desperately for the tsukamaki wrapped grip of his pistol. The bodyguards rush toward Jackie for some payback. One of them grabs at Jackie’s ankle and pulls him from the dumpster and the other one gives a hard kick to his bruised ribs and grabs the backpack. Jackie grunts with blood still on his teeth yet, still reaches for the revolver until, at last, that feeling of incorruptible fury is within his grasp. Jackie turns over and fires off three rounds at the goon squad; laying them all out. Precise and controlled the bullets tear through facial features, destroying bone, teeth and brain matter – sprayed; chunky and obscene. Bodies falling to the ground like wet sacks of meat and tomatoes. Snow Angels frozen in the scarlet afterbirth of violence, their minds splattered like crimson halos, the heat from their wounds escaping like steam from the belly of the city’s sewers. Jackie takes his winnings and reloads another moonclip into his revolver. Marian hears the gunshots from the pickup spot and runs towards the alley. “Stay back, Red. No reason for you to see how this story finishes.” said Jackie. Sally’s slowly bleeding out with both hands pressed down on the deep incision but, the blood keeps flowing. His heart rate is fast and speeds up his blood loss. Jackie gets to his feet and limps over to Sally. “Shotokan, huh?” “Funny. All that wax on-wax off shit and look at you now. What was that anyways, Japanese Karate?” “Fuck you” said Sally. “Well this isn’t Japan… And this isn’t a kung fu flick, Sally… and I’ve never seen that Bruce Lee shit save a man from bleeding to death.”, “How bout I just put you out of your misery?” “Riverside, Motherfucker.” [END]

One-Forty-Eight (Midnight Morena) by SamHaiNe Neon dreaming under a sky tuned to a dead channel. Peppering through the shooting gallery in silence. Still-water with dull switchblades in the sleeves. There were rubber bands and bent spoons; stoned faces scattered throughout the urban tomb. Soon, Poppi pointed the way upstairs with burnt hands. Stairway to heaven? This heathen ascends. One flight, two flights, three, four - finally seven. Rooftop of the world. The skyline is my picket fence. Glittery displays of decay and technology. Industry and residences. The glass slipper of violence. The difference between the have-nots and the minor grievances. The full moon overlooking us nocturnal creatures. Getting by. Getting fucked. Tongue dosed with acid. slowly fading. Short breaths after a whip it. Nicotine and drifting. Cold beer and kissing under the sky's chandelier. We were young analog criminals. Shoplifting crumbs from the underbelly of Hainesville’s kitchen. Scraping mere morsels and gristle from the devil's fork. Far beyond driven, the psychedelics blending definitions and bleeding moments for sport. Embracing my jawn as the walls begin to breathe deeply when snow falls, perfect, celestial baptisms upon our crinkling expressions in awe. Alone in the silence above the vibrating asphalt. Somersaulting emotions off the fire escape and burning away our guilt listed in order on flaming loose leafs - to any gods or ghosts who'd answer when we check out of this life and knock at the door. We were children at play up and down the lifelines called avenues and streets within the veins on the left hand of night stretched over this clandestine city. Cold breeze and wet knees. Rolling around the rooftop making snow angels as the acid burns in the 3rd degree. Passing the Dutch and then breathing again. Into the night sky; exhaling the imperfections as they peel away. Reading the city's wonder with your eyes. Memorizing its details. Her lips taste like candy. Galvanizing. Rearranging sentiments into late evening. Cold skin against mine. North Faces embracing each other in the blizzard of a winter moment. So sayonara to the codes of conduct as the pineal blooms and our iris’ deepen. Hello to the midnight blue of night atop the neon city in tune with the saxophone of violence, the muted trumpet of iniquity and the low-key/Lo-fi/Hi-tech backbeat of the city. Like living in a criminals Norman Rockwell where a thousand different stories of immorality, turpitude and resilience are there to be disclosed within their own dioramas. And far and away was any drama weighing us down while we slow danced in the snowfall of our own urban snow globes. Pirouetting around, in the dark jazz of our existence. The distance never lesser than it is as we shared secrets in a single breathe. Eyes closed. The night vibrating. The trip escalates. The peak approaches. Shadows existing under the Halo of Christmas lights. She whispers something else but the wind took it away. Memories like teardrops mingle then frozen with the snowfall. No different. No better. No worse nor lesser. Bleeding hearts tapping the vein; tying the knot. Fiends looking for release. Precious moments & Wet socks. No interference. Nothing better. Reconnecting at the source. Together. A distorted romance in dissonance. Memories like teardrops mingling then frozen in the snowfall. Beautiful.

The Devil's Cottonfield by SamHaiNe It's like no other place to call home. What was once an abandoned military district then repossessed by those insurgents (runaways) the few formerly enslaved who took up arms against their captors. Those Maroons then turned it into a small colony, a middle passage on the way south to the Seminole lands and freedom. During the Gullah Wars it was a strategic point for the transport of goods and munitions. Then the big War started and the settlement was stuck in the middle. North and South each engaged in skirmishes for the land as well allegiance and compliance of its residents. Both sides falling short when combating the guerilla tactics of the outlaw Maroons and a small number of natives including the Lumbee. Finally, the war ended and the North was victorious. The South was in shambles and reconstruction around the corner. And once again, pressure was placed on the colony for allegiance - They refused. An economy grew and then a few dozen displaced indigenous peoples, mountain folk & disenchanted rebels started moving in.. It became a city state within the country… a home for criminals and outcasts. Surviving in the American way; with criminality and ingenuity and maintaining its anonymity with federal blackmail. Now it's an aged city of aches, spasms and splintered bones beneath the flesh of concrete, steel and glass. A simple economy of blue collar sweat built upon the still existing skeleton of contraband, vice and organized crime. The air is thick and the meals sometimes scraps. The night is deep and the victories small. The skyline is deceitful and the grift is treacherous. You can find your way if you make it and still lose yourself on the betting table. She's a woman with curves and bloodstained motives. She has a thousand stories and a dozen sighs. You will make decisions and become what you are: workers, servers, merchants, criminals or less. This is home. This is the American dream. In a brutal savage world there is only one rule - "survive at any cost". This is HAINESVILLE.