--Fire and Water--

A cigarette is a depressing thing. Rain beating down upon the streets, swirling into sewers as dreams discarded by the stream of time, while I stand just inches away from the chaos, under a balcony, with a cigarette in between my lips. Just like the first time, the cigarette lights the way into damnation. Just like each love, each dream, each tear, each fight. I never care to ash my cigarette, so, with the lack of wind, it always makes a nice grin of sorts, as most of my cigarettes are bent due to a lack of care as to how they are treated through my daily life.

Those raindrops easily douse my cigarette’s cherry while sending the grin of ash to the cement, with its filter counterpart. I always love the sight of those flakes of ash spiraling downwards as some perverse apocalyptic snowflakes spawned from hell itself, or, rather, spawned from my mind.

This is my favorite time of day, twilight, it makes this miserable city look gray despite the streetlights; random flickers of hope in a city of sinners and killers.

A baby’s faint cry runs along these unpopulated streets; good morning, oh home of the damned. Chase that child into hell, into heaven, into our dreams. The streetlights shut off, it’s time to go then. Daily business starts off early, just as any other insomniac’s does. Other than a few health buffs jogging down the street, there’s nothing human to be seen—not even the local bums crawling out of the alleys from underneath beds of newspapers, that’s for mid-afternoon.

I always get stared at as I walk in my bleak manner. And especially so by a passing jogger in particularly. I looked up at that man, raindrops gingerly falling down my face, and sparked another cigarette—my flag of defiance. I hate health buffs, always trying to look like a good citizen, when both I and he knows he’s cheating on his wife with another woman while raping that other woman’s 12 year old daughter.

I hate going down into the damp subway, though I do it almost every morning. It feels like I’m going deeper into hell each time. It’s kind of sad when the bums down here know you by your appearance: black business suit, black tie, red sunglasses with thin frames, black shined shoes, and a black top hat, bent down slightly, of course, to add some sense of mysterious class. And, aside from my appearance, they know not to ask for money in fear of a boot to the face or some random act of animalistic violence.

Today’s package is in its usual container—my black briefcase held in my right hand. The deliver goes out to some executive in some wretched business uptown. I never thought about it, but all those lights passing by so fast underground are very unnerving. Staring off more than I should now, I see the passing lights mold slowly into one making time seem to stand still as the area just outside the window looks as a still frame out of place in its own home, as it seems.

Something pierces through my daydream. A little girl tugging at my pant leg and asking if I were ok. Children always care too much. Her mother calls her child over, away from me, while lecturing her about strangers. The mother’s voice trailed off as I realized my stop is just ahead. Business.

A large building that seemingly has only windows as walls is my destination. I know there will be a cute blonde secretary at the front desk with a smart attitude saying I can’t speak with so-and-so, but, I guess, I’ll have to convincer her otherwise.

I guess I had flicked of somebody, because I can hear distant curses of a pissed off New York cab driver with a tenth grade education level. Oh well, not that I’m listening to the bastard anyhow. Why did I flick him off anyways? Sometimes I just stop paying attention, I guess.

Just before I came to enter my destination a vending machine’s soft glow caught my eye. This struck me and my thoughts became devoted to damning the media. Luckily enough my change pocket held enough for a 20-ounce bottle. The new challenge: which company to sell my soul to? Some prissy purified water bottle succeeds in capturing my thirst, though I didn’t open it at the time. Surprised. My soul only cost one dollar on the black market of the sinners.

While taking a swig of my water I was interrupted by a somewhat snotty voice, pleading me to not drink in the “lobby area.” As I thought, a cute secretary with a smart attitude. Brunette. How ironic; it pissed me off. The dumb bitch let me upstairs with no problem. It appears that I actually had an appointment, which is odd, because I don’t remember making one. But that’s the life of an insomniac. Sometimes you remember what you do, others, well, lets just say life is like a lucid dream for a hardcore insomniac.

I entered that executive’s office. It had a nice layout, aside from the bodyguards. They both had handguns in their vests, I could tell. Those morons wouldn’t stop fidgeting, probably trying to subliminally tell me no to try anything stupid, but, I never was much of a listener.

That didn’t matter, I had my own. My true love, my revolver .45 caliber. It has fire and water engraved on its handle—a skull engraved on its hammer. I’d easily kill those bulky bastards, but I’m not here to do that. So the young man and the older looking man will live one day longer, all thanks to me. What a saint I’ve become…

I casually strolled up to that prick’s desk and slammed my briefcase down. It sprung open revealing a nice stash of illegal oddities: two kilograms of cocaine, extreme computer viruses used for crashing banking networks, and a few vials of a green liquid strapped to the case’s lid.

That sinful fuck’s pupils dilated at the sight, and a shaking hand reached out to grope those illegal items. That hand met a steel knife shooing it away. Inside I laughed as the body guards appeared slightly scared—probably rookies anyhow.

The executive nodded slowly and produced a matching briefcase containing a large amount of 100-dollar bills. At that point the thoughts of what I’ll be buying with this new stash of money flooded my mind for a moment or two. That office bastard’s balding head nodding lightly interrupted my pleasant thoughts. The guard, the older looking one, raised a hand to his ear, possibly taking in some orders. That guard whispers incoherently in the executive’s ear as paranoia settles in my mind. I placed my knife on my belt while that guard walked towards the door.

Sometimes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and an image of some impossibly horrible event taking place runs through your mind, like a nightmare. This image was of the walking guard turning around with a gun pointed right at me, ready to kill.

A smirk and a pivot let me see that event in real time. That 20-ounce flew across the air, over the executive’s desk, hitting the idle guard in the face as the older guard began firing at my falling body. The ornate revolver came out of its holster to offer two rounds into the wooden desk.

Blind shots are the best ones in most occasions; that damned executive yelled out as my aim held true.

Searing pain and that pumping feeling of blood welling out of bullet wounds is all I managed to feel: one in my right leg, one in my chest, and one in my arm. I squinted as my right elbow helped aim at the guard who was running at me while reloading. Bang, bang…He fell to the floor a few feet away from me. Two more rounds were held for the younger guard, but where was he? I stood and saw him going to hit an alarm near the office’s door.

A bloody stump falls just under the alarm, and brain matter splattered against the doors to this office. I sighed as I reloaded and holstered my gun, but a wheezing sound stopped me. That damn executive was still alive.

“You try to fuck me over, old man?” I began interrogating while circling the man’s desk.

His face was lined with sweat from keeping his consciousness up. Apparently I had hit his stomach and left shoulder. Bang…Apparently I had also hit his forehead, and the executive’s meaningless life ended there and then to allow a younger man with morals to lead this business and become corrupted just as that old man was, to die by a hand much like mine. I quickly closed the briefcases and began heading towards the door.

A voice of authority called out, asking the owner of this business if he needed assistance.

Damn. I needed a new escape now. A scraping noise, barely heard, caught my attention. Good thing the windows were tinted, so that the window washer couldn’t see the chaos I created in here. I redrew my revolver, shrugged, and killed the window washer. Three rounds were enough to break the glass and send the washer flying down to the cement. Again my love found its holster and I stepped onto the scaffold to lower myself down, briefcases at my feet. Business.

As I lowered myself I heard somebody yelling; that voice of authority. A laugh is all I gave the situation and lit a new cigarette. “I hate business men…” I murmured to myself as freedom neared me on the streets, just 20 stories down.


-- Earth And Sky --