Monday, April 25, 2011

Cold Deaf Ears

  Every morning gunshots and rifle fire in the caballo del sur projects like bell toll. El jeffe wakes the kids up and the belligerence just spills out onto the streets.

Busing had led to mountian of racial tensions starting with the padre pajaro boys walking the three blocks down to the palmside ghetto, wearing black threads and chains on their jeans they woke up and paced five deep to the bus stop running Colombian immigrants to the police state P.S. 306.

These kids brought with them nothing but inbred brutality. The few mothers that came to watch their kids get on the bus, hoping for a future were helpless. One of the Pajaros took his quarter thick chain stolen from likely the back of a pickup truck and wrapped it around the neck of a pregnant colombian tore her frame to the ground and put the tip of his boot in her mouth, pulling the chain taught he stomped her skull into the pavement untill the jaw came unhinged, this only after her neck broke. One of the boys chased down a runner and stabbed her in the coroted artery, slicing her wind pipe and then stabbing her twice in the thigh.

The kids were all younger than eleven, but most had weapons, shanks, knives, and switchblades. But for every cut on one of the older pajaro boys it seemed another of them was broken. One pajaro held carpenter pants and his only weapon was a hammer, which he used in the cranial induction of blunt force trauma on one of the most courageous memeber of the zapatitos, so called for their social status given by the ones that wear shoes. Bodies were left at the stop and all 15 children had been beaten to death or stabbed and left bleeding, they did manage to kill the man with the hammer with a lucky shiv through the genitals.

The Zorillo Zapatos, the class acts of the young colombian cartels were all taking time to brush off their one suede or leather jacket before taking the grease to the hair. La pasión de la familia had the crew running at the start, the few elder members who had shots on the grounds took fire with semi-automatic pistols, trying not to hit the children. By this time los pajaros had hit the streets and were running up the alley to race 5 blocks to the nearest subway, but two zorillo brothers, Santiago and Gabriel had taken their fathers beaten pickup and army grade rifle with the gunner in back and took to the streets, they drove slow and shot all 4 dead as they ran away. Still the tragedy had taken roots, and this day would live forever in infamy. They pilfered the bodies for cards and money, and with the names and adresses of the hooligans, Santiago and Gabriel swore revenge.

Using the drivers licences they found the little abandoned projects not far from the bus stop and threw their choice cacophony of Molotov cocktails into the windows of the projects, taking open fire on the masses running out of the chaos slowly cutting down most everyone of them, with the marksman taking cover behind the shallow bed of the pickup and the driver keeping his head low, they were able to keep on rolling. This anarchy was the blood of corruption, with most all politicians hoping that the poor will just kill themselves off. Every minority knew this, and they knew life was only a deathwish, every struggle for power or even sanity would be met with cruel and brutal opposition, so they took it upon themselves to be this opposition. The two brothers took liberty to the pajaros, killing without regard to sex or age.  Most of the men of that sect had been drinking since dawn as if to fight of another day of unemployment, and with their once government owned projects burning the alcohol would seemingly once more turn into firewater. Never tequilla, but always with the petrol, crude if possible, these fires spread into conflagrations, and the towering apartment complexes stood as pyres, an effigy to the forgotten day 9/11. The poor were seen jumping from the balconies, and some newsmen even caught pictures. The two boys somehow made it back to protected turf where they locked down all sidewalks and roadways with derelict cars and rifle fire.

The boys were regarded as heroes, with photos taken and press ran, it was shit like this that made it into my hands every morning, somehow still supporting the presses, not worth my money, but someone who was kind enough to litter the paper in the basement of the apartments where we play Domino. Sadly it isn't ironic anymore that nobody reads, most people i know dropped out of school and squat in the apartments, with what little money coming from welfare or supplies stolen from the red cross. My project was a majority black one and they had simply been out gunned and out manned by the infestation that was crawling around over and under the annals of the breadth of the decrepit cradle of civilization. We still all had our guns and some of the gangbangers flew colors, but for what it's worth, they held no power over anything besides a few ramshackle crack dens made of abandoned tin roofing and re-purposed welding supplies putting up walls in alleys and bleeding those out who wanted in. Nobody really came into that society save the local de facto lord and denizen of powder who would drop a brick off at the front gate provided they had a briefcase hanging with locks on both the briefcase and the handle, of which both sides had the key, and with a two briefcase setup the man was able to come check and collect the briefcase and then bring a respective and relative amount of cocaine back into the den. Less and less every week it seemed, i still think it's amazing that the cartels still had value for paper money, but they did, and that was that, cash is cash.

  My family was really just a bunch of very dirty hookers who called me daddy because i let them sleep in my flat when it rained. I didn't care because i would loiter and congregate in the basement with Jethro and Cedric while we usually threw dice or played cards for foodstuffs and what little drugs we could find, usually upstate mid-grade marijuana and abuseable pharmaceuticals, the crown jewel being Codeine syrup with respects given to the benzos and amphetamines, and still less to the mixed bags of unknown substances; we never saw the heron bone down in the sewers.
    We called it that because it was always dripping, the foundation was crumbling, and the one light above the celling flickered constantly with the train running adjacent shaking the building every fifteen minutes. The mold made the walls look gangrenous, deep with silt and covered in filth, it looked as though the dutch had been enjoying themselves before we inherited this shithole. We had a table, and where there was once a place for washing machines we removed the broken ones and had a trough to collect the water, dirty as it may be it is still the only potable water we have since the city killed the sewer to the inner socialites, for irreverence to the system apparently. We still all got along fine, figured we had no chance of escaping the city, with unruly death paroling the city looking for stray ambling money and anyone who would be keen enough to pull a gun.

It was early, and the game was gin rummi, nobody had the balls to lose so we stood at each other in stale mate, bullshitting about what we were going to do that day. Most everyone making jokes about how they were going to fuck my women and i would retort with a joke about how their dick would fall off. We ran through the bets taking and losing untill everyone had gotten just about drunk enough after a fine sampling of some beet liquor made from fine sugar beets grown in the now useless public facilities of the adjacent metro station, as well as some other dry rations bled out by the facetious welfare system keeping all of the minorities crippled in poverty and perpetually unemployed. Amazingly the sewers were the real mecca of civilization now, and every so often a shipment of magic mushrooms would come up from the depths and today we stood staring at a quarter ounce of shrooms, a fifth of beetliquor, and enough food to eat for a week.With rationale all but gone, i offered to lose the game to keep the food enough to feed my hookers who really never made any money. Cedric and Jethro both agreed, one taking the mushrooms and the other the fifth, and with morning dole out dissipated we returned to our respective dwellings to make sense of the world.

I cook up grits for the women who are always hungry, and pour them some water taken up from the basement with some purple drink powder to keep their spirits high. They all look the same to me, my vision is dying, my hopes are dying, this is impossible to relinquish any sort of comfort without having to know that it will be ruthlessly taken from you any chance anyone has. I look at my women, most of them find comfort with me, and i find comfort knowing young women are less likely to be involved in brutal homicide while honestly taking up the position of the grandiose pimp. Only the young white one looks to her bag of pills she says she won off of a rich suburbanite for a quick fuck, and i tell her that mixbag is probably just tylenol and midol, maybe some antidepressants.

She didn't care and eats them anyways. I can't stand the sight of glassy eyed ungrateful hookers. At least she doesn't eat.

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