Liquor Memorial

He's a difficult man to deal with.

Not easily approachable.

 Quick to anger, sharp tongue, acerbic wit, he can't help but be insulting, it's literally all he knows.

How he’s wired.

This particular day the downstairs neighbor is having it out with one of the neighborhood teenagers. “Boy is I’m fucking with you? Seriously am I fucking with you? Then why the fuck is you fucking with me?”

I don't have a dog in this fight.

 Teenage boy is a piece of shit too.

Lives three doors down, downstairs.

Think his mother is maybe 12 or 13 years older than him.

She has the maternal instinct of a Shark.

The loud neighbor is maybe in his mid fifties.

Around here I am the closest to him in age in the complex.

 Should probably be his friend but I'm not.

Don’t care for people very much.

Guess I'm what you'd call an introvert.

Growing up with a preacher Daddy I learned scripture real quick.

There’s a scripture in Proverbs that says “ A man breaking up fight is like grabbing the ear of a dog.” That might not be an exact quote, but, I don’t care to be bit by the dogs these young dudes carry.

 The old man is going to get himself killed.

Toss my cigarette butt over the banister, step back inside my apartment.

My apartment is nice.

Not on the outside.

On the outside it’s a piece of shit and I’m embarrassed to have people over.

It’s the best my pension will pay for.

Inside, I have created the space I feel like I deserve.

Spend some of the extra I squirreled away.

Huge mirrors.

Exquisite furniture.

Unique accessories.

One of a kind art works.

Like an island in the middle of the ghetto.

Every time I step outside my door I’m armed.

Got the pocket rocket on me right now.

Raised voices make me nervous.

Another story for another day.

I’m kind of suspicious.

Been hurt and disappointed a lot.

Sit in my throne chair.

It’s hot.

Really funky.

Mack mouth, a buddy from the Corp, took me to the flea market, I got it there.

100% recycled materials.

Looks like a real throne.

Comfortable to my bad back.

Noise outside is getting under my skin.

Reminds me of Kandahar.

Turn up my music.

Block out everything.

Memories flood in.

Lives I’ve taken.

See their eyes.

Hear the cries of the dying.

Get a fresh bottle of Southern Comfort.

Drown out the voices, pain, evil recollections.

By the time I am halfway through the bottle I fall into oblivion.