Tragic Comedy

I’m working a 12 hour shift today before I go to work at the Club.

A conversation with a friend reminded me of the night I got shot.

It might have been shock.

Distinctly recall exactly what I said.

Thought.

Felt.

Did.

Everything.

Every 

Single.

Fucking.

 Thing.

Some extremely painful.

You know that sickening, fill your mouth with salt water, rearing, ripping copper tasting, overwhelming, turn your bowels to a painful cauldron type of pain? 

No?

Count your blessings?

Some of my sisters who have been shot and given birth say it’s an unwinnable tie.

Some of my thoughts were graphic.

Some silly.

Some drug induced.

The best way I can tell you what was going on in my head is to just put the thoughts on this page as they occurred.

I’m starting when the shot hit me in the back.

For detail purpose; I had been holding my cigarettes in one hand and was in the process of lighting one.

Fuck was that?

Damn a motherfucker shot me!

Shit!

Again.

Gotta buss back.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking fuck.

Ow.

My fucking hand!

Motherfucker!

God.

That was in the chest.

Anit gonna cry like a bitch.

God.

My ass!

Fuck.

That hurts like a bitch.

Think that one was in the nuts.

Can’t live without the Guy, Lord.

If he’s Dead go ahead and take me.

What the fuck?

When did I fall?

My finger!

I can see the fucking street through my finger nail.

[Aloud]

“Guess I won’t be playing the piano.”

My beautiful hand!

Who the fuck? 

I’m going to kill em!

My Woman!

Oh wow.

She’s gonna freak out!

Gonna leave me!

Yeah.

I’m going to kill this fucker.

Fuck can’t I stand?

Jesus Christ!

Oh wow!

Fuck.

Oh yeah.

That fucking hurts.

Really hope My Dick is still attached.

Man.

My Woman!

Ah fuck.

No I anit giving you my gun!

Oh yeah.

12.

“Here!”

“Shit”

Oh this fucking hurts!

“Aye hand me them cigarettes bro. I’m bout to be in the hospital for a minute.”

“Aye sis call my girl?”

“It’s the last number.”

Aye bro you 2 anit enough to put me in the ambulance.

Oh ahhh God.

Please God.

That hurts.

“Ppreciate ya sis.”

“I’m good.”

"Nah, I'm Gucci."

I’m scared.

Fuck happened.

Scared then Fuck.

“Aye man can y’all cut off the right pants leg first?”

“I gotta make sure my Dick’s still attached.”

“I’m not going into shock, I’m worried bout my Dick!”

Oh I’m scared.

God what’s gonna happen.

What if I can't ever Walk again?

I might be going into shock.

“Say little Buddy, I am hurting pretty fucking good.” 

Oh thank you God!

It’s still there!

“Its still there!”

Oh my God.

“Oh my God it’s beautiful right?” 

“Oh shit my bad lil Buddy.”

Fuck is we fucking doing?

Taking the motherfucking scenic fucking route?

Hurry the fuck up.

This shit really fucking hurts.

“Say shawty.”

“Not you lil Buddy.”

“Aye Shawty?”

“Fuck is we doing? Taking the scenic fucking route? I’m fucking hurting back here!”

[Black out]

Doors open.

Get some fucking help.

Dumbass.

I weigh a lot.

Dumbass.

You couldn’t lift me at the club.

What you take something?

Dumb fucker.

Nice.

Halfway in this motherfucker. Now the bloods rushing to my Head.

What type of inbreeds are these?

“Ahhh”

“Fuck!”

“I think I’m going to vomit!”

Idiot.

Stupid.

Stupid motherfucker.

Idiotic motherfucker.

“Aye can y’all please get some help?”

Okay.

Let’s go.

This is like a episode of House.™

Fucking love fucking House.

Whatever they gave me is some wonderful shit.

Feel better.

Fuzzy.

What’s that noise?

Like wa-wa?

Shit!

She’s here.

How?

“Hey.”

Stay cool.

“I’m good.”

“Cause I am.”

“I’ll be back at work in a week or two.”

“Aye don’t worry. I checked. My Dick is still there.”

“It should still work too.”

Fuck did I say that silly shit?

I had better stop there.

Kinda want you to respect me in the morning.

The Excuse Of Camaraderie

A friend who is like a brother to me, challenged me to do some writing.

Even gave me prompt words to get me going.

Camaraderie and excuse.

Depression and it’s cohorts, anxiety, and stress have been working me over fairly consistently since December.

I won’t blame that but the words didn’t stir me.

It took me watching another heartbreaking post season loss, and a drive to work for me to understand what I really needed to write.

Excellence does not automatically equal extraordinary outcomes.

Read it again.

Excellence does not automatically equal extraordinary outcomes.

Only extraordinary effort yields extraordinary outcomes.

If you know me even a little bit you know I’m a Saints fan.

Always will be.

They’re an excellent team with  consistently winning numbers, yet they broke my and other Who Dat Fans hearts and hopes again.

I am not bashing my squad.

Ever.

I’m using them as an example.

Here’s another.

My vehicle is equipped with a powerful V8 engine.

An excellent engine.

However my truck has 333,532 miles on it as well.

So of course the other vehicles with powerful V8 engines, that are 16 years newer, with drivers who are 20 years younger than me, zoom past us. 

Excellence in and of itself is not enough.

Excellence is not the ceiling, it's the floor.

It’s a misunderstood notion.

We human beings have become comfortable in our complacence.

Arrogant in our mediocrity.

When everyone gets a trophy, how is a trophy special?

In 15th century France aluminum was the most precious of metals. 

Only the Pope and Emperor had crowns of it.

Rarity makes value.

Value creates worth.

Strive for excellence.

Daily.

Hourly.

Each millisecond.

In every endeavor.

However don’t assume your excellence is enough.

You’re sadly mistaken.

Minority individuals who are Excellent yet must compete with persons who’s mental acuity is not in their league know exactly what I mean.

Time To Let Go

It’s coming to an end.

It’s obvious.

Clubs are shitier and shitier.

Burnt one too many bridges.

Thought his condition was an asset.

Extra Testosterone.

Makes him hyper aggressive.

Always enjoyed a good fight.

Overhears a bit of conversation.

“Ma he’s good. I’ve heard of him. His hands are the stuff of legend. He tears clubs to the ground. We’ll be okay.”

God Damnit. 

It’s one of Those places.

OG knows he’s working on a broken foot.

Must be angry with him.

A bunch of bull.

Plus the chairs are uncomfortable.

Sits to tie up his boots

Grunts loudly as his swollen foot resists being confined.

Didn’t want to fight tonight.

Shit.

Just had to squabble last night.

Foot’s throbbing.

Flexes his toes. 

Lights go off.

Pool tables are closed.

Strippers head to the dressing room.

Takes a look at the picture of “His Truck.”  The 2013 Escalade with 120k is the motivation. 

Why he is working so much.

Supposed to be his birthday gift to himself.

Needs a vehicle.

Wants that one.

He’s had one $1800 car after another.

Some of them have been spectacular.

For $1800 cars.

$7,985.00 He’s worth it.

He’s more than put in the work.

Been “Faithful over a little.” Scripture is all he remembers from church, but he holds on to it for all it’s worth.

Needs his “Much*” soon.

Faith keeps him going.

Not only to the increasingly decrepit night Clubs, but also to his Warehouse job.

Wants to abandon both.

Draw comics.

Look at Mountains.

Create new adventures for his characters.

Maybe be able to see both a mountain and a large body of water?

Even in his wishes and fantasies he’s conservative, a  microscopic amount of success, a vehicle he’s not afraid will break down on him, enough food to eat, these are his dreams.

All night long he waits for something to kick off. 

When the lights come on at 4:00 a.m. a wave of relief washes over him.

Survived another night.

Received a little more money.

80 more nights like this one, and a few more OT hours at his primary job he just might be able to pull it off. 

*Matthew 25:12

Making Enemies (Kyng Of Clubs Part 2)

Teeth feel fuzzy.

Been working 27 hours straight.

Vest is digging into his sides.

Last shift.

Should be easy.

Goes to the storeroom.

Pulls out a bar stool, top is disconnected but it will serve his purpose.

Kyng perches on it, head swiveling, taking in every detail.

White Chocolate is on stage.

Money fills the air.

Sparklers stream from behind him.

Barking loudly, Kyng shines 3000 lumens in the waitresses’ path.

Observes closely until the bottle reaches its destination.

Rests his eyes for seconds at a time.

Asks Nia the bar maid for another coke.

Rather have an energy drink, does not want to fork over $6 for a knock-off of the most popular brand.

While he is aware that the club is set up to make money, does not feel it should make it off him.

He needs it too badly.

Patron comes up to him.

Thinks to himself.

“This motherfucker better not try to shake my hand.”

Yes.

He is

Looks at the extended appendage.

Unless he’s a prestidigitator there is no money in that mitt.

Kyng looks at him, his disgust, vivid and clear.

A Von Gogh of revulsion.

“Wa’dup?”

Patron sways.

Leans closer.

“You Jes gonna leave me hanging?”

Drunken individual is in danger.

Has no idea.

Reaches towards Kyng’s shoulder.

If the inebriated Man contacts his person, Kyng is going to break his clavicle, and dislocate his shoulder.

Might break his right leg.

Has not decided just yet.

But definitely the arm.

General manager saves the drunk.

“Hey Greg. Come here man stop playing with my Wolves and let me buy you some Crown.”

Kyng, files the man’s face for future reference.

Bob’s his head to the beat.

All the songs sound the same.

Blend together into a monotonous, bass heavy, beat.

Same for the dancers.

All have a generic look as if they came from some stripper clone factory.

Notices one of his team is not on the floor.

Not only is he not at his post, but he is also nowhere to be found.

Makes a mental note.

Walks the club makes certain the missing man is not sitting in VIP.

Dancer exits the stockroom.

Looks like she has been busy.

Horse, the missing bouncer, comes in the front door minutes later.

Kyng has a feeling he knows what the man was doing. A quick survey of the man’s hands and face confirm. 

Glitter. 

Most of the dancer’s bodies are fairly coated in it. 

You cannot abandon your post. 

No matter how fine she is. 

Even if it is only a few minutes. 

Shoots a text to "OG Big Boy" asking that the long-faced man, nicknamed Horse not be sent back to his club. 

Text back is instant. 

"You want him gone? U fire him."

At the end of the night, as money counters are buzzing through garbage bags full of one dollar bills, Kyng pulls the man aside. 

"Horse, let me holla atcha?"

The 6' 9" man has a couple inches of height over the head of security, Kyng's dangerous demeanor more than makes up for the disparity.   

"Listen, I know you were fucking Klimaxx, while we were on the clock. I can't have that. I don't want you back."

Horse's light features begin to darken, and his voice raises an octave or two.

"Fuck you mean? Fuck you thank you is? I'ma call OG!"

Kyng, absently loosens his pistol in his holster.

The man's raised voice makes him feel as if he might need to pull it. 

Because he does security as well, Horse notices the movement and is instantly angry.

"Nigga anit scared of that motherfuckin pistol!"

Kyng drops his hands.

Doesn't want to have to do anything to this man. 

"Bruh. I talked to OG. He told me to fire you. It don't have to be like this. If you act a fool with me I'm gone act a donkey with you."

His words are clipped.

Voice even. 

Calm. 

Soothing in a way. 

His intent is lethal. 

Has decided if Horse approaches, he's going to shoot him. 

Amir, the General Manager saves Kyng a second time. 

Wraps an arm around the tall light skinned giant. 

"Hey Douglas, how's your auntie Vera? She know you been working for me?" 

The older man gives Kyng a hand signal, one that lets him know that he has things under control and that the warrior can take his weary bones home. 

Its been a long work day.

Kyng's made a couple hundred dollars, and a couple of enemies. 

 

Everything Happens For A Reason

 He was a star in his hometown.

Small Tennessee town bordering Mississippi had never seen anything like Chevron Taylor.

Defensive Lineman of the year, every year of his high School career.

All American.

Most recruited High School senior class of 2006.

LSU is sending the most to the pros. 

Virginia Tech and Wisconsin have the best defense.

Tours several schools.

Decides on Arkansas.

College football is a different level of the game.

Finds out he wasn’t the only one who hauled pulpwood, and hay.

These guys know how to move people too.

Works harder.

Eats a lot more.

Works out.

He is determined to be a professional football player. Has a few Sparks of brilliance in his college career.

Doesn’t hear  his name. 

He’s not on TV. 

He’s a late seventh round draft pick.

NFL is yet another level.

Career lasts mere days.

Tries other teams.

No takers.

The NFL team he’d signed to loses 8 members of it’s practice squad to a freak plane crash.

Expects a call.

Nothing.

Refuses to return to Tennessee broke and broken. 

Does some bouncing.

Even more bouncing around.

Hollywood California.

New York City.

Two years after college gets another chance to play football.

The $38,000 they’re paying him is less than his forklift operator job and bouncing net him.

Doesn’t matter, he’s playing football again. 

Shreds Offensive lines, with the power of a Rhino.

Racks up 6 sacks through 3 games.

It feels good.

Like home.

Starts hearing his name.

Sure the crowds are not so much a crowd as a group, but those 1200 or so know his name.

Life is good. 

Team building exercise.

Ice Skating.

Over eager teammate hurts both of them.

Depression sets in.

26 years old.

No clue what to do next.

Here’s a bunch of his teammates were infected with HIV by a new cheerleader.

He’d made a point of sleeping with as many of her squad mates as he had been able.

Metal rod in his leg means zero chance of playing Ball again.

Also gets him put off flight 583, most deadly airline crash in recent history.

Plane crashed into a new Mall’s Grand opening.

The event was being hosted by the NFL's Defensive Lineman of the year.

Feels unlucky.

Doesn’t see the essence of the plan.

Karma: (Kyng of the Club Part1)

 Head hurts.

Mouth tastes like he performed cunnilingus on an airport ashtray.

It happens when he’s been up too long, smoked too many Camel© Menthol Wides, too many hastily rolled blunts.

Looks over at the lump in his California King Flat form.

Hopefully she’ll at least be good looking.

Can’t believe he’s done it again.

Been a while since he woke beside a random female.

Remembers why he stopped.

Fucking Entertainers.

Swore off them.

Knows why he did it.

Fucking “Hook-ups”app.

He’d seen Ronnie on the site.

His Ronnie.

On ‘Hook-ups’?

He’d drank like a fish all night.

Bar maids are happy to oblige.

He never asks them for anything.

Always quiet.

Watching people. 

Notices everything.

Makes sure nothing happens.

That night Kyng is not at peak.

Starts off noticing the bored expressions of the dancers, glassy eyes of the patrons, hundreds of ones being thrown, typical night.

Tells Nia the barmaid he wants 3 fingers of Jack.

Once he explained she handed him a fresh one each time he held up 3 digits.

Decides to find out who is in his bed.

Karma.

The dancer, not the thing.

Even though it kind of could be.

Doesn’t care for the tall arrogant woman, has no idea how they ended up at his house.

Can’t even begin to imagine the conversation they might have had. 

Never said a nice word to one another before.

Swears he won’t ever drink again. 

Now that he’s up he has to cash app his team. 

The only downside to employing a lot of monsters is that you have to keep them happy, and always remember that they are monsters. 

Gorilla Man, Turnpike,  Ears, and Bigfoot. 

The best crew working in strip clubs. 

Has other employees but if he has to work with anyone it’ll be them. 

As he transfers funds, lithe body in his bed begins to stir. 

Doesn’t look forward to the conversation, even less to having to see her at the club later tonight.

"Hey Wake up, shawty."

Old Man In The Club

He's tired.

Unmoved by the nubile, oily, body’s writhing around him.

Doesn’t want to be there.

Envy's the dancers.

Hates the fact that he’s envious.

Should be at a different place in life.

He’ll be 50 in 6 months.

Ought not to be struggling.

Not regret trips.

Begrudge the ballers tossing thousands of $1 bills.

Everyone here makes more than him.

Every.

Single.

Person.

It’s actually life or death for him.

Puts his life on the line.

Knows he’s not worth much.

Feels worth more than the $125 he makes each night.

Isn’t even getting tips.

Probably because he is desperate.

Plus he’s been gone to long.

Reputation is old news.

Lethality isn’t as obvious.

Looks like someone’s Dad.

Has a respectable job.

Still doing security but in a suit and tie.

Guard’s an office building from 3-11. 

Easy.

After he wishes the office staff a good evening he watches movies until it’s time to leave.

Since his 'setback' he’s been running from there to the strip club.

Only short $600.

Can’t put only in front of it when you don’t have it.

Watches all the minutiae.

“Sweepers” use a garden rake to gather up currency into plastic bags.

Only workers he feels deserve their pay.

Trash bags of dollars are more than enough to pay his rent.

Would only need one.

Tells himself he just needs a boost, a spring board to get ahead.

It’s not true.

Can’t manage money for shit.

Any amount would slip through his fingers.

He could win the lottery and be broke.

Seems addicted to poverty.

Told himself 7 years ago he was done.

Before getting shot.

The sawed off shotgun blast had just been the final straw.

Body aches from his old wounds.

Tries to limit his activity at the club.

Can't lose his day job.

While the $20 hourly the Club pays is technically an increase, he works  40 hours at the Office Park, they also have benefits.

Medical.

Dental.

Life.

Vision. 

Needs those assurances as he gets older.

Time isn’t his friend 

Requires a lot more push-ups and gym hours.

Door explodes.

A celebrity he knows.

Might make rent after all.

 

Missed Signals

We were smoking marijuana together. 

Only knew her through her brother. 

Who was also on the L. 

Slow R &B is playing in the background. 

She and I are having a private conversation. 

Her brother has to be called across the room to hit the blunt. He's ignoring us.

His Girlfriend is there. 

In fact her presence is the only reason my friend and I are there. He sneaks to his sister’s house to meet up with her. 

Has a wife. 

Isn’t my business. 

I’m pretty high by this point. Conversation turns to the playlist.  

It's mine. 

At the time I was a walking talking party. 

Had music in my playlist that would be fitting at any and all events. 

Tonight it was all about the “Nasty Music” that was literally the name of the list. 

It was my go to “Panty Dropper compilation at the time. 

Don’t remember why I was playing it. 

It was working though. 

My friends sister got heavy on innuendo, that went completely over my head. Hints as she blows me a “Shotgun.” 

Our lips touch. 

Starts to throw indicators that we should change venue. 

Finally asking repeatedly if I had a specific song… “Step into my Room.”  

Literally told her I had heard of “Meeting in by Bedroom.” 

But not that one. 

Yeah. 

Missed it.

Actually looked for the song. Didn’t occur to me until I was on the Subway home. 

Called back.

It was too late. 

Her boyfriend had been invited over.  

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.

Is It Really Love?

Her heartbeat calls to me.

Even working in a strip club around near perfect bodies, she occupies my thoughts.

Pull out my Samsung Galaxy Mega, send her a text message.

Don’t get a chance to check her response, a fight breaks out in VIP, then a drug dealer is asking for me at the front door.

Get a sizeable tip.

Text reads.  “Getting ready for bed. Left a key under the plant.”

 Check the time, it's 3:24 a.m. we're about to get a rush.

We’re the strip club everybody comes to when everything else is closed.

Women routinely pay their $75 entertainment fee as late as 4 a.m. place officially closes at 8 a.m. but we often don’t leave until 10 or 11.

I’d rather be home with her but I don’t know of any other job where I can bring home $500+   for one night.

Two more “Dope Boys” and a local rapper decide they’d rather pay me then the night club.

Good.

Going to get her something nice.

It’s only been a month, but I think I love her.

Want her happy.

By the time I make it to her house, pockets are stuffed.

Bank stack my cash in her driveway, double check my pockets for loose bills or illicit substances.

 X-pills, and other party drugs get twisted up in the quick hand to hand cash often. 

Don’t need that kind of drama. 

Yup Molly.

A big hunk of it. 

Pinch a piece.

Swallow the tiny piece with the last of my energy drink.

Toss the rest in my center console.

Someone will give me some money for it tonight.

Go inside with the key. 

Fold $750 onto the dresser.

It was a good night.

Halfway through my shower drug kicks in.

Never had water feel so amazing.

Sex is earth moving.

She knows I’m on something.

Just rides the wave.

Passed out after the Third encore.

Wake up to new clothes.

Stylish.

Elegant.

Stuff I’d never buy myself.

Colors I wouldn’t normally rock.

Like them though.

Stagger down the hall.

Need coffee, smell it.

Pots off.

Coffee's slightly warm.

Tepid.

Overload it with sugar and creamer.

Nuke it.

Thunder rumbles.

It’s 5:26 p.m. 

Feel lazy.

I’m there alone. 

Call her.

Meet up for Mexican food.

Head to work straight from the restaurant.

Tough night.

Starts off badly.

Ends with me in the hospital.

She visits once.

Guess my injuries scare her.

Recover alone.

Burn through savings.

Get evicted.

Move back home.

Love  wasn’t enough.

 

Politically Correct

It was funny.

Damn it.

Wasn’t as if he had meant any harm.

It was a joke.

 It hadn’t been for the current political climate, no one would have thought anything of it.

Still makes him laugh.

Even as he does the drive of shame home, it’s still funny.

“You never hear anyone say Fuck the fire department!”

Maybe it's because the song “Fuck The Police” is from his era.

His wife is going to have a fit.

Had been “Kicking the bo-bo” with his work friends, same harmless shenanigans as always.

Ran across the meme and shared it with his work bestie.

Fuck.

Didn’t see the client standing there.

The job is going to stop unemployment insurance. 

He’s seen it happen before, Just didn’t think it would happen to him.

His wife is going to kill him.

Park’s in his driveway.