It wasn't my greatest hour. I've had many shit kickers grace the back seat of whichever car I plucked that night. But these two have left their stench on my goddamn conscience for who knows how long. It even had me rethinking my role in the world. As if I had something else I could be doing instead. Some other ambition in life. Knitting sweaters, maybe?

To cut a self deprecating story short, it shook me up. And I've seen some shit. Some things you'd never even find at a late session at a drive-in theater. Some shit that would take too many life times to be fucked living to clean off. And for some reason I was always a part in it.

I was a piece in the endless underworld vile that found its way out and onto the streets. I stopped calling myself cursed. And started calling myself blessed. After a few pills and half a bottle of whisky. Every morning. I did come to a conclusion, though, at some point during my self abuse, of what it was that had me out here night after night.

I couldn't sleep, to start. And that itself is a story for another time, maybe to the backing of Angel Eyes. But it was deeper than that. My upbringing was a cluster fuck, sure. But whos wasn't? Who could look you square in the eyes and honestly say they had a great adolescence? And if you found such a unicorn, that boring shit would lead anyone to a life of debauchery anyway. Same shit, different taste.

And there it was. The reason I was caught up with criminals and living life on the edge, and what I imagined drew most to the gun toting outskirts of society. A world of smiles and cries. I seemed to always be a blonde fringe away from death, jail or a bad fuckin' break. But the risk was worth the reward. No matter the scar tissue. 

And the reason? I realized it was the simplest thing. No unresolved mommy or daddy issues. No fucked up karmic ass beating owed from lifetimes past. It was just the thrill of it all. The moments of potential calamity. To face them while the heart was trying to pound right the fuck through my chest. And then to survive. To have faced fear while riding the waves of love in some warped form. Where do I sign?

That was my ferris wheel moment of realization. I craved the adventure more than the end result. Money, ambition, death? They were small accomplishments on the road to freedom. Stops along the way to keep it grounded. And death? I look forward to the dance. I doubt it will be as peaceful as they say, but I hope I meet her with a smile, or an erection at least.

But not yet. And not last night, either. The shit kickers brought me to the brink. Had me sipping tea with the reaper. She even told me a story. Typed it out on a Chicago typewriter. Bullet after bullet, tearing through the streets. She was catching souls as bodies caught holes and filled with moonlight.

Her story was more like a nightmare after the fact. Death had a way of following you to bed and tucking you in nice and snug. Then woke you up in a pool of sweat, stinking of chemicals and cheap liquor. She was good, though. She didn't leave her number. She just returned for a quicky at a whim. And if I don't get this off my chest, she'll be back again tonight. I guarantee it.

So there we were. Outside the bank. The ride over had a little more lip service than usual. Most jobs I took had an unwritten rule. Verbal, clear and to the point... I recieved half of the payment upfront, no names, five minuets total, half now and half after. Simple. But funnily enough, the simple minded seemed to have no room for memos.

I watched them routinely as I drove to the bank from the pick up spot, The Moonlight Drive-in. Eyes on the road as it jostled underwheels with intermittent gazing in the rear view mirror. No more than twenty seconds in and he'd begun. The guy over my right shoulder. Talking up a fuckin' storm. And then he made his first mistake.

"What's your name?"

I know. I fuckin' know. Rules are just guidelines. I see it that way too. Just stencils to keep things in line and orderly. And not always needed, or adhered to. But in this line of work, rules weren't an outline you could colour outside of. They were purposeful.

They created purpose. And purpose is what cut through all the bullshit. It was the golden goose to any achievement. The uncompromising victor in any battle. Like the sun to the planets, it was the lifeforce to any and all goals. Big, or small, all creations had a purpose. Man-made or otherwise.

"No names."

"You don't have a name? How high were your parents?"

I glared at him, through the rear vision mirror. I'm not sure he could see it. It was quite dark. The odd street light and head lights gave passing flashes to our heart felt conversation.

"What don't you understand about no names?"

"Don't be an asshole. I'm just making conversation."

"Me being an asshole would be leaving your ass on the side of the road. Ask me my name again and I'll happily oblige."

The sound of arming a thompson submachine gun. I heard it many times before. It was the go to for jobs these days. Everyone and their gradma was using them. Chicago typewriters. Choppers. Gats. And the loading sound meant one thing.

The bank that was steadily coming up on our right. I parked the car on the opposite side of the road, and about two spaces down. Enough room to manouver her once things kicked off. The lippy prick and his silent double-chinned friend exited the car, both slamming the doors. The shit before the shit show.

The slimmer of the two made his way over the street and ducked behind a car close to the entrance, as his accomplice slowly moved two cars down from me and took aim at the front of the bank from behind a Ford pickup truck across the street.

It was quite late. We're talking streets empty, businesses closed, rubbish and dust blowing in the streets under moonlight late. Not exactly the time a bank would be an ideal target. Or was it?

With two and a half minuets to go, things got real interesting, real quick. I watched on as the bank doors opened and four men calmly walked out carrying black bags. They were dressed practically the same as the ones I was driving. All in suits. Hats. Some looking neater and sharper than others, but all dressed for the occasion.

Robbing a bank was no joke. It took serious planning and risk. Unless you simply waited for someone else to do the hard yards and hijack their heist at the opportune moment. Not so simple minded, afterall. Or maybe this was as far as their intellect got them.

Either way, it seemed like a pretty fuckin' great idea from the view in driver seat of the getaway vehicle. As the four men made their way down the twenty something stairs, the gunmen lit them up. Bullet casings littered the street. They barely got to fire back, let alone pull out their own brand of 'fuck you too' and take aim. 

Death joined the party. As the Chicago typewriters pumped out deceit and cunning, the reaper spun a tale of opportunity and sacrifice. And as things looked to have ended, the chubby of the two hurried back and hopped in the car.

I didn't need to be instructed. We were already moving before the back door closed. We gained some speed before I slid us one-eighty degrees and stopped in-front of the curb where the other goon was now picking up the bags of money.

Two minuets. From here it looked like a cake walk. With bags in hand, the smiling assassin strolled towards us. His friend must've seen something I didn't, as he was back out with his tommy gun aimed down the street. More bullets, and more carnage. Police cars were being clipped as the bag handler hurried to the car. He threw in the score before joining the standoff.

Both trigger men were emptying their magazines. As the larger male reloaded his gun, his comrade stepped out into the street and kept the assault going. I couldn't see exactly how many cars were back there. Mine was facing the other direction and I was focused on my role. I drove. People trusted me to do what I believed I was born to do, and was being paid, and I trusted them to hold up to their duties too.

So I kept my eyes forward and waited. I waited for the doors to slam shut and the thumping of bodies being hurrily launched in to be my signal. But there was no such green light. I heard the cries and anguish of the mouthy chap. He cussed and fought to the bitter end, while his pal in arms never squeezed out another bullet. My guess is he got shot while reloading.

Then came a last barrage of bullets, but they sounded more distant. A quick look in the side mirror and there they lay. Both men had been shot and police were edging closer, guns still drawn. That was now the signal. I shifted the gear and planted my foot down on the accelerator as bullets broke through the back window, smashed the side mirror and back lights and took a strong liking to the boot.

I was lucky to get away without copping lead myself. No, luck wasn't it. I didn't believe in her. It was life's way of saying, here's something else to fret over and lose sleep over for the next two months.

A gift, if you will. Because without these little tokens from death, I wouldn't have a reason to be out here again. Sleep deprived. An insomniac. One shot of that mixed with a fiery desire to feel alive. Keep them coming, barkeep.

Not that anyone will ever find this book. But it seems to help. Sally told me that. The jobs never went that bad. And even with all that money, it didn't matter. It didn't stop the knawing. The voices have only gotten louder. And so have the drinking and pill popping. What a beautiful cycle.

And the nights out, they will never stop. The potential for heart pounding adventure at the risk of death knocking at the door? I like them odds. Sally would too. Where's the dotted line?

The pounding. Like a hammer smashing away on the inside of my throbbing brain. Beating a lesson into me. One I've heard many times before. But I abstain from taking advice. Even my own. Because like Sally use to say, fools don't heed it and the wise don't need it. Which am I?

I'd like to think both. But the images flashing through tell me otherwise. Maybe I tipped the scales too far to the foolish side. Dropped the whole fuckin' weight on there. And more inner tales in the form of vague memories. What the fuck did I do last night?

Water, I need lots of fuckin' water. That's when I knew I'd pissed away another evening. But the sense of something different stuck with me. Like I'd done something wrong, or something I shouldn't have. Like my actions weren't my own. But first, I needed to down some h2o.

I'd splash my face and it kept on, heckling me. But I was still too fucked to know whether it was me ripping into myself or another one of those outer mind experiences. What did you do? Waste the night away again, did ya? Maybe you did something stupid. Maybe the job went sideways. Yeah, you fucked up. You idiot. You always fuck up.

And although I knew deep down it wasn't true, it just took over. The deep feeling of fear. It covered me like a rusty blanket. My already fragile state took a bastard of a turn. And I just had to know. What the fuck did I do that had me so worried. Maybe it was the unknown itself. Just not knowing, that had me so bent out of shape. But that thought wasn't enough. I needed to know.

After a half-assed attempt at looking somewhat normal I left the apartment. The ringing seemed to get louder as I hit the hallway. Like that fuckin' hammer was beating a bell. Ding fuckin' ding. Over and over again. I got it, asshole. I drank too much again. Next lesson please. After a sour acceptance of reality I headed downstairs. And this is where it got interesting.

My neighbour. The wife beater. He looked like he was now wearing his own brand of anger management. He looked all types of fucked up. Worse than even I felt, which wasn't going away, even with me waving the white flag to acknowledge my shortcomings.

Along with a white singlet, his eyes were bruised and his nose had some kind of band over it. And as we passed each other on the first set of steps, and he noticed it was me who was passing him, something clicked. For starters, the hammer on a handgun he pulled from his pocket.

With a shaky double grip he aimed it directly at me. My arms went up in protest. Not like the type where you were passionate about something. Overcome with emotion and rallying to strike a point home. It was just a reaction, but a very watered down I haven't the capacity to fully comprehend this shit. And it seemed his were the opposite.

As I leaned back against the second floor stairway railing with my elbows bent and my hands pointed toward the celing, he flung himself back against the wall and began live stepping and sliding his way up. He looked mighty pissed. And scared as shit. But that didn't hit me till later. Then and there, he looked like a lunatic. And his words mirrored that.

"Stay back! Stay the fuck back!"

"Just..calm down?" I said curiously and with a severe lack of conviction. I didn't know what the hell to say. All I wanted was to crawl up into a ball and wake up next week.

"Just get the fuck back!"

He was waving that thing around and pointing it at me, like he was trying to shove me with it from a meter away. All the while he was moving up the stairs as quickly as he could. And even then, he walked backwards with the gun shaking and pointed at me. Until he was out of sight.

I stood there, perplexed. What-the-fuck was trying to outdo the headache. They were battling, blow for son-of-a-bitch blow for my attention as I turned and continued down my stairway to hell. Head was done in. I no longer even wanted to go and see Raphael. And then she walked in through the front door of the apartment building, just as I hit the bottom level. And it would slowly dawn on me that I didn't have to.

Her smile was instant. She was beaming. Glowing, even. She saw me just as I noticed her and we both stopped. Me, because it took me back. She'd never looked at me this way before. Always eyes down and in her own little world. And I took a mental note of it after it became a chorus.

She slowly helped the door close behind her. Still, she kept her gaze. And me, I'm not sure how I looked. But I imagine it was beyond what the fuck and into the realm of holy fuck. She was cute. Pretty face. Can't remember her eyes though, as all I could think was how I think I beat the living shit out of her boyfriend last night.

Upon that break through, where it tossed away the hammer after using it to smash the bell, all I could do was watch her. Surprised. I always took her for a bit of a bitch. Sour faced look when we'd pass in the hall or downstairs like now. I figured she was a snob. But more seemed to flood in. More thoughts, insights even, that helped put things into perspective.

After what seemed like a timeless moment, she continued walking. Head down again, but this time the smile just wouldn't quit. I didn't batter an eyelid. I must've looked like the biggest creep, or weirdo, but I couldn't help it. And just before she headed up the stairs she looked at me, stopped, and lip synched what I believe were the words thank you.

It was as sincere as I have ever seen another human being. Her hand even touched her chest as she said her parting words. And she was off up the stairs, smiling to herself. Fuck seeing Raphael. His skill in knowing what was what on the street level was no longer needed. The anxiety had completely shifted. It was clear.

Back upstairs I went. And back to a pill and a quarter bottle of whatever got me into this wreck. Fuck the lesson too. I would be a fool again if need be. Or a wise man. Or both. I'd never know. But at least now they do. One saw me as the bringer of hurt. One, as the breaker of chains.

As I passed their door on the way to mine I thought it funny how the same event could be experienced in so many different ways. And even not remembered at all, though it left a lasting impression on others. Life was funny like that. Everyone living in their own little worlds, I pondered, as I pushed open the door and took a step back into mine.

A distant stare. Off into the darker shades. I doubt she cared what was passing by. I doubt she even cared I looked at her constantly as I drove. She was here, but she wasn't. Her mind was elsewhere. Her body an empty vessel. And she probably got use to escaping. Even longed for it. How could she not?

How could she want to be present to her own solicitatins. Bank notes for love strokes. Selling herself short, and long. However long it took. She wasn't there anyway. So why did it matter? Why did I care so damn much? If her body was but the instrument, being strummed by the inner dweller. Why did it bother me, and why couldn't I get her off my mind?

She was just another client. A mid point of my night. And a middle women to keep the bills paid. A service to help her provide her own. A long list in a little black book. Different night to night, till the week came around again and the list began anew. For months I drove her here there and everywhere. And she was beginning to drive me insane.

I slowed the car to a halt, close to the curb. Still she was off somewhere. Inside herself, lost in a stream of consciousness. Even after I turned the engine off and shuffled my position in the drivers seat, she still stared out the back window. Lost. But found in some way. In some distant universe of her own making. How could she not?

The same place as last week. But a day in advance. I thought about why that might be. With a little jealousy, I hate to admit. I know I shouldn't, but I couldn't help but care. And I would just watch her through the rear vision mirror, thinking of the man she is to meet tonight. And she didn't notice. Still lost to the moment.

Who is he? What does he do? What does he look like? He must be wealthy. He might even have a wife. And he could be out of town. Visiting week to week on business. And this week he had to cut the stay short, so he booked tonight. Or the wife is out of town and is coming home earlier than usual. Or..

The backdoor slammed and broke my concentration. While I was stuck travelling through my own little universe she had slipped out of hers, and out of my car. I don't know why that bothered me so much. She never usually said anything to me anyway. Upon entering the car or exiting. Never even made eye contact. Not even once.

I remember the last time we spoke. Well, she spoke and I admired. She rattled off a list of instructions. Rules, more like it. Don't be late. Never interfere with her business. If she ever takes longer than thirty minutes, leave and forget she existed. And finally, half now and half later.

Back then I just stared at her as she buckled herself into the backseat, slipped me a note with a list of addresses on it and looked out the window. Some things didn't change, like the nightly address list and off in a galaxy far far away vibe. But some things did. Like her scent. And the way she styled her hair and what she wore. And how she grew on me more and more. How could she not?

Sure, the whole thing was crazy. I drove a women of the night around everynight, feeling more and more attracted to her everynight, but all she did was sell herself to others. Everynight. Exactly. It was a constant headfuck. But there was something there. Something that made me forget. And maybe in comparison to alternatives, this was heaven.

In my lifetime I'd experienced much worse. Like death. So much of it I could pass as an honorary undertaker. Or the reaper herself. And a long once upon a time ago, love. I didn't know it then, but that's what it was. Innocent, undying love. And that's how I knew it was the real thing, because it's still here, now. Even if Sally's not.

And that's how I know this is different. Because even though this women is far from being here, I am. And no matter how many men I drive her to sleep with, I don't care. She hops into the car and I see something, I feel something. No matter how lost she is, or broken. I can't help it. As if it's always the first time.

I flipped open the front dash compartment. The Alleged Adventures of Shadow & Ninja Skills and a packet of lucky strikes tobacco sticks. This was the waiting part. A comic book and a growing habit. Something to keep me busy while she was getting busy. Just another seedy night. Or was it?

"Go. The fuck you lookin' at? Let's go already."

The smarmy fuck. I could already tell. This guy was going to be a fuckin' pain in my ass. The kind you tried to avoid unless you couldn't and just had to deal with it. Like taking a shit after eating chili. You knew the outcome. I knew this outcome. But before the pain, I had to entertain the red devil.

I accepted the job. Sure, it was evidently my doing. We met at a bar and hashed out the details. He seemed like an asshole then too, but he had urgency. He liked to keep the conversation moving. Arrogant, of course. But with purpose. And those types were less of a head fuck than you might think.

Some assholes were just that. Shit kickers. Not enough hugs so they cursed the world. Not enough love so they hurt anything and everything. Blind to their blindspots. And unawares they were even alive. Cause if you had an incling of it, of a soul, then even the pain became a learning curve. But some just weren't alive enough to take the lessons. These guys I avoided taking jobs from like the plague.

The other kind though, they were assholes because they felt they had to be. They saw themselves up on some kind of magic fuckin' highchair drinking with the Gods. And others were beneath them. Pawns on their chessboard. But they got shit done. And they were useful enough that you could ignore their imperfections. Their holier than thou shite. Cause sometimes it was worth it. And these pricks didn't mind paying through the roof.

See. Upside. They respected quality. They threw fat stacks at it. Cause they believed themselves worthy of it. And money spoke their language. It was their A's B's and C's. And if you had something they wanted, needed even, then hoo fuckin' rah, they'd toss down grapes to you from their high status in Olympia.

So I agreed. Money, why else. And if I had to put up with his shit just for tonight then so be it. I got the car moving on queue. On my queue. Not due to his bullshit prompt. I knew we had to get going. I was the one driving the fuckin' car. If I didn't know that much, why was I driving the fuckin' car? Off we went. Pleasant as a chili shit.

The first stop was fine. No more than two minutes and he was back in and barking orders again. Under the veil of night I was smirking. If only he knew. As we drove to the second of the third stops on the job he began small talk. Why the fuck not? He'd likely just beat the shit out of some poor prick and had the energy to.

And how did I know. You recognized the after state of standover guys, after the standover fact. Breathing more heavily. Trying to not breath more heavily. Clothes looking a little like the wearer just fucked with them on. And the sweat too. like they'd just visited and left a bordello. You'd know it, if you worked with the types long enough. And the big black bag he was carrying back with him kind of confirmed the whole thing.

I'd driven many of his kind around. Not all were as prickly as this guy though. Some of these loan shark enforcers were actually pleasant guys, believe it or not. Like one guy who broke out into song with blood all over him after a short stopover. And possibly brains. It was as if he'd just left church as a choir boy. Enlivened by the holy ghost or someshit. Enraptured. Never forget it. Happy as fuck.

This guy, not so much. I remember his weird conversation. Like the gay holy brain surgeon, just for a different reason. He kept brushing his hand through his slick black hair. I know I do the same with my fringes, but he had no obvious need to. And he kept closing his eyes as he did. Never forget it.

"You ever just do something so fuckin' good it made you want to fuck right there and then?"

Yep. That was his idea of a good time, obviously. He seemed to get off on this work. Like it was his release. And God knows what he did in there. I shuddered at the thought. Full fuckin' freaked me out thinking he may have done the dirty with the body after. I mean, was I the weird one, or was he?

And that was all he said. He dressed like a million dollars. But everytime I looked in the rear vision mirror it seemed like his body was empty. The suit was empty. The vessel had no driver. Like he had no fuckin' soul. It was just a weird vibe. And I couldn't shake it.

We hit up the second spot. He jumped out as I turned off the engine. I made sure the surrounding area was fine. Fine as in nothing weird, like lurkers or people I needed to keep tabs on. And it was. And I waited. And waited. And fuckin' waited. But nothing. He didn't return.

I let it pass the agreed upon five minutes and let it tick over to ten. Nothing. No sign of the weird fuck. I usually wouldn't but there was a black bag in the back and I didn't want to take responsibility for it. The money belonged to someone. And someone had someone else out retrieving it. And paying me more than my usual fee to do so.

This was bad. But I couldn't stick around. And I wasn't going in after this guy. I half wished death upon him when he first spoke. Why would I care? That's right. The black fuckin' bag. Fuck. Now it was my responsibility.

As I pulled away and left half of my paycheck behind, I couldn't help but wonder if it was better this way. The world with one less prick. One less shit stain upon the toilet bowl that life was proving itself to be. Maybe there wasn't a heap of hot crap to follow. Maybe the chili passed through nice and clean like.