"Tell me a goddamn story!" She yelled again through a hiccup.

"But not somethin' 'bout you! There's always too much damn vanity in this fuckin' world! Too much damn self-seeking!" She exclaimed while waving her hands wildly, some liquor spilling out the top of a brown-bagged bottle.

"Hey!" She slapped the drink against your chest then bent forward and quickly scraped her fingers against the dusty ground. Nearly toppling off the bench she launched a stone at two whipper-snapper kids passing by causing them to dart off down the gravelly track.

"Fuckin' little shits!"

Turning her attention back to you, she snatched her elixir back. With a grimacing stare looking you directly in the eyes she pointed her good hand forward, the bottle shaking as she spoke fervantly.

"A story! That's all I ask!"

With her piercing glare reflecting in the glistening of your soul-windows, she took a quick swig of the cherry liqueur. With some escaping her lips onto her chin she sloppily wiped it against the back of her woollen glove. Then looking upwards towards the clouds, she reached out as if touching the sky before dragging her hands downwards and thumping them against her chest causing more rum to splash out of the bottle.

"A little somethin' to get me goin', to set these tits on fire!"

She laughed maniacally as she slumped back, the park bench catching her. She was sprawled out, her good hand dangled with the bottle over the back of the wooden memorial bench as the other lightly touched the ground. Well liquored up, she spent a moment flicking between closing one eye and the other trying to correct her double-vision.

Sitting up suddenly, she returned her focus to you and with a little effort managed to get a good grip of your collar, causing the bottle to drop into your lap. With a strong tug she pulled you in close so your noses touched. Her breath smelled like you'd expect of a homeless alcoholic's who was only ever a bottle or two away from a permanent journey into the park's undergrowth.

"Get me heart racin' is what I meant but these things could use a tune up too!"

With a light shove she made space between the two of you and swiped her bottle back.

"Show me somethin'! Make me feel somethin'!" She gazed off into the distance towards a pond that was before you, the gritty walking path running a long oval around it.

"Let me live again through your words! Create me a world and take me there!"

She slumped back against the oak once more and took another sip of the black cherry rum. And then another, and this time a much larger dose as her erratic energy slowly began to dissipate.

"I have treasure. Lots of it. Found it awhile back when taking a shit God knows where. But it's real. And it's yours if you can weave me a story before I croak."

She seemed somber now. Her eyes misted over as she looked heartedly up at you through two clumped and mattered long fringes that hung stiff down her cheeks under an age-old cap.

"Words. They are our reality whether we know it so. They make us and they break us. This monotonous backdrop of a world, what does it even mean if the human condition can't be shared? Without organs, the body ceases to function. Without words, so do we. Words are the lungs. Stories, the breath. Let me live one last time, would you?"

Her hand was shaking as she passed the bottle your way, her movement causing her raggedy jacket to make a small rectangular gold plaque visible. It was embedded and screwed into a central thick wooden slat of the rest stop itself.

'To those that inspire. To all who create and offer and seek nothing but the shared joy of the enlivened human spirit.'

And on a separate line below that was more writing in a smaller italicised font.

'To the best of us. And to the worst, as everything has its purpose.'

Share a story here at the Storied Park Bench. After the women croaks all stories told will go into a draw to win a part of this old soul's treasure. Better yet, you might just help bring some much needed joy to this old croan before her final journey.

Taking the bottle she looked at the old woman, her missing teeth, and noted the smell coming from her mouth. It reminded her of the nursing home and those trapped within. She wasn't about to put her mouth on the bottle so instead, she smiled and handed it back, "I promise you, this story is completely factual." she told the woman, normally she'd tell them to ask Jeeves, but figured the joke would be lost on her and everyone else. She settled in and started to recite the tale, one she knew by heart as if it had been passed down from generation to Jeneration, and in a way it had. 

"Randy was an interesting man, he was loud, crass, and lacked a filter between his brain and his mouth. As you can imagine this man didn't give a fuck if he offended you unless of course, you had something he wanted. See, Randy had a fearful love of booze and drugs." She nodded her head and made a face that was as close to a frown as she could before rubbing her face to hide the grin, "This man has had a wild life, from women to drugs to music and parties and traveling around the world to throw eggs at royalty, or at least to hear him tell it." she pulled out her cigarettes and lit one up, becoming the cliche she had read about. 

"Now Randy managed to keep his job, no one knows how, but because of that, he met his mortal enemy, the woman he was destined to love and hate until the day she died. This woman was a tiny succubus, seducing him and using him for his other two loves, narcotics and alcohol. And the man, proud Irish American that he was, was constantly angered that this small slip of a thing could drink him under the table, snort more than him and even shoot up quantities that would put a horse down. Because of that, his lust and passion turned to jealousy and rage. He may have taken it out on her or their son, no one knows for sure." 

She flicked the butt off to the side and shifted on the hard wooden bench, "But one day after a doctor's visit where the evil witch Mary had shown up, Randy had reached his limit. And that night he cast a spell on the woman, one that would forbid her from drinking or doing drugs for at least 9 months." She wiggled her fingers as she said it, copying Foamy and his mystical shop before she started laughing, "Just kidding, they rage fucked and she got knocked up." she told the crone, elbowing her gently as if that would help with the joke. "Now where was I? Oh yeah, Rage banging." she nodded her head and continued painting her verbal story for the woman, telling the tale of the man and woman, locked in a battle of wills and cunning which the man would often lose due to the fact he wasn't very clear-headed at times, now that there were more drugs and alcohol available to him than he knew what to do with. 

"And then the day came, June 20th 19..." she started coughing, mumbling something that sounded like numbers possibly if you listened close enough, but Jen had a feeling this woman's ears weren't the best these days with all the gunshots or backfiring cars around the place. "Randy found himself in his usual spot on the couch, beer in hand, joint in the ashtray. This is when the woman rushed in to announce that their endless battle will soon begin, and he needed to take her to the hospital right that moment. Luckily for Randy across the street was a bar and the..uh..." she paused for a second, "The radio, yeah, had the Mets vs. Cubs game on and so he sat listening and drinking and smoking as the hours wore on." 

God this story was a lot longer than she had anticipated, perhaps when told to her it was a shorter version. She did have a habit of talking a bit much when she was excited, and she loved talking about nothing more than herself so here they were, the sun lowering in the sky slightly to show the passing of time. "Anyway, his wife has the kid and the evil Witch's husband manages to find Randy at the bar, gets him sober enough to be allowed in the hospital and when he is presented with the gift and curse, the one he had bestowed upon the woman and himself those long 9 months ago he stared down at the creature in his arms quietly whilst his eyes filled with tears." she felt a bit choked up, imagining how it must have felt and been like, "And then this god damn high as fuck drunk bastard pulls back the pink baby blanket and yells, "This ain't no Kevin! It ain't got no dick!" before handing the bundle over to the distraught woman, who started plotting her own curse called "Child support Payments" as the man stumbled away back to the bar with a few choice muttered curse words about the small demon child that had turned out to be a disappointment from birth." 

She slapped her hands on her knees, "Welp," she said before getting to her feet and handing the bottle back to the crone, "It ain't much, but I can tell you that the man is really proud of that moment for some reason." She dug in her purse and pulled out a few crumpled bills and handed them over to her, "Thanks for letting me remember them." she said softly before heading back towards the train station. 

Jimmy looked off into the distance for a moment as various exploits he had heard about flitted through his mind. Smiling as the perfect story solidified in his mind he started to speak in a low, almost dreamy voice

“They say that love can’t survive in the shadows of the streets where crime rules and the bullet is as likely to be the end of an argument as a good rebuttal. There’s just too much hate and anger to allow love to blossom according to the great ‘they’. Whoever ‘they’ are, though obviously never heard of old Henry Moss whose love of Lucy Thorn not only survived but pushed him to even greater feats of criminality.”

Jimmy looked over at the old hag and once confident she was listening continued

“See, when Henry met Lucy he was nothing but a low level runner for one of the local crews - a nobody in the grand scheme of things. Lucy, on the other hand, was a right proper lady from a good family and expected to marry up - far from the likes of peasants like Henry. For Henry, however, none of that mattered. The first moment he laid eyes on her he could think of nothing but making her his own.” 

------

Henry walked through the market square with the long strides of someone on a mission. The small notebook in his breast pocket and the large bundle of bills in his bag were the cause of determination. He had made his way from down at the docks where he had picked up the small ledger and bag of protection money from a few of Frankie’s goons who had been making collections throughout the day and he was now delivering it to the man himself. Henry was 19 but looked closer to 16 which made him a great leg man - the cops - or rival crews - weren’t likely to suspect a high school kid of having over $10,000 in protection money in his satchel and weren’t likely to hassle him as he made his way through the city. As Henry entered into the meat market on the corner of 5th and Main he stopped dead in his tracks. Standing at the counter quietly waiting behind a regal middle aged woman who was speaking with the butcher was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her chestnut colored hair laid in soft curls over her dainty shoulders and her green eyes seemed like emeralds to Henry. She looked to be around the same age and her attire clearly marked her as a member of the upper class. As Henry drank in her beauty she turned as if knowing she was being watched and caught Henry’s eye. Never one to shy away from what he wanted Henry gave a smile and tipped his hat slightly at the lady causing her to blush slightly and giggle. The small sound made the middle aged lady turn toward it and upon seeing Henry dressed in rough homespun trousers, a neatly pressed but obviously faded shirt, and with accessories that had seen better days looking with open interest at her daughter her face turned cold and grabbing her the young lady by the arm she began to leader her out of the shop. As she passed Henry she made a point of saying loud enough for him to hear, “We don’t associate with that kind”. 

Henry thought of following to try and see who this girl was but his better judgement snapped back into place as he heard the butcher chuckle slightly and say, “Frankie’s in the back - you better hurry up and get back there.”

----

Jimmy paused for a moment to clear his throat and take a sip from a small hip flask, “Now, you might wonder how a street hustler being left in the dust by a socialite was a good example of love working out, but that would be ignoring the rest of what happened now wouldn’t it? It took a bit of doing but Henry found out who the girl was and then where Lucy - that’s the girl - lived. It took him some time to buck up the courage but one afternoon as she was out for a walk unchaperoned Henry took his chance and approached her. What he found was that he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been able to get that day out of his head - and from that moment the two began to sneak out together every chance they could. Henry had been afraid to let her know how he earned his keep for a while but was pleasantly surprised when she seemed to accept his lifestyle. Her acceptance, however, wasn’t enough. Henry knew that for all their fun times if he couldn’t convince her parents of his worth there was no way they could have a future together. Sure, he could ask her to run off with him, but he loved her too much to ask her to dishonor herself by doing so. What he needed, he knew, was a way to transform himself into the upper class gentleman they expected to court her. That meant having money, and Henry only knew of one way to get that kind of money. Thankfully for him, and for our little story, he knew just how to get it. 

----

Henry laid in waiting outside of the downtown branch of JP Morgan Bank. He watched from his perch on a ceiling across from the bank as shadows darted around the building getting in place as he had directed. These were his crew - his Mockers as they called themselves. He had chosen the name as a dig at those who mocked him and his “puny crew of youngsters” when he first got the nod from Frankie to start running his own schemes as long as he didn’t interfere with Frankie’s business. Since Frankie stuck to gambling and whores primarily - neither of which particularly interested Henry - that wasn’t a problem. Henry was now 24 and his quick temper and ability to back it up with a bat, blad, or revolver had earned him enough respect that no one would speak ill of his crew to his face but he new that behind his back people thought he had made a mistake in choosing those that made up his crew. Rather than calling on some of the non-affiliated soldiers that he coudl have had his pick of he had chosen instead to recruit at the local orphanages and high schools, taking in young hoodlums who hadn’t earned a name for themselves at all yet. What the others didn’t understand is that Henry had molded these “young punks” into elite criminals capable of the very specific task each of them needed to know how to do over the last year. 

The other crews in the area had no idea just how successful Henry’s crew had become because unlike the crews that only focused on shaking down store owners, running card games and brothels, or knocking off freight carts Frankies crew focused on small, quite, jobs that brought in a lot of money but not a lot of notice. Pickpocket crews worked markets all over the city bringing in a steady flow of quick cash. “Street kids” insinuated themselves close enough to overhear vital pieces of information which Henry then gave to his smooth talkers to extort money from the unwitting victims. He had even started a small smuggling ring that was, so far, only a trickle of income but that he had high hopes for as it got set up in more places. Tonight, however, it would be the thieves that would be earning their keep, with a small bit of help from his bashers - those that kept the rest in line for him. Tonight’s score was the first major hit Henry’s crew would be making - it was their coming out party to the rest of the underground and - more importantly to Henry - it was his chance to make enough to set up a the business and household he needed as a front to make him the respectable man he needed to be to impress the Thorn’s. 

Seeing that the last of his men were in place Henry looked at the massive man to his right - the head of the bashers and his night master in charge of running the various crews who worked the evenings - and nodded. The man lifted a small lantern above his head and opened and closed the shutter in quick succession three times. At first all remained quite, and then all hell broke loose on the street below. A large brawl seemed to have erupted from a bar slightly down the street from the bank and now the combatants were being pushed up the street as the melee seemed to draw in hoodlums from all around. As the fighting group reached the entrance to the bank the armed guards quickly blew whistles to call out their companions from elsewhere around the bank and formed a solid line across the bottom of the steps - insuring that none of the hoodlums could get near the entrance to the bank and clubbing more than one on the head with their long wooden billy clubs when they approached too close. 

What the guards did not know, however, was that as the mayhem continued up front a small cadre of the thieves arm of the Mockers had made its way into the bank and was currently breaking into the vault. Just as one of the brawlers was thrown boldly into one of the guards, drawing them physically into the fight Henry saw the first of his thieves darting down the back street and disappearing into the night carrying a large bag stuffed full of whatever treasure they had been able to lift. Henry allowed himself to smile for the first time that night. He could hear sirens in the distance and knew he would be bailing out many of his bashers tomorrow as they would keep fighting as ordered until arrested - but the score from this heist would be well worth every penny. Other crew leaders might be worried that one of them would squeal when they were inevitably pressed about the robbery that took place at the same time the brawl was occurring - but Henry had no worry. Unlike other crews his boys followed him not just out of fear but because he had raised each of them out of the dirt and turned them into something more, something to be feared, a Mocker. 

---

Jimmy chuckled, “No one really knows for sure how much the Mockers took JP Morgan for that night, but one thing is known. Within a month a new shipping company had sprung up seemingly out of nowhere. The man who owned it, one Henry Moss of Westchester was a relatively unknown young man to the locals but it was said that he had inherited a tidy sum from his parents recently and had invested it into the company. However, he got the money though success came swiftly to the company - contracts that larger companies had a seeming ironhold on suddenly switch to the new company and a number of competitors had unfortunate accidents on their docks that took out large portions of their ships taken out of commission and leaving them unable to bid on new work. Henry was kind enough to make solid offers on many of these companies and saw his control of the docks expand rapidly. It wasn’t two years later that Henry approached Mr. Thorn and asked for his daughters hand in marriage. Mr. Thorn of course granted it, after all Henry was quite the Upright Man.”

Runa studied the bottle for a moment, then begrudgingly took a small sip. She thought for a moment, looking around the park, then sighed. She was resigned to tell the story- it was the best one that came to mind.

"This is a story about life and death. I guess every story is, really, but this one more directly than the others. I knew a woman once who was death incarnate- one of the deadliest assassins in Europe. There are a lot of people who intrinsically value life, but are willing to drown that part of themselves for enough cash. Not her, though. She was just wired differently, with no conscience at all. They called her the Iceberg, because she was devoid of heat."

"She was a good lookin' woman. Tall, blonde, blue eyes. Norwegian, I'm pretty sure. If she'd been born a thousand years earlier, she could have a been a Valkyrie. Instead, she worked her way up the ranks to become one of the most expensive and skilled hitters in the continent. It was all she'd ever worked for- and as so often happens, things went wrong as soon as she'd achieved her goal."

"I wish I could say that that's where she fell in love, developed a heart of gold, and all that good shit. But nope, this isn't that kind of story. She did meet a guy; she crossed paths with an Italian type from an American crime syndicate, and they shared a night together. I can only guess that he was hiring her for a job, because if he'd have been the target he wouldn't have made it to the morning. Well, off they go on their separate ways, and that's that."

Runa tapped her knee absentmindedly.

"A couple months later, it was clear that she was pregnant. And what I can't figure out is why she didn't just... end it, ya know? She'd killed dozens of people and hadn't even blinked. Maybe it was because it was her kid and that hit her unexpectedly? Maybe she figure it'd balance out all the other killing she did? I don't know. Maybe it was just a moment of weakness? The only things I can think of that explain her decision to have the baby are based on emotion..."

Runa shrugged.

"So she meets a nice guy who falls for her despite the fact that she's knocked up, and a year later she's covered in milk and piss and shit and all the other joys of motherhood. She's using a false name and living in some shit village in the middle of nowhere, just in case someone was trying to track her down. Did she feel anything then, looking down at her baby? Or was it the same, cool, rational Iceberg that had killed so many, just making the same sort of mechanical choice?"

"Your little plaque there, it talks about the best of us- the worst of us. Sometimes I think about that merciless killer choosing to have her baby, and I wonder what she thought was the best part of herself. Was it the marksman or the mother? The hitter or the housewife? Because when that kid turned four, Iceberg was fucking gone. Picked up and left, didn't even say goodbye except for a few letters. Three months later, she wacked a pair of brothers in Russia, and she was right back in the game, moving through the shadows and emerging every few months for a hit like a shark emerging from the depths."

"Did she try to be a mother and... fail? Or decide it wasn't for her? Or did she always plan to leave her child with anyone nice enough to take her in? Did she regret her decision to have the kid?"

Runa shook her head. 

"Who the fucks knows, right? And it's hard to romanticize someone who just split from their family like that, but at the same time... well, so many of us live our lives knowing that an unexpected death could be right around the corner. It's nice, sometimes, to remember that life, an unexpected moment of adventure, might be found when all we're expecting is death. Even for you, old woman."

Runa accepted the bottle, took another swig, and fell silent before handing it back.

The old croan went through a myriad of emotions and facial expressions as each story was told. She seemed to gravitate towards Jen's the most, with her loins, and Jimmy's with her pride. And lastly, Runa's touched both her mind and her twisted heart and finally she felt at peace. Before each of them left the Storied Park Bench, the uplifted soul whispered something into their ear. 

As all had come and gone, she sat there with her eyes closed and a smile plastered on her face. The bottle rolled out of her limp hand onto the ground, the black cherry rum punching her ticket to another life.

Some who pass say she still sits at the bench and they catch a glimpse of her. Some who sit and watch the dawn break across the pond say they even hear her mad laugh echoing inwardly as they reflect on their own life's stories.

As Nick Scarfo took in the scenery of the morning with his busted hand resting over the back of the seat, he contemplated the significance of the personal stories we create as we go, 'What's peace for some can be torture for others. What's a ball and chain for the lively can be a blessing for the weary.'

Satisfied with his moment of insightful respite, Nick stood and stretched his arms skyward. He then spent a moment searching for a rock that had a flat side and approached the water's edge with it in hand. A flick of the wrist and some shoulder grease sent it skidding low over the pond. Nick watched it skip thrice before plopping out of sight. He noticed the ripples lasted much longer than the impact of the rock, 'much like us and our stories', he mused, paying special attention to how they affected the shimmering reflection of the sun off the water.