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| A day in the life of StaggerLee | Started by: StaggerLee on May 19, '08 19:37 |
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Of course I knew the bastards, your typical hot-headed, second generation American youngsters without balls or guts or manners. They'd been peeing on the edges of my turf for months. I had other concerns. When in Chi, I usually do. Anyway, a couple of hours earlier, I'd been having breakfast - beans, coffee, eggs - and listening to the radio, when they came knockin' on my door. Three guys. Pot-heads. Nothing dangerous. I recognized one of them as Jackson, a blonde fairy-boy from Tennessee. Your typical Freudian traumatic upbringing case. So I opened up and let them in. After all, I'm heading a serious business investment. The biggest of them, smaller than me, but taller, asked if I had any tea stashed at the moment. I said that I might, and asked him how much. -All of it. -When? -Well, papa, were taking it all. A barrel was poking my nose. -Well, sonny, that just won't do. -I know what you're trying to pull, old man. I don't give crap about your friends, whoever they are. -Kiddo, you're being silly. -Just give us the tea grandpa, I've got friends of my own. He let his eyes wander towards his companions. As if to make sure that he actually did. When he did, I managed to grab the gun, it went of, making a hole in the ceiling. The rest is somewhat of a blur. I felled Big Boy with a headbutt, I slugged a few lefts n' rights at the other two, one went down, but when I moved in, something came down hard on my skull. When I woke up, I learned it was my old lady who'd scared them off, she'd come in waving my Luger at the poor fellows, screaming. Anyway, when I woke up, I found myself staring into the ugly grin of my personal croaker, an old Jew, who changed his name to Klaus to dodge the Nazis. They got to his family though, and he had to move here. Now he keeps me patched up and functioning relatively well. -Ooh, I zee someone iz feeling a little bit better. I ignored him. -Klaus? Does your establishment have a telephone? Ein telefon? It turned out to be a very dirty telephone. -Juri? Hey. It's Stag', I need to collect a favor. Yes, Juri, I'm afraid I must. You know Jackson? Does he still hang around at you place? Oh. He is? The toilet smelled of urine, vomit, feces and sour wine. I can't believe I'm letting Juri pay protection for this place, I remember myself thinking, a motherfucking disgrace on my nametag. The kid screamed as his teeth cracked against the piping. -Can you hold his head for a moment, pops? I handed Juri the red blob. It had blonde hair sticking out of it. Juri looked as though he was going to be sick, but he held on firmly. I hunched down beside the Kid. -Jackson. Please. Sonny. Talk. If you still can. Or else I'll have to make you write it. And that's just mean. Jackson just looked at me. One of his teeth had penetrated his lower lip. It was moving up and down with his breathing. I felt an urge to wiggle it. Upper Clark Street is deep in junkie territory. You can almost smell it. When you've been dealing for some time, you just can't miss it. It's something on a cellular level. Anyway, I was up on Clark Street to pay a visit to Whitey, a dealer who apparently hangs out at a bar called the Roxy. Word on the street was that Whitey had been serving these kids for a while, pretty large amounts as well. Sure seemed as if they really just thought me an old papa, and themselves the heiresses. The Roxy is owned by a sneaky little man called Cutter, who used to box lightweight until they found him out with a guy in the dressing room. Cutters joint ain't a bit like Juri's, where they only serve drunks - which generally are trustworthy - but rather it's your standard issue pimp and queer joint on goof balls. Of course it gets shut down once a year or so. But usually it's just relocated a block or two. The Roxy has been moving up Clark Street steadily the last four years. Anyway there turned out to be four Whitey's at The Roxy, and that, of course, added to the confusion. After an hour or so, I managed to find him, a young man with Asiatic features, chewing Benny papers in a corner, swallowing them down with port. I sat down with him, making the situation very clear. He got very upset when I told him I'd strangle his supply. The deal was set up, I had picked the location. Bern Street's got a dead end down by the river, a small ragtime joint just at the final curve, opposite of a large, by evening empty, paper mill. It was perfect. Now it was all about waiting. They arrived in a Buick, the five of them. Easy game. One of Juri's guys - a big Russian fellow known to me only as "The Commie" was waiting behind the bar in an old ford. I watched them go in. Now it was Time. Adrenaline always buzzes in my ears like fireflies when it's Time. I knocked on the door. The bouncer opened a hatch, and was just going to ask me for my business when he went down. I reloaded the Tommy and I went in. I remember smiling. |
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I think that's the comprehendable stuff I've told in the streets - EVER. Folks just don't get my philosophical side. |
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| Reply by: StaggerLee at May 19, '08 20:55 | |
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Ahh, Its like all the shows i watch, you know The Three Stooges oh and that betty boop! RRrrrr! Goes to commercial right when it gets to the good part! |
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| Reply by: Major_Jerkovski at May 20, '08 10:01 | |
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| Someone say the Three Stooges. We in the business like to say cliffhanger. It pisses off the commoners. i mean audience | |
| Reply by: Curly at May 20, '08 23:10 | |
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