Pattern

It's fuckin cold.

It's the kinda cold that stabs you from the inside.  Every breath I take I kin feel it pushin on my shoulders.  Pushin on the inside o' my lungs like maybe if I didn't exhale quick enough 'r hard enough, somethin's gonna explode right outta me n rip me in half.

I hate the fuckin cold, but I know it ain't the cold bottled up inside me.  It ain't the cold that makes me wanna kill.  Makes me hafta kill somethin, 'else my heart's just gonna jump outta my chest 'n I'm gonna go home n take it all out on the people I give half a damn about.

So I'm in the city again.  Full moon.  Nameless fuckin backalley.  Street noise bouncin down the walls.  Horns.  Traffic.  Wind.  Gunshots.  I'm sittin here smellin day-old piss n spilt beer.  Smellin sex from the last hooker that was in here turnin a trick.  Smellin burnt paper from a trashcan fire.  Smellin blood from some fight 'r other, n smellin the sweat n the drunkness o' the guy weavin on his feet in front o' me.  Wavin his fists like I oughta be scared.  Talkin like he thinks he kin take a chunk outta me.

Faggot had a l'il too much to drink tonight.
Faggot's runnin his mouth tonight.
Faggot wants to die tonight.

Me, I'm smokin my joint.  Hunkered down elbows on knees, feet planted flat so no one kin catch me off guard.  I got five good hits left on this n I ain't gonna throw no punches til I pull 'em all out.

One hit, dumb faggot's yowlin bout his turf.  Two, dumb faggot's yowlin bout his money.  Three, dumb faggot's yowling bout how he's gonna kick my ass back to Alabama.

Four, n he sucker-punches me on the jaw so hard ashes fly off my joint.  I almost fall off my fuckin crate.  'Stead I straightens up n take my shirt off.  It ain't dedicated n I only got so many.  It's so fuckin cold I can't help shiverin.  Dumbass laughs at me n punches me in the mouth.  I feel my teeth breakin.  N I take it.  I roll with it, crashin back hard against the wall.  I take the next two hits too, big powerful punches straight into my gut, busting an intestine 'r two.  I starts pullin my fifth n last hit off the joint, n he grabs it away from me like he was gonna stomp it under his foot.

I don't take too kindly to that.

Next thing I know I'm wakin up on my feet.  I look around n there's red everywhere.  Red on my hands n under my nails.  Red on my chest turning cold as ice.  Red on my mouth n some bloody pulp between my teeth.  He's sittin on the ground leanin against the opposite wall, a foot-wide smear of blood goin up six feet on the brick over his head.  His eyes are like marbles.  Empty n dead.  My joint's still smokin in his hand.  There's a hole straight through his chest where his heart used to be n I finally figger out what it is I'm chewin on.

I figger I'm gonna hafta call in some help.  I got a shitload to clean up 'fore the normals find it n I ain't got a lotta time.  But right now that ain't the first thing on my mind.  Cause I still got time enough fer one more thing.  I still got all the time in the world to squat down.  Reach out.  Pluck my joint back up.

Some things don't ever change.

He's drippin the last o' his blood out on the alley floor.  I stand there shiverin from the cold, shiverin from all the rage I dropped, shiverin from the high o' killin.  N I finish my fuckin joint.