| PART II: I Love This Dirty Town "The genius of the hole: no matter how much time you spend climbing out, you can still fall back down in an instant."-Max Payne This city is drawn in the crimson blotches of black and white. Abstracted from form, like a Rorschach test. If you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. Justice is a gray matter. Her lashes lick my weathered face. Her red dress falls to the floor next to my gun my badge. After I fire my shot she redresses, repackaging her package. "I'm going to the Red Candle Caf�." Her voice is raspy through the cigarette smoke and fishnet stockings. Half an hour later, I find her with a bruised and blood caked face. Freddy's fist print in the cup of her eye. I drink another bourbon and let it ignite my curiosity. I slap her face hard and cock my gun. My siren cuts into the dank fog of the night. A foul rain begins to wash the foreboden streets and I see Marlowe on the rooftop, aiming his gun down the skylight. He pulls the trigger, the flash bang flares and the bloody, dirty, money falls out of his trench coat. He's getting too old for this. I'm always thinking of her, drunk or sober. What else is there to think about? Except my job. My dirty job. |