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AT 19, THEY GAVE HIM THE STREETS. TONIGHT, THEY’RE GOING TO TAKE
THEM BACK…

…BUT NOT WITHOUT LOSING A FEW LIMBS.

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Johnny drove his 1983 Pontiac Trans Am, painted white with spattered streaks of blood cascading in all directions, as he cruised down the neon-saturated, post-midnight streets of Alphabet City. The digital speedometer displayed 70 mph in luminescent red.

Johnny be good. Johnny be good.

Injected with an overdose of paroxysmal exploitation, god-have-mercy on their body parts, exiting a grindhouse machination ground down to defiled filaments of meat, all while under the influence of drifting love and pearlescent eyes. Johnny forgot to kiss his girlfriend goodbye before he left in the late evening. He didn’t feel like it, wasn’t in the mood. He left her and his infant daughter a little past midnight.

***

“Johnny … … … … … … …my boy… … … … … … … …”

“… … … … … … … … …”

“You know what you have to fuckin’ do.”

“… … … … … … … … … …yeah.”

“… … … … … … …Ack! Ack! Ack! Brrrr!… …*sniff *sniff… … …ok then, Johnny. In that case… … …I suggest you get goin’.”

I thought I was Vincent. I thought that was my name. But I have no fucking clue who Vincent is either.

On the other side of the line, the Mob Boss hung up his phone and lit a cigar. Johnny also disconnected, put down his DynaTAC cell phone, and continued driving to complete his assigned task.

Shifting into fallen octane—you can’t kick Alphabet City. Discussing souls, heat on request, chasing time on the marauder’s wolves. Clutches of time/space in the neon-bleeding skyline and midnight heart in which a city masticates raw meat. Newborn rain of burning rackets and impoverished screens loading/crashing. The synthetic night runs the neighborhood.

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