Merrick

The large man wondered why it was he felt compelled to come by every day, watch the

Irish guy do his gig. He wasn’t really certain why. Was it he just liked to keep tabs on

this wild card fuck? Or something in watching those guys, fly across the sky that awoke

a long vanished sense of yearning. And too, somewhere deep down, long buried so long,

a freedom those cats displayed.

He shook himself, physically shedding all those crazy idea’s, he was…………..what he

was, fuckit.

He was crushing the Pepsi can, not even realizing it when something on his peripheral

vision pulled his eyes skywards.

Jesus H.

Something was hurling down from there, something substantial.

The winds had looked dog rough up there and he figured a girder?

Nope.

Holy shit.

A goddamn person!

The body hit the sidewalk, narrowly missing two Hasidic Jews. He heard that horrendous

squelch.

The freaking Irish, had to be. Indian’s didn’t fall. No fucking way.

And you had to figure the Irish guy had a hangover, when the sweet fuck didn’t they?

He’d seen his share of jumpers and ID was a bitch. No point in moseying over there, it

would tell him nothing but that it was all she wrote. If it was the Irish, then one less

problem. Kind of a shame though, he enjoyed mind fucking him.

He damn straight hated them, hated that Irish blood was part of his DNA. Being Irish, do

him a fucking favor.

What?……like using obscenities, drinking lights out and

planting bombs was an achievement?.

Truth to tell, it wasn’t just the Irish, he hated every muthahfuckah who crept over the

planet, getting in his way.

He walked to the next street, his Studebaker parked in a No Park Zone. He looked round,

then removed the ‘Park Permit’ from the shield. Got in, let out a long sigh

Mohammed

The acidic download of the Hot dog

Had given him a hard on thirst.

Maybe he’d cruise a gay bar, big fuck like him had the pillow biters frothing at the

mouth, got his drinks free and if he’d the time, kick the crap out of some faggot.

He always had the inclination.

See the movie

Service to Society 11.

Boyz in the Hood?

He’d flush em down the goddamn crapper.

Memo to himself

‘Chill big fellah.’

Couple or three Seven and Seven’s, he’d be good to go. Meet with the psycho, and man,

wasn’t it the truth?

‘Never have enough drinks on board for dealing with a stone psycho.’

He smiled, almost beatifically.