Sex, Drugs, Money and Murder
"Flank kid!" I yelled at the eighteen year old lumbering beside me because he accepted rolling down the walk with me.
Little did he know the night was 2 for 2 in serial killers apprehended, but that meant two mates were now on the hunt, with an undetermined male or female. And of course I was the hunted by fashion of having threatened one and then well, domino effect.
"Now I know you can't flank, you answered to kid!" I rabbled rousing my own inner riot to chase the fright stirring by the eyes that still might watch.
And of course there was the winded hippie I had called out as a faggit when trying not to get killed. Being stabbed by a needle full of meth is easy and reliable instant carnation overdose murder covered exclusively by my lifetime N.A. membership. If I hadn't yelled it out, the goons wouldn't have had a shout out hunt, and the police couldn't have porked his or her butt. Whichever you prefer.
Of course one thing leads to another, his or her source in the one murder, but who keeps track, was getting pregame I.V. bags doped to the max leading post - game antics and re-administered death on the night cap. But I guess I needed to keep my voice down whence about his cardboard condo.
The scariest thing then hit me. These murders were by the dozens per perp, and the hits corpses were so cleverly ditched that there were many in prison fallen guilty victim. How to avoid that wasn't any wiki leak that I knew of. I was on my own here.
I had been in the area for weeks, and I knew the grid as if my own. This place had hosted my growth spurts a few times in my jaded history. Every time America went to war, so did I. This time to learn more fully how to accept death. To realize how to live now because we die in the now.
Death is quite a business. Say your Aunt dies, at 33, victim of sinusoidal interruption of her capillaries via a neighbor's invention hobby. Her heart is good, perfectly good and due to the fact she is not an organ donor, she arrives intact after the coroner's taxi to the funeral home. The funeral home helps her family decide on a better rate, considering they will harvest her heart already sold on the black market and shipped to its new owner.
But it doesn't end there. Five years later the inventor kills his wife with his radar love fun and he is brought up on murder one, now with your auntie being murder two. Your aunt was rich, and as insurance had her buried with many jewels as exhuming insurance, so a couple of crypt cracking youths ride the lightning and mutilate her remains while grave robbing her family jewels as pay. No cost incurred, and two thieves with a sick story to start their own serial justice league. The funeral home says, bring them in out back, we will incinerate them. Sealed up shut tight. in sex, drugs, money and murder it is not what you make, it is what you keep. And if you want to fly it you are gonna buy it, everyone does.
Problem is, we all need all of those things. Sex is arousal of our need to procreate our species. Sex satisfies the instinct to survive, help our mates. Drugs, they cure our spell of perpetually improving disease, make us feel good, and let us live through trauma and injury. Money, well money is the ghostly paper, the crypto digits that supply us with food, water, clothing and shelter. Murder is the war factor, the set of circumstances that arrive on various levels that demands an "...it's either you or me" decision by both serial killers, and soldiers in any group. Spelled out, we all die pointing out each others faults, when we all step on the world causing the Earth to quake.
What was I here for? The question was very answerable, to toughen up, physically rehab my knees and overall health.
"Roll bones, drive stones and get known!" I sang along with the bike taxi stereo.
That was the thing about this place. This was the eclectic mix where industry moguls mixed with winner new artists and primed the gates of lucrative venture. This was who, what, when, where, why and how much that would expose you to all of the elements. The rest was up to me. Entirely.
Run out of my family life, blacklisted for work, cut off from a crazy check, threatened by mobs and discredited was only the start. Now I had been slandered to a level that gossip led to a threatening level, and people assumed I would just fucking go on like they do! Almost everything I owned was gone and what I stood to accomplish with my work was robbed like the 50 pairs of Christmas socks that just "...disappeared" having never been worn. Yet calamity and calliope left me holding no home, nor pride.
Time and time again I watched my influence turn to incestuous rapid fire ass slamming head turning the likes of which had me going nuts for real.
It was to the point when I walked down the street, with each venue, store, or restaurant I passed the crowd would audibly light up, and begin conversing about me. Thousands of people a day recognizing and conversing about me, but not to me at all. Like an unsung hero living life on life's terms I kept it to myself.
Then it started, the hacking of all of my work. I mean all of my stuff had been compromised for years, but this got deadly serious quick.
Two to the Head [song]
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