Do you see me? Of course not. Just another bum sitting in an alley with another tattered coat, curled up with a brown paper bag. But there’s no booze in the brown paper bag, and the tattered coat got that way after fifteen minutes in a garage, not years of wear and tear on hard concrete.

I go up the fire escape slowly, my soft shoes making no noise. “Have a glass of water, help clear your head?” you’ll ask. You’ll wait for the powder to do its work. Then you’ll drag her into the bedroom, where the ropes and the cameras are waiting.

The sound of breaking glass covers the sound of my hand reaching into the paper bag. You’re standing over your new prey with the same smarmy grin on your face that you had in the courtroom three years ago.

“This is for my sister, you sick fuck,” I whisper, as I place the gun to the back of your head.


Your wall suddenly looks like a Jackson Pollock painting in crimson tones. I pick up the phone and call the cops and my lawyer, in that order.

It’s over, Jessy.

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