"Hazed behind disbelief, I stood veiled from the world around me. That diner had never seemed so bleak, and I had never wanted to go inside more than that very moment. I really had no choice. Inevitably I was going to go in there, and I would find what I had been looking for. But that’s not what I thought as I stood from the outside looking in. I was on my way to deliver a package to Billy Scraggs on W 5th Ave, but, well let’s just say I got side-tracked. The beauty of going around the park is getting to ride down Bonneville Rd. I hadn't been down Bonneville since college and the trees that line that street are like no others in the whole city. The beauty be held on Bonneville is truly spectacular."
Johnson always had a knack of finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was victim of it frequently and the fear of winding up in a pickle always kept him from truly enjoying life. He spent more time on his back in bed, than on his feet outside. This caused him to cramp up often when he rode his bike and even though some days he rode up to twelve miles, he was never able to find himself in very good shape.
"So once I got to 20th, I slowed my pace to watch all the cars go by faster than I could ride. I was going just slowly enough to catch another biker get slammed by a midsize compact. People get hit all over the city, hell I got my wheels collapsed from under me last year and the bastard tried to sue me, said I was the one who ran into him! The cops advised him that his bumper hit my wheels. It never went to trial. Thank God because I wouldn't have had the money to pay him anyways. I didn't go after him, but I've never been a fan of litigation in the first place. So, the guy is riding along the bike lane, and the compact has just parallel parked. The guy is haulin’ some ass and he's lookin’ behind him to see if he can cross over the lane to the other side of the street. Meanwhile, the lady inside this Toyota, or Honda or some other Japanese shit, just finished putting on her make-up. Slams the mirror up into the ceiling, grabs her keys and throws her driver-side door open into the bike lane. You always hear about these collisions but I'd never actually seen one before. Anyway, the guy hits the door before the lady can even get a foot out. You hear, "oh SHIIIIIIIIIiiiiiii....." Crash. HAHAhahaha. He flew over his handle bars and straight over the compact door completely. He fell so gracefully, it was like watching an acrobat dive through a long row rings. He just did his flip over the door and tucked into his roll. I could hear the metallic clack of his clip-in bike shoes when his legs finally came around. I wondered what kind he had. He looked like a serious biker, probably something expensive. After that he got up. But bystanders urged him to sit down, which he reluctantly agreed to do, and found spot on the retaining wall to the park. By that time I had passed the scene and was on my way. I didn't catch any of his embarrassment or the lady's reaction much, but I was like: hell if I fell like that I wouldn't be embarrassed at all."
Gabriel was particularly impacted by a day in which he was riding his bicycle to a near-by warehouse to deliver an illicit package to a local vendor. This vendor's name was Billy Scraggs. Scraggs ran his own business out of a warehouse because that's where most illegitimate business is handled in downtown New York, but this errand was anything but an ordinary trip to Scraggs' safe house.
"As I stood there looking this man in the face I thought of such strange things like 'The only thing we had in common anymore was the same cologne we'd each been wearing for the last 20 years.' Who thinks of that short of shit when you're staring your arch enemy in the eye? Apparently I do because, I did."
On his way down 20th Ave, Gabriel Johnson was jumped by a group of ruffians who had a vested interest in his package.
"His name was Josh Johnson and he was my competition for this job, among many. He and I grew up in similar neighborhoods (me in West Point and he in Charlseville) and he was as good a delivery man as I was. But I got that job because I was a reliable employee and Josh Johnson lost packages all the time and was hardly ever on time. This time, I supposed, I was going to be the late one."
They took his money, wallet, package, and pride. Johnson was always proud of his work and prided himself on being a safe, reliable pick for the job. He wasn't going to wow you with his performance, especially if things got sticky, but if everything went according to plan, you knew you'd get your package on time and undamaged.
"I walked over to him as he sat at the bar of the diner and tapped him on the shoulder. I said, 'Hey Johnson, looks like you've got a package of mine.' Then he said, 'Oh yeah Johnson? What the hell happened to your face?' He laughed hysterically and took a sip of his drink. As he wiped his mouth he continued, 'Well as I see it, this here is my package. And when I deliver it I plan on gettin’ the money that was sposed to go to you.' So I looked him dead in the eye and grabbed the package sitting next to him. He refused to let go so I said, 'Listen boy, if you don't hand over this package of mine, I'm gonna have to kill you right here in front of everyone.' At this time people started to leave their seats and exit the diner, which I was happy for: fewer witnesses. I put my hand on my revolver and,"
These ruffians had been hired by one Josh Johnson, a local rival of Gabe's and the two of them fought over jobs on a regular basis. The hit description read: "Need three hit men to snag a package off a courier. Must be intimidating, thorough, and efficient. Call if interested." So Hunter Smith and his gang signed up for the gig themselves. They met with Josh Johnson and reviewed the plans to mug Gabriel. Johnson paid them $300.
"31st is always a barren ride to endure. It's just warehouses and industrial shit over there. So I'm makin’ my way down it, haulin’ ass mind you, and this yahoo jumped out from behind a dumpster with a stick and threw it right through my spokes. That's a tough shot, especially when you're haulin' ass because the obtrusion normally just hits one of the spokes and bounces right off. I would've been right on my way, but not today. Today that asshole got a lucky shot. The stick flew around my rim and hit the fork with a crack. As I flew over the top of my handle bars I got a strange sense of déjà vu. Then I remembered the poor sap earlier that got car-doored. Why was it all bike accidents happen when you're haulin' ass? While I was in the air, which seemed like an eternity, I reconciled that I would take my time riding from now on. But as I watched the ground approach, I knew I was just lying to myself. Then I hit the pavement, face first. Luckily I wasn't wearing a helmet or it could have broken my fuckin neck and I would've laid there paralyzed until someone found me, which on 31st wasn't likely to happen for maybe a whole day. So then, this asshole has his two goons fuck me up somethin fierce. One had a pipe and the other used his bare hands. They kept the blows to my stomach, back, arms, and legs. I was glad for that because my face was road-rashed to shit. They took my wallet, which had about 34 dollars in it, whatever I thought. These guys were hittin’ me for somethin else, they had a purpose, and then I remembered. The lucky shooter walked over to my package that was just lying gently on the pavement and picked it up, just as gingerly as it sat there. They ran off and I just laid there looking at my bike, which surprisingly had little damage. That's why I bought that Specialized 220 with the titanium alloy frame and those aluminum compound rims. Good buy... That's what I thought as I laid there and lost blood from my face."
Hunter Smith and his gang took that package over to their hideout on Spear Blvd. The "hideout" could barely be called such. It was nothing more than a run-down apartment that had been burnt to a crisp and gutted of any worth whatsoever. The gang hung a few posters of their own. One of a naked woman touching her breasts and another of the notorious Al Capone. The others were of miscellaneous no-name bands and all of them added to an awkward and uncomfortable space. They plotted: "Alright listen up you good for nothing pieces of shit. I've got a plan that's gunna make us richer than we've ever been in our whole lives."
"I got up, dusted myself off. Those pricks were long gone. How long was I laying there? I thought. I felt my face tenderly. The disfigurement was going to leave some nasty scars. That's ok, I thought. I've never gotten with too many women to begin with. And the ones I have, well they were so ugly themselves they weren't gunna pay any mind to no scars. Plus, in my line of work, it's not like you gotta have a pretty face. I hopped back on my bike and started to peddle back the opposite way down 31st and made my way over to 20th where more civilization meant I could find some place to clean myself up. I walked into a little diner called "Jack's" and sat down at a booth."
Hunter Smith continued: "We're going to take this here package and open it up. There's got to be plenty of perty things inside there, why else would that Josh Johnson feller have us take it from that other Johnson feller?" The gang concurred with muted admiration. "We'll just fill it with something else, seal it back up, and give to Josh. He won't even know the difference! Then we'll leave town, and neither one of 'em will find us again!" The gang's affirmation was evident through their anticipation. They were becoming restless with the blood-thirsty aspiration of starting their lives over. Little did they know, some of their lives would simply be over.
"As I ordered my coffee, I spotted that son of a bitch. He was just drinkin' a whiskey-water like he always did at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Drunken pig. Then I saw it sitting next to him. My goddamn package. It was just sitting right there for me to grab. I slid out of my booth and got up. I walked over to him cautious of my presence as not to tip him off. I tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around I said, 'Hey Johnson, looks like you've got a package of mine.' Then he said, 'Oh yeah Johnson? What the hell happened to your face?' He laughed hysterically and took a sip of his drink. I thought of how ridiculous I must look with blood beginning to solidify into sappy scabs on my cheek. As he wiped his mouth he continued, 'Well as I see it, this here is my package. And when I deliver it, I plan on gettin’ the money that was sposed to go to you.' So I looked him dead in the eye and grabbed the package sitting next to him. He refused to let go so I said, 'Listen boy, if you don't hand over this package of mine, I'm gonna have to kill you right here in front of everyone.' At this time people started to leave their seats and exit the diner, which I was happy for: fewer witnesses. I put my hand on my revolver and kept my other hand on the package."
"I stood there staring him in the eyes and thought of such strange things like 'The only thing we had in common anymore was the same cologne we'd each been wearing for the last 20 years.' Who thinks of that short of shit when you're staring your arch enemy in the eye? Apparently I do because, I did. So as people began to notice what was going on, Jack's fell to silence, and everyone left without a word, without paying their tabs. It's not like the waitresses or cooks cared, they all exited through the back exit to the kitchen. Soon it was just he and I. I standing and he sitting. Both with one hand on the package, and one hand on our waists. As I prepared mentally for the fight that inevitably ensued, I thought to myself what my dog Jiffy was doing at that very moment. He was probably just licking himself. He does that about 20 hours out of every 24."
So Hunter whipped out his Carmike double-bearing switchblade and went to work on the package. The tape was more difficult to cut than expected and Smith became very frustrated with opening it. "It's jus a damn cardboard box, what the hell is so strong about it," he muttered. The others were looking at him as he struggled. The more frustrated Hunter became, the more anxious and impatient the others found themselves. When Smith finally had a corner to work with he smiled and blurted, "ha HA there we go. I got it." He tore at it, and it ripped about a half inch down the line. "Well fuck my ass, goddammit!!" he shouted and threw the package to one of the others. "You try it knuckle head." He grabbed both sides of the top and flexed as hard as he knew how. The tape began to give way one string at a time. "There you go Bruce, get at it," Hunter said. Six minutes and thirty three seconds later the box was open and they were staring at a black velvet bag, tied up with a drawstring inside the parcel.
" 'You better give it up Johnson or I will blow your brains across the bar and deliver your shattered skull to your mother,' I said. Josh didn't say a single word. He just sat there and looked up at me with a look of disdain and discomfort. I don't think he'd ever been in a real fight before and the way my face looked, well I'm sure it added certain validity to what I was saying. At least in his mind. I threw my right arm from my revolver to my package. Immediately, Josh Johnson did the same. It quickly transformed into an awkward game of tug of war as we grabbed and poked and jabbed for whatever we could get a hold of. We fell over the bar, crashing plates and taking silverware with us. Then got up, fought around the back a little while and fell back over the other side of the bar. I dragged him over to a booth and jumped up onto it hoping to get leverage enough to pry my package away from him, but he just yanked it and me right back down to the floor. This fucker was really a lot stronger than I thought. I mean he couldn't weigh more than 185, but there he was, rippin’ me off the booth like that."
"Well whatta you think it is boss?" said one of the inept. "I'm not so sure boys, why don't we open it up and find out." So Hunter picked the bag up by one of the drawstrings, it dangled there in front of them for a moment as they all watched in awe as he brought it to his lap. Smith took the drawstrings and pulled on them gently like pulling a bandage off a wound that's not yet healed. As the bag's opening spread, specks of photons began to dot Hunter's face and the look he adorned resembled clouds opening after a storm, revealing glorious rays of sunlight behind them.
"As soon as I hit the linoleum, I let go of the package. The tension that had built up in his back was enough to make him yank his whole neck and upper-body towards the ceiling. I reached for my belt. When I let go, the opposing forces of our combined strength had caused him to lose grip of it, and it flew straight up into the air. It seemed to just hang there, flipping side over side as it floated. I had a hold of my pistol as I watched it hover in the air like a humming bird in slow motion. He caught himself at this point and started falling back towards me to where I could see the look on his face and the light in his eyes; it made 'em transparent. The look he gave me as I cocked my wrist up, was like a man with make-up on trying to avoid a wall of water from hitting his face. The bullet shot up and connected with the apex of his chin, like if he had fallen on a street curb cleft-first. It entered his skull through the bottom of the mouth and travelled diagonally through the tongue, headed straight for the center of his brain. As it pierced the roof of his mouth, blood began to collect around the bullet-hole. 'That's going to hit me once it falls', I thought. The bullet sailed through his brain like a bullet would through Jell-O. And as it fractured the crown of his head on its way to greener pasture, (the ceiling had been painted an awful baby puke green) a single drop of blood began to fall from the man's chin. The bullet blew out the back of his drunk skull with such an explosion, they would be finding pieces of bone laying between crevices in that kitchen for months to come. Blood and brain matter was strewn all across the ceiling making it look like a dreary American Christmas of the 1930's. Right as things began to re-accelerate within my perspective, the package landed on my chest with a thud, the drop of blood fell right onto to the open wounds on my cheek and Johnson fell flat into my lap."
Diamonds, hundreds of them. So many you could have made a glove out of the lot, but that's not exactly what Hunter Smith had in mind. He caught a glimpse, and pulled the drawstrings closed. "Well what is it Hunter?!" "Yeah boss what gives, what the hell is it?" "I.. it.. it's nothing boys." "No Hunter, we wanna see what's in there!" At this time Smith began to put the bag into his pocket but the ruffles in his jeans were making it difficult to get inside. He began to panic and fumble with it and shouted "Dammit!!" "Hey what gives boss?" Then Bruce stood up and grabbed the pipe he still had from the sting. He tossed it around in his hand until he found a grip he was comfortable swinging with. Hunter said, "Bruce what uhhhh, what are you doin’ up there." Bruce said nothing and began walking towards Smith, toting his lead pipe. It still had dried blood collected in the threads where you would have screwed it into an irrigation system. The other one said, "Bruce, is he tryin’ to screw with us or what?" Bruce again said nothing. Hunter still could not seem to squeeze the bag into his pants no matter how far he awkwardly leaned back. The other finally caught on to what was about to transpire. Hunter looked up at Bruce. "Bruce what the fuck do you think you're doin’ dumb ass. I'm just gunna hold onto this for a while until we can figure out what to do with it. I can't trust either one of you not to lose it. Soooo, I'm just gunna hang onto it for a while." "Well just let us see it then boss." "He's not going to do that Shifty," said Bruce. "He's going to try and make off with that bag and leave us with nothing." "You wouldn't do that would you boss?" said Shifty. "Guys, guys, you couldn't be more mistaken here," he held up his hands and the bag dangled from his right. The bag slipped open and the ice fell to the floor as they all watched. Diamonds fall like no other material on earth. The attention paid to falling ice is very intricate because once it falls; you have to know exactly where to pick it up.
"As I laid there covered in a dead man and his blood, I began to weigh my options. What was I going to do? Someone had to have called the cops by now. Someone was bound to have heard that shot. I threw my head back and looked towards the door. All I could see was the welcome mat and light spilling in from the street. I couldn't see what was going on outside. I figured if there were cops, I had better keep my head down. So. I just laid there. And tried to figure out what I was going to do."
"I told you Shifty, he's tryin’ to make off with those diamonds." Hunter dropped to the floor and frantically tried to pick up the ones that had fallen. He continued to stumble over himself and his nerves were unraveling. Bruce decided now was his time to strike. He lunged at Smith and whacked him square in the side of the face. Hunter's head violently swung around as he fell to the floor. Little splatters of blood spotted the woman's naked breasts making her frozen look of surprise seem more appropriate. Shifty had a great deal of loyalty to Hunter and this act truly disturbed him. He grabbed his knife from his back pocket and opened it. Bruce: "Yeaaaaaah bitch. That's it. You thought you could screw me you fuckin prick. Well I'm not your little minion bitch. I'll fuckin kill you. Right Here. and Right Now." Bruce taunted Hunter standing above him like Muhammad Ali after a knock out, meanwhile Shifty snuck up behind. He took his knife and raised it above his head with both hands (Bruce was at least five inches taller than him), and shoved it straight into the back of his neck with a passionate rage that only a brother has the ability to exude. The blade separated a pair of vertebra and severed his spinal cord with one swift motion. Bruce collapsed to the floor like a limp noodle.
"I'm a rational guy and figured if the cops weren't here, they were going to be. Sooner rather than later. I figured I really didn't have much chance of getting away. It was prison for me and I knew it. Maybe I could try and argue self-defense. It might get me a shorter sentence if nothing else. But then again all those people in the diner heard me say that I'd kill him if he didn't hand over the package. At least I kept my promise. The organic matter that made up his skull cavity was now scattered across the entire room. I was glad that everything worked out according to plan. So, the last rational thing I saw fit to do was to open this package I was supposed to be delivering to Billy Scraggs. He wasn't going to get it anyways. The cops would confiscate it and take it to their precinct where they would surely take whatever it was that held value inside and split it between themselves. That's how police departments operate in New York. Skeevy bastards. It swiftly turned into an obsession. Once it occurred to me, I had to know what was inside. All the possibilities, all the potential. So, with Josh Johnson still lying flaccid on top of me, blood running all over my mid-section, I began to work on opening the package."
Shifty ran over to Hunter and flipped him onto his back. Hunter's eyes were twitching uncontrollably and his temple bone had been completely shattered. In fact, the shattered bone had embedded itself in the back of Hunter's left eye. Hunter Smith, in fact, had suffered a traumatic brain injury and would be dead within the minute, though his body would still respond to external stimuli for another four or five. Shifty began to shake him violently as an attempt to wake him up, but he just laid there. "Goddammit boss, wake up! Just wake the fuck up will ya?" Shifty began to weep. He cried his eyes out for the one he called boss, because Hunter stood by him when no one else would. Shifty was on the streets when he met Hunter, had nowhere to live and Hunter allowed him to sleep in his hideout and share his food. It's true that Hunter had saved his life because Shifty had no sense and would surely have died on the streets. All of this, including the two years they spent in each other’s company, combined for a loyalty that a man on the streets rarely heard about, let alone experienced. Shifty's sorrow quickly consumed him and transformed into a blind rage against the assailant. He stalked his way back over to Bruce that lay there deader than the Cubs' chance to win a pennant. But Shifty pried the pipe from the tight grip of his right hand and began to beat him with it. He bashed in the back of his head leaving it like a crushed eggshell. He transferred his blows to the back where he began to break his ribs one by one covering the extent of it with blunt contusions. He hacked at the body's lame back like he was chopping wood for a fire that had to be lit before dusk. There was no relent to his rage and the malice in his heart gave him an idea. Suddenly he stopped swinging. He paused a moment to catch his breath and heave one last sob before wiping his brow and leaning on his back leg and looking towards the heavens. Still breathing heavily he grasped the calf-bone handle of his knife and tugged on it until it was freed of its burial in Bruce's spinal cord.
"The tape was remarkably easy to take off, which was strange because they usually seal these things up tighter than a bank vault. I gripped it and pulled it right off. The flaps on top flipped open about an inch and reminded me of opening Christmas presents as a kid. I would always take my time to carefully un-wrap each one and liberate them of the constraining paper that parents thought was so fun to tear apart. I would dismantle it carefully at the seams and unwrapped it in the exact opposite manner of which it was wrapped. Once the paper was off, I would cut the tape that sealed the box with a swiss-army knife my father had bought for me when I was seven. I always imagined whatever was in the box wanted that box open more than I did. That's why once I cut the tape; the flaps would fling open an inch or two. Whatever was inside was pressing with all its might to get out, it just needed me to help it get the flaps open. So I placed my hands on either flap and flipped them to either side. I rotated the box on top of my chest 90 degrees and flipped the opposite flaps up leaving the top exposed. But I couldn't see inside with my head lying against the booth. I had to sit up. But Josh Johnson prevented me from doing it. I put the box on the ground beside me and attempted to push the dead heap off me. I caught a whiff of something disgusting and assumed it must have been Johnson's head still steaming from that crack shot."
Once Bruce's pants had been removed, Shifty cut off his boxer shorts with his knife. Shifty had been known to lose his wits when flustered and that is exactly what was happening now. He lost all sense of logic. Every little notion that popped into his head, he just ran with it, like a stolen fumble. Once he had the boxers cut off, he fantasized about how he would do it. His knife was sharp, but it wasn't razor sharp, and that was a lot of skin to get through. He decided he needed something to prop them up with and use as a make shift cutting board. He figured the pipe would be sufficient enough considering there was hardly anything else in the burnt out, ground level apartment. So he propped up Bruce’s waist and placed the pipe underneath. After which he placed them over the pipe and let them dangle over the crevice like a child's legs over a swing. What he did next, only a man of complete insanity could bear to watch his own hands commit. He took the tip of his knife and drove it straight through the top-middle of his scrotum as close to the base of the penis as possible. He drew the knife back carefully, making sure not to shear the cut. Then the other side. In less than three minutes he had completely castrated Bruce and his testicles hung in front of Shifty's face. He stared at them, proud of his work and the precision he wielded with his blade, but he still wasn't quite sure what he was going to do with them.
"I got enough of him off of my torso that I could lean myself up against the booth. I took a breath and leaned over the package. What I found inside was perhaps the most heinous and disgusting thing I had ever laid my eyes upon in my entire life. I wanted to puke. From the stench, to the shear atrociousness of it all, I couldn't take it. I turned away and vomited on the floor. Once I gained my composure, I leaned back and inspected the situation. What I found were a pair of testicles still kept in their scrotum that had been sewed shut as tight as the seams on a baseball. Seeing them lie there, attached to noting, was truly the oddest thing I had ever seen, if not the most sickening. I picked them up and tried to touch as little of them as possible. 'This is what I've been toting around all day? This is what I killed a man over? These are why I will be going to jail in the coming moments?' I contemplated thoughtfully to myself. The thought sickened me for a second time. To be caught with a dead man lying on my lap and a severed ball sack lying in a box next to me while I laid in my own excrement. How would I ever live that down in prison? It would find its way around a penitentiary, sure. Some fuckin cop would squeal to a prison guard. Their mouths are open vaults to rob. They would tell some other prisoner who had been there for years. Word would get around and I would never live it down. As these thoughts piled up in my head I felt overwhelmed. I felt like the weight of the world was lying on top of me. I couldn't breathe. I began to hyper-ventilate and I became dizzy. My sight faded and with the only sense and strength I had left, I lifted my revolver to my chin, pulled back the hammer and........
click.
click, click, click.
It was going to be a long stay in prison."
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