just a week earlier. He turned himself in, the judge set bond at $30,000, the alleged shooter posted bail, hit the streets, found the mark he failed to kill and shot him again. Police arrested him a second time for the same crime against the same guy. The judge set the bond for over $100,000 and back in jail the would-be assassin rots. I imagine he’ll be out in 60 days for a third try. As the days streak by and the mobile, gangbang-units gather momentum, there’s not much you can do but fear your time is nigh. At hand. So collect what dust you got and head for the darkness. Not out of fear. Honestly, it’s a mix of self-preservation and what I like to believe is good public policy. It’s exile time for me, down deep into seclusion. I’m no longer fit for mass consumption. For them out there. High arcing beer bottles smash on the pavement with low-crashing joy every time I leave or enter a bar. A weird coincidence. At first, my paranoia led me to believe I was under attack by some holy-rolling manic street preacher. But I fear this unusual occurrence may be the product of my own
hand, a tic developed over these past several months of concerted fire-breathing alcoholism during which time a web of hostility, rage and depression has given me a fishnet-stocking veneer. I’m to blame. I’m the fucking drunk throwing beer bottles in the air. I like to hear the smashy-smash of the glass in the middle of the street where cops and creeps abound. I don’t know why. I’m a polar bear with a beach ball. I think something broke in my brain some time ago. I’ve also grown a fondness for punching inanimate objects and often times my own face, sometimes with scissors for the ultimate impact. So I’m thinking it may be time to drift into the shadows. A little obscurity for a little peace of mind. Not a bad trade-off. For myself. And them out there. But no worries, for the sad times and mad times have not come to an end.