Novel Treatments / Catering to Vengeance Chapter 1 through 3 (Analysis)
Catering to Vengeance
Dedicated to the Memory of a Love Lost
"Don't ever 'shut up' for me. If you want to talk, I want to lissen.
If you want to yell, scream, rant, rave or cry,
I want you to do that too." – Michelangelo DiAngelo
Ironic words originally typed: May 17, 2007
Discovery of a new meaning: May 20, 2008
Though names have been changed, events in this book are based on real experiences and on real individuals. However, this is also a work of fiction and has roots in the subconscious. Not every statement is factual, but sometimes it is the lies that give the true impression of what happened. May you, the reader, enjoy and learn from this tale, facts and lies enclosed.
Chapter 1, Part 1 - The Alley
Anthony’s Perspective
“You let him rot in this damn alley for how long before you finally figured out he wasn’t the usual piece of shit and decided to tell me?”
“If I cared about every queer homeless kid, I would have to be the first gay pimp in the area… unless you already have that title covered.”
“K.B., look at him! His hair is caked with blood and I swear he’s been bathed in the shit on the street. What the fuck were you thinking, letting him lie here so long? I know you are fucking homeless and have a damnedably low standard of living, but not even you would tolerate such shit!”
“At least I did tell you. You and your vague descriptions… how am I supposed to know one little blond faggot from another? I may be the king of bums in this area, but I don’t know everything. We can‘t all be equal to your social status, your majesty.”
I barely heard this entire conversation through the raging screams of my thoughts. The first sounds of this day were these two assholes bitching right next to where I had fallen the night before praying to Gawd I would die. Why couldn’t these two idgits go on their way? They could continue their conversation elsewhere, where my aching head didn’t have to absorb the sound. But at the mention of blood, I knew they had meant me and they weren’t about to let their latest discovery alone until it had been thoroughly examined. People were naturally nosey, even in one of the world’s largest cities.
I assumed one of these men was the homeless man I had seen shouting that the end was coming to the world, putting on a show to earn a little cash. Scraggly beard and all, he had walked the streets proudly mocking the apocalypse, tin cup in hand. Most likely this beggar was using the dollars people had thrown to him in pity to by his next line of cocaine rather than his next meal.
Earning your bread is hard in this city, regardless of what it is contributed toward. Whether it is drugs or nourishment, it all costs money, something many people are not able to earn or are to lazy to earn.
Sometimes one must do humiliating things, like becoming a prostitute, pretending to be crazy and begging, letting loose and truly become mental or, in my case, fighting for someone else’s entertainment in hopes that a few coppers end up being tossed your way. It was all an act, conscious or otherwise. We of the street depended on, as Blanch said, “on the kindness of strangers.” Kindness is relative. Is it kindness to ask someone for a service that may cost them dearly? Prostitution comes with the risk of inheriting any of many STDs and other diseases caused by close contact with strangers. Being a street fighter came with the price of guaranteed bloodshed and the potential of death, both in and out of the ring.
Luckily for me, I was fairly swift on my feet. In the same instant I could take a punch, lose my breath, and stand erect, arms prepped to let loose another blow. The fights boiled down to determination: determination to survive the fight, to survive another day, to live to raise your ideals with pride. The kindness of strangers, or lack thereof, could not change the level of determination that is within a person. One either has it or doesn’t, and fortunately I did have what it takes to make it through the brutal battles.
My pride would immediately be cut short once I realized only the scraps from another man’s bread and the pennies of another man’s dollar were passed my way for degrading myself. While I was in the ring, I was proud of what I could do to a man and how easy it was to take out my frustrations of my life on him, that I was paid for doing this awful thing and feeling the relief of letting my troubles loose through my fist.
Then I’d leave the ring, feeling guilt for the pummeling that had ensued.
From what I could feel in my pocket, my actions last night were not worth the cost. No matter how sorrowful and desperate a person is he should never have to bring someone else to the edge of death so that he may survive, even in the harsh streets of New York. Leave the killing to the heartless people at the top of the fiscal pyramid who think money can compensate for poor taste in friends and fashion, for those who shake more hands than names learned and who believe that social status buys the world.
Last night’s fight is something I wished to forget and never be forced to reenact in life or in tale, but the memory races through my mind repeatedly. It cries to be told, to not be pushed away or kept silent. Perhaps a lesson will come from its retelling, or some awareness will be raised about what the world is really like outside of the cushy suburbs and quaint country roads. I was once quite naïve about the cruelty of humanity. I had never been exposed to the underbelly of the world. I lived in a nice house on a proper block of a well rooted neighborhood and thought that the worst thing life could toss in one’s way was a parental spat or a C+ in Spanish class. I never realized that violence and things that were “not so nice” took place behind closed doors, that it was very possible that one of my friends who did not have such a good life was torn limb to limb once they got home after school. Once I left the ‘burb, I began to realize that life wasn’t always so grand. Rather, it was an abysmal pit I simply stood at the edge of, merely looking in on from a hazed perspective. I learned even more once reaching New York and meeting more and more of what my family would have deemed trash, vagrants and worse.
What is a street fight really like one might ask. My family certainly would, as high up on the hill as they are. To begin with, the term is not really appropriate for what the experience is really like. For instance, most of my fights took place far below street level in basements dug under a pre-existing basement. In my memory, I see the poorly built ring in which I had stood, surrounded by the stained walls of a cinderblock room and greedy faces belonging to people who bet their money on the fight filling the space in-between. It was more like a classless version of a dog track, benches on the outskirts of the room for spectators and gamblers alike (some did show up to merely laugh at the lower class’s misfortune)
I felt, and could still feel as I recalled this memory, the humidity of the crowded room, a vast concrete savannah which seemed to spread out for miles in all directions packed with the beastly people of New York’s underworld. The feeling of the plastic tarp under foot and the rope cutting into my back were the normal sensations I noticed before the fight. The heat of the florescent light burned against my neck, making my stomach turn in expectation to what was about to come.
The first punch, a low jab toward my crotch, caused the air to tear apart, whooshing past my knee as he missed. My returning punch was a combo: one fist straight into his nose and a kick to his protruding ribs, immediately followed by the tumble of his malnourished body to the tarp. The sound his body made was like a sharp crack, the bridge of his nose bending a second time against the numbingly cold concrete, a second crack left in addition to the one left by my fist.
My hand stung after the fateful blow, but I did not let the relative pain distract me from the task at hand: destroying the opposition. With a burst of bloodlust, I rammed my foot into his gut, hoping he would cough up an equivalent to the blood he had taken from me the previous night in this ‘arena.’ I doubt it can be called an arena, as unsportsmanlike is the conduct within, but the term technically passed.
What hurts the most after a fight is the guilt. How could I be so proud of taking someone down? The thought of how much blood I saw on the tarp, pooling there before me was a physical sign of my won vengeance. It was my mark on that place. It was a temporary victory of sorts that I had made it through another test, a passage to the next stage of my life, whatever it may be. It wasn’t worth the price.
I kept my eyes shut while the morons who had discovered my location in the dark alley bickered about my broken state and the dark images played in my mind. I didn’t want help. I only wanted eternal peace with nothing more than the right to a dignified death, especially if a dignified life was out of the question. How dignified could a life be if it constituted nothing but violence? To choose a peaceful death over a violent life of sheer existence seemed to be my one right option.
As I reflected on my choice, the voices continued their incessant chatter, arguing about what to do with me, as if I were already corpse on display at a wake. If this were a wake, it certainly was not a cheerful one. This was nothing more than morbidity, lacking the compassion and words of kindness given at a wake.
“K.B., he’s lying in my gutter for God only knows what reason and I want to know why he chose this forsaken place to lie. So back the fuck off and let me see if I can pry the information out of what’s left of him.”
“This better be the kid you used to talk about, especially after all the effort I put out making this joyous reunion possible. It isn‘t every day that a man can make miracles happen.”
“Anthony? If you hear me, please let me know somehow. God you look pretty fucked up. Did someone take a tire iron to his head, K.B.?”
At the mention of the name I had sworn off since the age of sixteen, I flicked my eyes open to see what Hell from my past was now forcing its way into my life. Two big brown Dago eyes were close to mine, familiar eye brows and lashes framing them. This was a face I knew all too well and wish I had hoped in these last years since our last “meeting” to never see again.
Since my life was turning into a horrible pulp-fiction novel with predictable turns, this was the ironic twist the plot needed to have a “great” start. Gabe had found me at last. Technically, it had been a bum who had dragged him down to this godforsaken alley to see me at my lowest, but nonetheless Gabe had me in his sights.
A past lover and an emotional user, Gabe was not the kind of person I wished to associate myself with in my last hours. His selfishness had caused us to lose one another and lose what we once felt for each other. For as much as he had once meant to me, Gabe was now nothing more than a dull heartache and a confused state of mind at times. I had often wondered what had become of him but no longer did I wish to see him or hear his voice. Now I was confronted by him in a most unusual circumstance. Too weak to fight off this latest of punishments for the bloody fight last night, I moaned in protest. This protest seemed to register to him as an acceptance of his charity. A moan of thanks, I guess you could say. Something he had heard many times in his life from various strangers but a sound of recognition I had never once given him.
To look at Gabe was to see a fallen Italian angel. His skin was tan, his eyes the deepest brown and his hair naturally curled when he allowed it to grow long enough. His face was somewhat mischievous and there was always a glint in his eye of strength and will, like a flame that could never be extinguished. At times, he seemed boyish, but when things became serious, his expressions were utterly masculine and maturity reigned supreme. At this moment, the man stood before me and the boy hid behind those eyes, wondering what to do.
“Anthony, I want you to try to look at me. Do you remember me? God, your face is bruised to Hell. ...fuck. What am I supposed to do with him? Carry him off to wherever and see what happens?”
“Just grab him up, Gabe. Do it before some pimp gets in here searching for his lost hooker. You can‘t give him too much worse of a life.”
“I can’t simply take him home like some stray. What would Bryan say?”
“You know Bryan can’t say shit to you about it. He’s the center of worse dramas all the time at work and everywhere else that a whore can get into trouble. That fucking slut does more stupid shit with a day than you can with a lifetime.”
“Please leave me…,” I finally muttered, “I don’t want your help, asshole.”
“Too bad. You need help whether you like it or not. You might only feel this way for now and I‘m not about to watch someone die below my own fire escape and feel responsible,” Gabe replied, like this was something as normal as taking out the garbage every Thursday. Always calm and collected appearing, but always worrying and becoming flustered internally; that was Gabe in a nutshell.
As Gabe was saying this, he had knelt next to me, placing his arms around my waist, dragging my body off the stiff wood of the pallets and tossing me unceremoniously over his broad shoulder. In that instant I felt the sharp definition of his muscles in his arms and shoulders as well as how effortless it had been for him to toss my small frame into a carrying position.
As Gabe stood with my body draped over his shoulder, vertigo caught me literally between the eyes and the dusty pavement began to spin below me.
From: Anthony
Date: May 17, 2007 4:30 PM
You say you ran away. I can't help but say that makes me a little curious. What exactly happened? (Don't have to tell, obviously. Everything is totally up to you, okay?) The plan for me right now is that I will do everything legally. Day I turn eighteen, with transfer papers in hand, I am out of this place.
I just can't trust them. All my dad could say [about me being gay] (he lives five states away, but he comes for Xmas) was "you better not be." My mom flipped out and she made my life extremely hard. I don't see the rest of my family; I haven't since I was like eight. They just don't care about me and my mom. They don't like me because I am not anything like them. Everyone, other than me, looks dark. I am Scottish; blonde w/ blue eyes. Theirs are brown/green eyed with dark skin/brown/black hair. Mine is wavy, theirs is straight. Plus I don't fit their country club persona: tennis, golf, swimming, social climbing. It disgusts me.
I just don't feel like I fit in anywhere; other than with other gays... (yeah, I know, stereotypical). They just seem less judgmental. Either they like how you look, or they don't, but they can't throw stones about personality or sexuality. It just make life much easier. Unfortunately, I know one gay guy here and that is it.
My parents are still married, but they live apart from each other. The end is coming though, and my dad is going to be totally blindsided. He has no idea how unhappy he has made my mom. And, yeah, she can be a you-know-what and all that, but she is still my mom, and we have gotten along better over the past few months, even if we never talk about me being gay. Unhealthy, yes. But, you know what? Ignorance is bliss. And even an imitation of ignorance can calm me down at this point.
I'll shut up now, 'kay?
Anthony
From: Gabe
Date: May 17, 2007 5:36 PM
Don't ever 'shut up' for me. If you want to talk, I want to listen. If you want to yell, scream, rant, rave or cry, I want you to do that too.
I ain't a typical MySpace person; I really AM trying to make friends here. I never really had them growing up and it's not easy for me to do.
Yeah I ran away from home. I was abused in the extreme. I can't remember my mom. Sometimes I think I can but it's always like a shadow, you know? My dad worked second/third shift and I don't know if he even knew I was around. One day I just got up and walked away. I never went back. I don't know if he's dead or alive, and don't really care to check. How heartless is THAT?
From: Anthony
Date: May 17, 2007 9:39 PM
What do you mean you had a hard time making friends? I have never had more than two friends at any time, and when they turn on me it burns every time, though I come to expect it. That is why I even tried MySpace; it was just a way to get a better, more even shot...
Do you ever feel like there are only about three people you can trust? Or that you shouldn't trust anyone at all? It really bites to think like that, but I have no way of knowing who is being real (like you have) or who is using you as a stepping stone. I remember, back at my old school (I was twelve), that I would immediately make friends with the new kids, and they would be nice for about a week, and then they would drop me for the mainstream crowd. Basically, the people I hated but wanted to be like. Why do people envy each other when we dislike each other? You know the other group's flaws, and yet you want to join them to seem "normal". (I put normal in quotations here because there is no such thing as normal; or, if there is, it is because everyone is different, and, therefore, equal...) I wanted to be like those snotty kids so bad, just so I would get invited places. My mom always knew about it then; I used to think she would do anything for me no matter what. And she did, then, when I was all she had. But now she has her house, her boyfriend, her life here and I am not perfectly fitting into her puzzle. She would do all of these random things to make it better; but she would always want to know why I didn't go to so-and-so's party, which I wouldn't even know about. And it would be embarrassing that my mother knew more than I did about the goings-on at my school. I just wanted to fit in, make my mom happy. (to hell with my dad; he has never tried to do anything unless she forced his hand along the way.)
You are the only real person I have talked to in a long time. I wish more people would not care about me being myself and that they would give me a real chance, rather than go on the hear-say of a teenage hellhole.
It just gets old. Maybe you've gone through this stuff, maybe you haven't. Thanx for being here for me; not many people can be.
Anthony
From: Gabe
Date: May 17, 2007 6:47 PM
Making friends hasn’t been easy. It seems everyone I ever met has wanted something from me. They took whatever they could get from me and always used ‘friendship’ to get it. Once they had it, they would usually bail on me. I don’t think I’d know a real friend if it crawled up my leg and bit me.
I did meet one guy here on MySpace that if I met him for real, I think I could be his friend, and maybe more. I don’t dare just coz I am busy breaking up with my ex.
I can hear you say, ‘busy breaking up?’ Yah, just so. He won’t let go and I don’t trust myself to be alone with him. He left me for a friend, looking for greener pastures and didn’t find it. He doesn’t understand why it’s not working but I found out just after he left me. I finally let him be a friend of mine on MySpace but then I read his comments and know it was a mistake.
He calls every day, texts me to the end of the earth and tries to manipulate me like he used to do. Since coming back to MySpace by myself, I met people that let me rant and rave about him and I know they don’t wanna hear it but I found out that by talking it out I figured out a lot of stuff about him/us I didn’t understand before and it makes me stronger each day.
I can’t say that there are 3 people I can trust. Hell, I can’t even trust MYSELF.
In NYC, everyone uses you as a stepping stone. The trick is to do it without letting them know you do. I never mastered that, and that’s why I decided to move to Florida. It seems the friends I have from there are the ‘truest’ ones I ever met. Maybe it’s the water, maybe it’s the air, but I always dreamed of getting out of here and now I have my chance.
So in spite of the smiles and the happy attitude, I find myself edgy, shy, lonely and scared to meet people if I don’t have to work with them. After my b/f left, I went to the clubs just one more time. I haven’t been back since. All the people there are so hollow, shallow and stuck on themselves that I don’t think the whole group would make ONE decent person.
I’m glad and a little jealous that your mom is sort of helping you. I try so hard to remember mine but it just isn’t there. I don’t have feelings like ‘I want my mommy” and stuff like that but I’m alive and know at some point in time I HAD a mom. I can’t remember my dad ever talking about her. I can’t remember him dating or going out, he’d come home from work and on the rare days when I’d see him, he be drunk and surly. So I learned early to stay out of his way.

Chapter 1, Part 2 - The Cur Arrives
Bryan’s Perspective
“What are you doing down here in the alley, Gabe?”
“Bryan, we’re going to have someone stay with us for a while. He’ll sleep on the couch and be out of your way. I promise,” Gabe said hesitantly. This mere slow pace of speech told me enough to know what was going on: Gabe wanted a three way yet again and I was the last one to know about it. What good are rules regarding consent and respect if no one follows them?
I couldn’t believe what was coming out of my lover’s mouth. How dare he just tell me that we were having someone over? I may have been his bitch for the past five years, but that didn’t mean he had everything his way. Life with Gabe was not about to be all his way when I had an equal right to decide who was to stay with us and who was to climb into bed with us.
KB stood in the alleyway’s shadows, watching the drama unfolding in front of him. No one knew his real name or where he originally harkened from, but we all knew him as the King of Bums. In his tattered coat and sweater he was hard to discern from the heap of trash that sat next to the overflowing dumpster in the alley. His pants were covered with the dust of the street which coated every single thing in this part of our world.
The king sat on a weatherworn chaise lounge he called his thrown when he was at ease in his ‘court’. He was the man you went to when there was something specific you wanted; he scoured a burrow’s worth of garbage and knew every interesting item up for grabs in the alleys and on the curbs in the cans.
Now KB was watching a couple of jesters, who were unfortunate enough to dwell indoors, drag their show out on to the street for his amusement.
As calmly as I could, trying to sound as reasonable as possible, I asked Gabe, “Who is that sack of potatoes over your shoulder, sweetheart? I told you no more sets with extras. You have enough dynamite for both of us, I promise.”
“It isn’t like that,” Gabe replied, quickly adding, “You actually know this guy. He has no interest in you and I doubt he even has interest in me anymore.”
“Let me see who it is- now.”
The curtness in my voice made his eyebrow arch but he instantly reacted, turning his back to me so I could see the stranger’s face buried in his shoulder.
KB let out a small laugh in response to how whipped my Dago was. I almost smiled at his amusement; I was proud of my control over Gabe. I had to keep my man in his place, after all.
Through blood and dirt, I could barely make out who was tossed over my husband’s shoulder. Even through all of the blood, the blond hair still had a shine that was unmistakable. Anthony had finally made the Hajj to New York he had always threatened, though in the past it had been a happy suggestion to visit as a friend rather than an as our trash.
I was now feeling the discomfort one only feels when an atom bomb has been dropped on his hometown, far off in the distance. I was experiencing the feeling of a guy whose territory is being challenged by the ex-boyfriend. There was no way this ghost of a boy was about to steal Gabe away, but my fear of such an event happening was still present. I might not be affected, but my past was certainly coming to bite me in the ass at this point.
I had a firm clamp on Gabe. Ever since we had traveled to Vegas five years ago and tied the knot, I knew I owned him in a way no other whore, slut, druggie, or club lizard ever could. I had a band of gold and a stone that meant much more than material wealth. Anthony was not about to tear through our commitment; I wouldn’t allow it and Gabe wouldn‘t stand for the sanctity of marriage, even an open one, to be soiled. The thought that such a young kid (twenty-one as opposed to my twenty-five years) whisking away my husband seemed impossible, but that outlying chance of the event happening stuck in my mind as I watched the events play out.
What could I possibly say that would not sound like the rants of a jealous slut protecting property? If Gabe felt that compassion was the right thing, then it was what was going to happen. But I knew once that boy entered our apartment, Gabe would make Anthony out to be a pet, a two legged dog just as flea bitten as any other cur. There was nothing I could do to prevent it, but I could certainly put my stubborn heel down to slow the process.
The entire time I had known Anthony, he had been a loyal person.. He had unfailingly supported Gabe in his war against me, though in the end he had been the one who had inadvertently brought Gabe and I back together. I had longed for the Dago to be back in my life full force and he had pushed me away multiple times, avoiding my advances and keeping out of my haunts. Anthony had also fought to keep me out, using words and smarts to keep the Dago under his spell. The charm of a sixteen year old is quaint, but it can’t compete with the strength of lust and, in Gabe’s eyes, love.
Being a classic Libra, Anthony also seemed to make split second decisions and set his mind to whatever task he saw as beneficial. He had known that he wanted Gabe for himself and strove for it. I’ll give the punk credit; he put upp a fight to the end, pretending to be my friend to “keep his enemy closer” than his true friends.
Unfortunately for him, but very fortunate for me, this was not to be.
Anthony’s words were more powerful than his scrawny build ever could be and it made me nervous. How could someone I had never met in person before make me nervous? It was unthinkable. Yet in my mind I could see pictures of him from his youth, the captured memories he left on MySpace for everyone to see. With these pictures and the words he wrote, he became a real person to me in a sense, but not real enough to be a real hurdle in getting my Mickey back. With his reappearance he could easily upset everything I had done to make Gabe mine.
I hesitated after weighing my options. “Bring him up, I guess. Just don’t get the upholstery dirty with all that shit he’s covered in,” I said finally.
Fortunately, every problem has a solution. Once Anthony was well enough to leave, he would. He was too proud to take advantage of anyone, even if the person had abused him before. He never saw anything as being owed to him. It was his one fatal flaw that would plague him as long as he tried to make it in this city where nothing was sacred. I would just put the pressure on and convince him he had worn out his welcome, long before his blond head had ever passed over the threshold of my apartment.
From: Gabe
Date: May 21, 2007 7:03 PM
My ex and I were in a diner one night about 3 am and this HUGE hulk was muttering, “Stupid queers, fuckin fags”, etc. We were quiet and not bothering anyone, actually HE was the one bothering people. After about a half hour of this I turned around and asked him who he was talking about? “What, you deaf you god damn homo’? It was FUNNY! I stood up and he did too, and he laughed and is like ” Whatcha gonna do pansy, hit me with your PURSE.”
I said, “NO Sir” – and laid him out with a right to the jaw. People applauded. I looked at him and said, ”When I leave my PURSE AT HOME, I use my fists.” ”Now go home and tell your wife you got your ass kicked by a fairy.” I paid my bill and walked out. They didn’t follow us. So when you say it would be different if I was around, you’re RIGHT. LOL
From: Gabe
Date: May 21, 2007 9:12 PM
Funny thing about being a homo in your white collar enclave; the ones filling out the eviction papers would be the ones secretly gay/bi/wife beaters/child molesters and perverts that are so morally against 'openly gay'. I'm told I don't 'look' or 'act' it but the fact is that females of our species would draw a blank in my vicinity. If I was the last man on Earth, we'd go extinct.
I'm 'versatile' by choice, 'top' by preference but open to damn near anything. What's the big fuss, you know? It's just sex and it's been going on since day one. If they enforced the laws on the books, most of them wouldn't even been born coz of what mummzie and daddums were doing to make them. LOL
Well you go off and do what you do, and I'll check u later
From: Anthony
Date: May 22, 2007 6:12 AM
Where did the sex preferences come from? (No big deal, btw) Just curious...
I can't write long, my family hovers near you if you are on the comp so early in the morning (they think it is porn; six am and porn with you [referring to my mom] in the next room? I can't exactly get comfortable in here LOL) Plus I have no idea what is going on around me right now, so she could be staring at me and I would never know it...
From: Gabe
Date: May 22, 2007 12:20 PM
To make it short and sweet I was raped/molested as a child (no sympathy please -it's over and done with) I ran away from home and to survive I hustled. A kind old man that I met that way decided I was good enough to save. He took me off the streets, gave me work and a place to stay and here I am now.
The preferences came because when you hustle, it's about THEM, not you. You don't matter. The upside is that I learned a LOT of stuff they don't teach you in Missionary Position School. Trust me, I was doing stuff as a teenager that most adults would freak at if they even considered it.
My preference for guys was given to me but I did try to make it with girls and I did it with an open mind. The fact that they STILL try to 'bring me around' is proof that I could do it if I were so inclined. Maybe that's why my ex was a drag queen, I was torn between the two.
One time I was offered to be the 'active' partner with a John and it surprised me that he'd offer. I never considered such a thing. Anyway I enjoyed it- so did he. I added it to my sexual resume and whenever possible, drew on it. Surprisingly the majority of guys after that were happy to let me 'take' it from them instead of give it to me. Straight guys are never straight. I don't care what psychologist tell you different.
From: Anthony
Date: May 22, 2007 3:39 PM
I know you said no sympathy, but gawd... if you ever want to talk I would like to be the one you trust. I won't push it. I knew your life had been bad, but jeezus...
Not to detract from above, but I got busted straight in the face with a basketball. While playing ping-pong... I still have blood all over me, but that doesn't faze me. What fazes me is the fact that the person who hit me did it on purpose for no reason. What have I ever done to this person to make them be a bastard? I have done quite literally nothing the other times he has done something, and I almost just laughed it off. Today, I clocked him right back. Yeah, I hit someone. The little fag hit someone. I busted my hand right on the side of his face, it hurt like hell, and I am a total pansy, but I got him back. And my gym coach pretended to look the other way when I did it. I didn't even get a referral to the school counselor (they don't even bother sending me to the principals anymore...)
From: Gabe
Date: May 22, 2007 8:43 PM
Screw Reality TV, move to NYC. I'm far from the exception to the rule. Street people have their own ways. We either live here or we die. It's our personal choice. We don't have 'victims' here and justice 'street style' is swift, quiet, and totally without regards for the legal system. Yah, so my life was bad. It's relative. Ain't YOUR life bad? Same thing, different style. Thing is, my people deal with it, your people form support groups! LMAO totally.
Can't think of what game lets you play ping pong with a basketball. Dang I'd loved to [have] seen that. I bet they saw the turd hit you on purpose and gave him a taste of 'street justice'. LOL the Pansy popped him one, huh? Put a note unsigned in his locker: GOT YOUR ASS TAGGED BY A QUEER- you faggot. LOLOLOL
From: Anthony
Date: May 22, 2007 8:27 PM
Here is the state of my parent's marriage; my dad calls once a month, trying to buddy up, and he makes her tell him things or they don't talk at all.
You are right to laugh at "visitation rights." He doesn't want me now, so why should it be different later? Actually, I can answer my own question. Because it is human nature to want something that you can't have. I know this is a tired subject, but Bryan can't have you, therefore he wants you. (Everything's possible, isn't it?)
Speaking of piercings, have I ever told you that I have wanted twelve ear rings? Another thing frowned on because it is "dirty" and "fruity" in my family to get piercings. No guy has ever had a piercing in either side of my family before. And six in each ear, spaced out evenly, seems about right to balance out the score. I'll let a professional do it for me so I can at least file a lawsuit if my ear falls off.
Since the house is like a ghost town right now, I don't want to stop writing you; but I know sooner or later I have to, so I might as well now. Hope there are no hard feelings because I gave you eye cancer LOL.
Anthony
Chapter 2 - “These Clothes Were Dirty When I Bought Them”
Anthony’s Perspective
When I gained consciousness my head throbbed rhythmically, the sound of a lone jackhammer in my skull. My surroundings did not help but to contribute to my head’s ache. The starkness and the brightness of the walls burned my eyes. All light around me confused my senses and the sound of the air conditioner kicking on (perhaps for the last time this late in fall) tore through me.
The antiseptic white of the walls, of the carpet, and of the upholstery seemed ironic for the situation in which these two lived. Bryan was a comedic cross dresser who worked for a club uptown. It was a very ritzy institution, especially for a mixed-patron bar. Usually when the heteros and the homos are in the same place, the only way the situation works is if the surroundings are so distracting that no one can pay attention to the escapades on the dance floor or, more importantly, in the bathroom.
Along with the rest of his profession, Bryan craved the attention. At least every other day he would demand a booty call after the show before pouring himself into a cab to head home. Neither Gabe nor Bryan were monogamous but by comparison Bryan was the worse of the two, or best as some more degenerate individuals would say, when it came to finding hookups.
Gabe catered some of the up and coming social groups of the area and because of this he would ‘network’ often (or bring home an extra set of legs just for the hell of it). When and where these two sex addicts found these hookups was a mystery to me, but I had heard enough gossip about their habits that I had a relatively good idea about their sexual interests and of how prolific they were in the local clubs. Since I had arrived in New York and, more specifically in this part of Brooklyn, I had heard numerous tales about the infamous young couple. Like the classic fisherman’s story of “it was this big” I had heard countless versions of the same sexual story: great in bed, gone in the morning and most likely to never return. One big catch, but the fish still got away.
One man had even documented his catch as Chinese fishermen have for ages: he took the small creature residing in Gabe’s pants and made an ink print on card in the hopes that no one would discredit his claim should they see this evidence. The eight inch outline of Gabe’s “johnson”, signed by both fisherman and fish, was strong enough proof for me to know these were not the kind of people I needed to associate with.
Gabe and Bryan’s names were interchangeable in almost any of these stories and the moral of these stories was always the same: once a whore, always a whore.
I doubted that two such colorful characters would have lived in such a bland apartment. It simply didn’t fit their colorful characters. I often wondered what their lives had really been like, how they had actually lived. This was not how I had envisioned it when I bothered to think about them. They had made such a large crater, I was scared that when I skirted the edges of it in my memory I might fall into the bottomless chasm and never be able to claw my way to the surface.
I tried to lift my head to see more of this foreign land I had been dumped into, but the sensation of every bland shade of beige in the room twisting and turning returned. As I lay there, with my eyes closed to avoid the raging pain in my eyes, I began to focus my hearing in an attempt to absorb the goings-on of my new environment. Every detail I could gather could help me escape this temporary Hell, if I would only use this knowledge to my advantage.
“...Bryan, he has to stay somewhere. I can still remember when I lived on the street. How I had to break down and do the dirtiest things just to earn that thin dime. I still can’t believe my only salvation was an old man who fucked me, then invited me to work for him and live in his basement.”
“But there really isn’t anything you can do for him. Your business already hires people you don’t really need and we‘re not a charity organization.”
“So, after all of my experiences I should, against my better judgment, dump him onto the asphalt to fend for himself? Right now he needs to have his body strengthen up and for the bruises to heal. I swear he can’t see through all of it, but he recognized me right away. I guess he’ll just have to get well again and then we will get to the other parts of his life we can hook up for him.”
These plans for me coming from the other side of the room, from what I assumed was the kitchen, were not what I wanted to hear. I wanted out of that apartment and I wanted out in the most extreme of ways, to be forgiven for the blood I had drawn from the other boy in the cold concrete arena. I may not have killed him, but I may as well have.
The anger and violence that one faces on the street are more complex than simple domestic squabbles or the notorious high school fist fight. Perhaps the other boy had been torn apart by those who had betted on him and had lost money on his relative weakness. Some of the darker people in these arenas saw motivation as something that could be dealt only with a strong fist or a big stick. Steely palms and brass knuckles were sometimes the consequences of losing a fight. Many people had lost their lives due to out-of-control mobs in these concrete pits and I had witnessed the disfiguring of a man who was unfortunate enough to live to tell about it.
His face no longer resembled anything remotely human. His nose had been carved away, his mouth torn open, the skin ripped from cheek to cheek. Blood had poured from every edifice and pooled around him as the relentless crowd stomped on his massacred carcass, caring less for him than the pit bulls who were forced to fight in the next ring. Like these dogs, we had been trained to be mean, our natural good natures leaving to make room for the hunger to survive, the hunger that dwelled deep within the pits we all had become. We were no better than abused animals and we were treated as such, walked upon and destroyed by careless men who had put us in the position of choosing life over kindness and human decency.
The poor recipient still managed to get up and muddle on with his life, as disfigured as he was. He marched on because he was prouder than the people who had trampled him, he had the will to live through the pain and the embarrassments such a disfigurement must have caused. Talk about self conscious, he lived behind a mask that mocked his former looks. He saw what had changed and what had been given to him by hateful people every time he passed a reflective store window or saw his image in a puddle.
However, the man made the best of his handicap despite the perpetual reminders. He used his scars as a defense mechanism. Who would dare pick a fight with a man who had survived the kind of abuse which left scars across the face? He certainly must have gazangas made of steel to take such a beating and stand straight on the pavement.
He had paid the price of losing the fight and now he had to live with the consequences of being a horse to be bet on. Yet, the fact that he could live with the punishment literally marked across his face made him a foe to be reckoned with in the ring.
Many other street fighters I had known, some even seen as friends when we had not been opposing in the ring, were not as lucky as he had been. In the street, there is no one you call “friend”. Everyone is out trying to make their way out of the stinking Hellhole that is the underground and on this path you may lose many valuable things: dignity, temporary prosperity, sanity. One thing that is even harder to lose is a friend, especially if this friend were to turn on you to get the best of what was available.
Some died in dumpsters, bleeding to death. Others were left in the cold, bruised and freezing to the point of sweet release. To even enter a fight, I had to have been certain I would win. If I did not triumph over my opposition I would be in a worse position than I had been before I had set foot in the pen. Sometimes desperation motivated me to do my best. Other times fury and vengeance forced me to rage on. Motivation was the key. If you entered a fight expecting to lose, the loss was inevitable. No doubt about the outcome whatsoever should one doubt himself. However, it would be better to die in combat than on the ground under some gambler’s foot.
Gabe had once known a prostitute very intimately, considering him a friend. Gabe watched the man succumb to AIDS in an alley. The man’s already malnourished body weakened past the point of revival, but Gabe wanted him to at least die in the relative comfort of a hospital. When Gabe asked a police officer for help, the man simply looked at him as if he were a complete mental case and told him that “the damn faggot” could simply die and be “one less burden on society.” A man on the street is certainly not treated as an equal to the man who resides in the hillside residences, who was lucky enough to land a job and an education to pay for the mansion within which he dwells. The only difference between the two was a status that had been attained through the right privileges. The price for not having these privileges was an unjust death.
Only a few times had I lost a fight and I felt blessed that all that had happened to me on the pavement as punishment was a cracked rib from any angry boot and a red welt on my back from being whipped with an angry man’s belt from behind. I was lucky to have received so little ridicule for my few lost fights. I was lucky to simply have survived the experience. I didn’t want to be like the scarred mess of a man that I had seen pulverized nor the prostitute whom Gabe had come to know so well before death.
It was this accursed luck that had allowed me to even get this far, to be on this couch rather than dead. I may not have been the one to hurt that boy or to have ignored the dying man, but someone sure would, given the chance. Peace in the underground societies of Brooklyn is fleeting.
The silence hummed through the apartment reminding me that I was wasting time just lying there not learning about my surroundings. It was an intense peace, only peaceful in the sense of silence, not atmosphere. I had to escape and let myself grip my destiny.
At the realization of wasted time, I tentatively raised my head. The vertigo had grown to a minimal pulse in the back of my head and I had less trouble looking around. The only window was behind the couch, looking out to the street below. A flat screen television adorned one wall, framed by two bookcases and a fairly expensive looking sound system.
In certain situations when one is not familiar with his surroundings, there is only the safety which escape can afford. Knowing the paths to relative freedom can save a life. Observing the patterns of people and of their routines can tell one when there is a hole to take advantage of or to escape through in the people’s lives. By watching Gabe and Bryan, I could find my way out of this abysmal apartment without getting the attention of these two sexual predators.
As stealthily as possible, I rolled off of the couch to the thickly carpeted floor. A quick dash to the front of the apartment was the only obstacle between me and an escape to the vast world outside. The thought of getting up and running even such a short distance, however, kept me on the floor. Fear of loosing consciousness again and becoming utterly helpless forced me to remain in place. I wanted to at least have the option to scream should these two abductors take it upon themselves to inspect me more closely.
This decision to not get up took only a split second. In that instant, Gabe had kneeled on the floor, his brown eyes looking down at me, his arms trying to pick me up once more. Standing at the foot of the couch was Bryan, watching me with slanted eyes filled with disdain. It was obvious he was neither accustomed nor willing to play the part of the gracious host. I assume that pole dancing etiquette did not stress hospitality toward guests.
“Leave him on the floor like the dog he is. I didn’t really want him up on the couch to begin with. I’m just glad we got him cleaned up a little. The shit he was covered in was just awful. How could you stand touching him?”
In response to Bryan’s words, I looked at my clothes. Rather, I looked at the clothes I was now wearing. It was true. My own clothes had been removed and my skin had been scrubbed until I was almost red, as if they had been trying to cleanse something deeper than dirt on my skin.
“Those clothes were clean. I bought them looking grungy…,” I muttered. I was too embarrassed to admit that I had let myself fall into the muck and mire of the road though it was dreadfully obvious. Now that I saw the extreme similarities between Gabe’s past and my present, I thought over everything that had contributed to Gabe’s decline.
Not all of Gabe’s problems could be blamed on the choices he personally had made. He had worked with what he had been given which, as a child of poverty, had not been much. Gabe’s mother ran soon after he was born, leaving him in the hands of a completely monstrous father. When Gabe and I had discussed our pasts, Gabe often referred to himself as a ‘dumpster baby’ or an ‘after prom discard.’ Though I had never found it humorous, he had meant those comments as a way to lighten the mood of an otherwise dark conversation, falling back on the comedy of Family Guy to cover his remorse over not having even the torn apart family background I had. Where in his childhood he had nothing, I had the security of a roof over my head and three meals a day. I was denied so little and he was denied everything, even shoes and warm clothes. I am almost disgusted at how well I was treated as a child and see myself as somewhat of a spoiled brat of an adolescent. However, I believe I may just have outgrown it.
Not only had I been given a better materialistic lifestyle, but I had also been cared for in a way Gabe had never known. At the earliest age Gabe could remember, he had been sold sexually to shady characters every night in the darkness of his father’s rat infested apartment. Gabe went to school, but never spoke of what happened to him in the rooms of the crumbling tenement. When Gabe turned twelve, he left and never returned, thinking to himself, ‘if my own father can sell me as a sexual object, I can just as easily sell myself.’ This tone echoed through every action which he took for the next decade, though the name of the man he was escaping from would change with each new occurrence.
Where he had never turned to a single soul in his school, I often complained of the “injustices” of my life. Family dramas were rampant; my mother and I were on the worst of terms once I was forced into the limelight regarding my homosexuality and I was often wrought with anger or depression because she did not accept me for who I was, telling me to my face that she did not believe that I was gay. Every episode was carefully retold to trusted friends and to a handful of remarkable teachers who know the line between friend and instructor and just which side is more important. I can’t imagine high school without such good friends and teachers to assist me with such comparatively minute things. Yet Gabe made it through his entire school career and long after without trusting a single person with his trauma and abuse, simply because he had no concept of what trust was. Had he even had a half-way concerned parent or friend he might have begged for help rather than letting the pain eat away at him. Gabe’s life might not be quite the mess it was should he have been able to trust someone.
Gabe’s life might have been different had he been able to trust me, for instance. He might not be with Brian or feeling the need to fill his life with sex. However, guessing what life could have been does no one a speck of good. Life either is or isn’t, has or hasn’t.
After fleeing the tenement, Gabe would spend nights in parks and buildings under construction or left to seed to protect himself as best he could. The parks contained mothers selling their own children, chasing Gabe off so that their own children would be the ones taken for the night, or for a lifetime. The mothers would sell their children and not worry over a disappearance. Either they would receive the child back, damaged, or they would have one less mouth to feed. Either way, it was a gain in these crack whores’ eyes.
In the buildings, Gabe would constantly fear the sound of approaching sirens as well as the criminals also squatting in the vicinity. He was a small kid, one who could be easily attacked or silenced permanently should any maniac think him a threat. However, Gabe’s luck was just good enough to get him through the years of sleepless nights with only a selection of scares from the vagrant class of New York. Those few poor souls inhabiting these buildings who he did meet seemed to merely be eccentric or odd, not dangerous, but the possibility lurked behind every rotting door and melted tarp.
Following years of life on the street, Gabe had cultivated a strong ‘clientele’ who would set up appointments. Many came for a regular appointment weekly, as if Gabe were a masseuse or psychiatrist. One of the men who was known to pay for these privileges did not want the sad seventeen year-old in the same sexual manner as other clients. This man, older than Gabe’s father, would sometimes pay to simply talk with him and pay for Gabe’s first true meal of the week or even of the entire month. He saw potential in Gabe when no one else would, though the type of potential was not entirely clear.
After many meetings like this, the man invited Gabe to live in the basement of his restaurant and work for him upstairs, teaching Gabe how to cook and run a true business. Gabe was taught the duties of a restaurateur in preparation for the time when he would no longer need the support of this elderly gentleman, or when his demise would come about.
Even with this steady job and lodgings, Gabe still worked his former business, sometimes under the suggestion of his new boss. Essentially, Gabe had found yet another pimp, this one lacking the awkward family ties and with the willingness to pay Gabe a cut of the profits (essentially the payment subtracting the price of condoms).
When this phase of basement living was over, Gabe moved into his own apartment and opened a catering business to support himself. This led him to a life of semi-prosperity, where he could live comfortably and independently. He could do what he wanted with his spare time with no need to resort to his old tactics for survival. He had food to eat, a bed of his own to sleep in, and heat when the nights were cold. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done and no amount of luxury would change the past.
All of these events impacted Gabe in many ways. He was changed from who he could have been. He could have been a strong, sensitive man who had a life that was not corrupted with an endless line of sexual partners and wild escapades. He was still a caring person, but he often had ulterior motives enabling his kindness. Gabe’s charity only came when he would benefit, whether the benefit be an upgrade in reputation status, a good fuck, or simply a relief of guilt. The only parts of him that resembled an angel were his face and his tendency to toot his own horn.
I was left to assume that his latest attempt to help me was nothing more than a ploy to relieve the guilt he felt for breaking my heart. Or would he even think of things such as broken hearts? At one time he had not been sure if he had even known what love was.
How could he know what a broken heart was without having experienced love? At the time I had thought he was saying such silly things to push me away, to keep himself from trusting another human being. Now, with this Hellish union of Dago and man-whore in front of me, I was not so sure if he had been incorrect to say that he was unsure of what love was. This could certainly not be love; I sensed no trust or gratitude for support between them.
Perhaps Gabe was simply trying to relieve his guilt for using someone; he certainly had experience with being used. But this was a hypothesis built upon the idea that he could still be empathetic after years of poor treatment. Since he had left my life, Gabe’s image had been jostled in my memory. He had once been strong and noble in my mind and now every word he had ever written to me was now under the closest of scrutiny. Once upon a time he had told me that he would wait forever and a day for me to be his, asking if such a notion was good enough for me. However, he certainly did not wait forever, let alone forever and a day.
I left my thoughts on hold and risked a glance across the room. I saw the edge of my shirt sticking out of a trash can on the counter in the kitchen and knew that most likely I wasn’t going to see the rank but familiar piece of fabric again.
I used to be a materialistic person. All I had in life at one time were clothes, shoes and books to fill my time but now, as depressed as I was, I didn’t care that what few things I had on my person were about to be tossed out. When one has committed the great sin of harming another person purposefully, everything else falls into perspective, even if the harm was caused in the process of getting by.
Having an ever-expanding wardrobe wasn’t important compared to the need to survive, especially when the cost is hurting someone else. Some could argue that my motive in the fights was to earn enough to live, but that wasn’t a fair excuse. Why should I take from another to barely brush through life? With so little to gain from such vast destruction, the destruction of a human life, was there purpose to what I was doing? There was no answer to that question.
The current question: how was I going to make my way out and survive to find a location to die my deserved death? Like always, survival was essential, even if it only resulted in dying in a more appropriate place. I could either stay here and wish away my life in front of them or do it in privacy. My death should happen on my time, not on the time of these shadows.
I looked up at the two of them bickering, Gabe arguing in my defense and Bryan opposing every word that left the poor Dago’s ignorant mouth. The scene would be rather funny if viewed from a different perspective. Beauty versus beast fighting over what could be thought of as a corpse. It’s surprising to consider that the beauty turns to a beast in bed and the beast transforms into something beautiful come nightfall.
Bryan was one of those infamous queens of New York who could turn the right man into putty if only dolled up in the right makeup and the perfect gown, hiding his protruding parts below the belt line. (You’d be surprised at the reaction of the heterosexual men in the crowd at the club when they saw this beautiful woman come on stage and then, once aroused, they’d discover he was a man in drag and be ashamed of there attraction… it is quite the hilarious show in of itself.)
Bryan was certainly ugly as a man, but his transformations from beast to beauty were incredible. He could walk the walk, talk the talk, and apparently he was infamous for his comedy routine, shaped by the speaking abilities he had honed in on through the old southern belle art of conversation and flirting.
His entire head was shaved and his natural eyebrows were a mere memory of childhood. His vanity encouraged him to shave five to six times a day. Stubble was not an option on stage or in the ladies‘ department at Macy‘s.
When performing, or when he felt the need to be extra feminine around the apartment, his wigs and make-up brought out his more feminine features. His jawbones were sleek and his eyes were peaked at the edges, suggesting a constantly curious feminine side. Curiosity had been satisfied at one time or another in his life; he clearly knew what he was interested in. With every addition or subtraction, he strove to achieve girly perfection.
Numerous “man-gina” jokes come to mind, but I am not about to bash another’s choice to look different. It was who lurked behind the makeup, wigs and, dare I say it, duct tape, which mattered; this person was who should be judged, not the choice in attire.
Inside, Bryan was neither a gorgeous woman nor a handsome man. He was a little nelly-boy who feared rejection and sought acceptance from everyone in the one way he thought acceptance could be expressed: a good romp with hopes for another as soon as possible.
Bryan would put on a huge opening to shows at a very large local nightclub just down the block a few times a week, earning a few shreds of mullah for himself, though there was no real reason to. The tip jar at the end of the stage was always filled by the end of his act, dirty dollars from perverts voiding the space within the grimy glass. The tips were certainly not for the corny jokes this comedian told. Anything he wanted could be easily paid for by generous tips at “private parties” and from his various lovers’ wallets and MasterCards, especially Gabe’s.
Everything his heart desired that Gabe could afford, Bryan would receive. Bryan wanted a day at the spa? No problem. Gabe wrote the check and left the amount space blank, “just in case.” Bryan wanted a new pair of wedges? Nothing too good for him, money is no object. However, when Gabe laid down the law, Bryan couldn’t possibly command an overruling. Apparently, me being thrown to the asphalt was one thing Bryan was not about to have.
“The last word is mine and I say he stays,” Gabe said forcefully. Bryan had no choice but to listen to his main patron. Bryan was practically Gabe’s property. In Gabe’s eyes, Bryan was an animal to be trained and shown to the world, to be owned and dominated.
“He’s sleeping on the floor,” Bryan said in a last struggle to be defiant.
A short silence followed this bitter exchange. Gabe walked to the kitchen and began setting food upon the counter, jars hitting the granite with sharp thuds. A loaf of bread was slammed to the counter. The novelty of a fridge stocked with food momentarily mesmerized me. The food was spread out on the counter as if it were something easily obtained and it almost seemed sinful to see such a display of edibles, especially when they were treated so violently in response to the heated argument that had just ensued. Had I been the one doing the preparing at that moment, I’d be acting as if it were a gift from the Gods above, a tribute to Saint Bridgett who had blessed me with such grand nourishment.
As I watched with curiosity, Bryan walked over and hugged Gabe around the waist in an attempt to make amends for their spat, but Gabe pulled away and walked back toward the living room with the plate, taking a seat on the floor next to me. He would not meet Bryan’s eyes no matter how long the queen stared at him.
When the plate was offered to me, I looked away, hoping he would understand I wasn’t interested in his handouts. I didn’t want any of it and I knew he didn’t understand why.
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Whew, that’s a lot of words. BUT overall I enjoyed this wouldnt mind reading more. I’m glad you explained KB’s name because it gave me a clearer image of who he was…first I saw as this big community organizer for some reason. I liked the modern twist on the flashbacks…using the emails were different, but try making them a little more realistic use some internet talk…”r u” or wtf..like the kids do. I like Bryan’s reaction it’s real. To save you some creds, great job!
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Titanic,
This is vastly better than the version I saw last year. There’s a great deal more demension to the characters. You still need to eliminate as many unnecessay words as you can. This will make the flow more immediate. I’ve included numerous examples to help you see what I do. I am off to training for the Games in Austrailia in a few minutes – I’m playing table tennis, or as you Britts used to say, Wiff Waff, so I only got 15% of the way through the story. If you like, I’ll go through this in greater detail for you off-line and post it back to you in an e-mail. All the best. – Dave
You might want to you contractions in the dialog. It’s more natural.
bathed in the shit. (Delete on the street.)
I know you are fucking homeless, (Delete and have a damnedably low standard of living,) but not even you wouldn’t tolerate such shit!” Stating the obbious.
two idgits go on (Too young a word. The American spelling is idjits)
to b(u)y his next. Thats a bit worn.
what it (delete is) contribute(s) to
people are (un)able or to lazy to earn.
Sometimes one must do humiliating things, vs. Sometimes you haver to do what you have to do like whoring, begging,...
in hopes that a few coppers come your way.
Prostitution comes with the typical STD risk along with getting your ass kicked by one of your customers or pimp. Being a street fighter comes at the price of possible death, both in and out of the ring.
Lucky for me, I was
catch my breath, and stand erect with my arms ready to let loose another blow.
The kindness of strangers, or its utter lack, can not change the level of determination within a person
While I was in the ring
Then I’d leave the ring, feeling guilty for being part of such a souless spectacle.
be forced to reenact (delete in life or in tale), but the memory races through
man’s cruelty ti man.
I had never been exposed to life’s underbelly.
I (had) lived in a nice house
and truly believed that the worst thing life
good life were beaten with a razor strap the moment they got home from school.
I realized that life didn’t always work out so grand
deemed trash, (Delete vagrants) or worse.
on the fight filling the space between them
the term does not describe what the experience is like
(Delete a) pre-existing basement(s).
(some did show up to…) delete this bit or hammer it in the text. Don’t relegate it to a parenthetical.
I can feel the humidity of the crowded room. It was a vast concrete
with the non-subburban underworld people of New York.
the normal sensations I had before each and every fight
florescent light burned against my neck (Florescent lights do not burn. Use the yellow sodium glare burned into my or some such thing.
expectation (of) what
I returned a combination with a overhand right to his nose, followed by a kick to his emaciated ribs. He fell like I’d killed him, and took a header on the concrete with his nose.
My hand stung, but I did not let the pain distract me.
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