It is a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways.
Mine is a Middle America Tragedy
This life of -mine- doesn’t start with a heavy handed father or a drug addled mother. There’s no conspicuous absence of either in my storybook upbringing. By every account my old man was a magnanimous type and mommy-dearest was as close to a modern day saint as we can come.
People so often want to cultivate an anti-hero, show a little sympathy for the devil; we don’t do so well with good and bad anymore. We acknowledge the divide, but we’re bored with the simplicity of it.
Truth is it’s that fucking simple. With an ideal home life, no crippling addiction or traumatic event to blame it on this evil I’ve done visited and delivered so senseless is all on me. I wear it on a proud brow that’ll sometimes pass as troubled, but don’t let it confuse. I can’t be saved.
I don’t want to be.
Being bad is infectious. It’s why there’s such an allure to it. My first taste of it was in a schoolyard setting, some cookie-cutter bully trying to posture on the rail-thin kid with a shiny new toy. I smashed his smug fucking face until my knuckles bruised, until he’d less a face and more a mask of gore; until I breath fire and exhaled smoke.
People rule by fear or love and each is a one-sided manipulation. Masochist and romantics hate how often they parallel. I choke her throat, her cunt chokes my cock — all of it strangles her heart.
After, they told me what I’d done was wrong but how was I supposed to believe that kind of cliche bullshit? Bad? I’d fixed an ill-informed opinion about who the fuck I was, adjusted the attitude of some sandbox tyrant and in effect put myself on the top of the proverbial mountain. That’s what it is, we all want to be King. Even if we’re to cowardly to think we can bare the weight of the mantle ourselves, we push for the success of someone we’ve anointed so as to live vicariously through them.
Not everyone will understand the softness of love but nobody has ever mistaken the sharpness of violence. Violence is still the most universal language, it’s impossible to misconceive. We might be ignorant to what it is inspired such a visceral action but the ferocity is in and of itself the intent.
In short, we understand a punch to the fucking mouth.
It’s easy for me to blame it on them .. Society. To claim they wanted me to live inside their neat little glass house. This isn’t a time for half-truth, though. Maybe I can put some clever spin on how this is a world of sheep and wolf but how much of that would I even buy? No. Hackneyed as my tale might be I’ve got to tell it straight. Even if we’re all of the same ilk I’d turn cannibal, bring about a holocaust and rejoice in the elevated status.
I live(d) with a rebel yell, outlandish attire and foul mouthed. Single minded in my pursuit of pleasure.
See, even in the bad there’s so much fodder. We press the pleasure button until we starve, until we’re a gaunt bodied, vacant eyed shadow of what we once were. Salvation came to me in the way of sex.
I ain’t saying she’s a gold digger ..
Mine is a love Story
So how did a cold eyed, sneering, underweight runt become a verifiable kingpin? How does one who cast himself into the shambling slums of depravity and wretchedness ascend above it all? Well, behind every great man is an exhausted woman.
There’s power in a name; whispered, screamed, sobbed or moaned, every time you utter it there’s even more influence enamored. Unless you’ve been burned alive you’ll never quite get what it is I am getting at but in laymen; it hurts to speak her name.
How-fucking-ever, a sensuous seductress took a high school dropout with limelight dreams into a deeper darkness. In the ancient recess of man is where all the best of our inner bad lay dormant.
In order to find what you’re capable of you have to do some body stirring, faith shaking, soul searching. Compliant as a high-riding addict I took her hand and follower her straight into hell.
Before I knew it I went from pushing some of my personal stash to taking bigger orders, from friendly exchanges with my suppliers to outright robbing them. The best way to trigger an avalanche is hurl a few snowballs down the mountain side. An empty revolver was my modern-day machete.
You get hooked to the smell of old money. The sound of it being un-crumpled, the sight of her blood-red smile while counting it; the harlot had my heart and wore it across a chest piece she’d show to almost anyone for the right price. Every great romance ended in tragedy, it’s why we re-wrote stories and fables for children.
Why we use Romeo and Juliet as a cautionary tale even though star-eyed idiots aspire to it. Bonnie and Clyde didn’t do so well, either. The point isn’t about how we burnt out, but the fact that she taught me what it was to burn bright. From an alley-cat kid pushing a handful of grass to a top-tier nightmare shown deference by every would-be challenger to my authority and throne.
With her I put down the comic books, picked up The Prince. Schemed in layers and made sure my most trusted men got followed by my most trusted men to make sure their fidelity was sincere. The awfulness glimpsed in me that fateful day on an unnamed playground in some unremarkable city on another mundane afternoon was nurtured by this bitch, cultivated by her own cunning and enticed by sex that set my soul ablaze.
Mine is a declaration of War
As with anyone hooked though what I have is never enough. Spoiled bitch left a void in a black heart she took with her. There’s no court for our kind of divorce but even if I buried her beneath a sheet of shit she’d still be all I wanted to smell. From my high perch I look upon the network of city streets, the veins of my empire; I imagine what it would be like to have even more and so I conspire. The anguish corroding my last semblance of humanity is painful, pain I wish to share with all this wicked, wicked world.
It’s why I spoke of good and evil, that it is in fact a clear cut thing we muddle with our attempts to wax poetically. Choice is made by conscious. Songwriters who lay beside an overdosed doll-up don’t get to go back simply because they write them a soulful sonnet mourning their untimely demise.
They are murderers whom lament beautifully, but that doesn’t absolve them. The only difference between the sniveling man at the altar or in an interrogation room crying out confession is I’ve long since made peace with what I am.
Sharks never apologized for the feast; I am long-since starved and set upon this city.
You will know my name.