The large, hulking figure of Jack Thompson stalked the moonlit alleys in his escape. He heard (or imagined) the wailing sirens of the approaching police. Within his left jacket pocket resided a bundle of notes; $2500 to be exact. He knew Charles was like every brain-dead alcoholic asshole in Staten Island; keep the money in the ceramic bowl above the washing machine. Jack had took more than he was owed, but fuck I’ll call it insurance cause he certainly can’t he thought with a smile. It had been two months since he and another fellow named Crawley stiffed him out of his bonus. Charles had to learn the hard way, because you don’t fuck with Jack.
South of the island, he had a nice little home waiting for him. Not his home, but a home nonetheless. He had been squatting there for a few months now; rule one of being on the run was not to be where you’re enemies expected you to be. Slashing the Brutus’s man had been a mistake but it had thrilled him to see the warm blood coarse down his neck when he plunged his make-shift knife into his wind-pipe. The Brutus’s man –Gerald- had made the mistake of sleeping with his woman. A woman he realised was a whore; but his woman nonetheless. That chubby little face pleaded for mercy; all the colour had drained leaving a pale canvas of a pathetic little boy who had been caught stealing $2 dollars out of his Dad’s wallet. But he wasn’t a kid; he was forty two. Kids are stupid just Jack was at that age; but Gerald was in his forties! So he was punished accordingly; his woman did not have any STD’s at the time so he couldn’t pray for cock-rot.
A strange vision flashed through his mind like moonlight on the ocean. New York City... his woman. Of course! She was living there still probably doing all her work on her back. He wanted to pay her a visit; to make sure she hadn’t forgotten about him. She couldn’t forget about him, not after the reminder he left on her cheek as a goodbye present. You don’t fuck with me he thought again, stifling a laugh.
Yet, even after all the drama and the pointless promises; he could not remember her name for the life of him. He blamed the bottomless bottles of whiskey he drank to drown those particular memories. She wasn’t worth remembering, though he was slightly unsure why he had thought of her now. It didn’t matter to him though; it was another highlight on his to-do list.
Payback is a bitch he murmured as he stole away to the shortcut that lead to his home. And I never fucking forget to.