5 comments/ 2872 views/ 0 favorites Kicking the Habit Ch. 01 By: NobodyWorthKnowing ...It isn't chaotic, really; golden hues of polished wooden ballroom, and glistening soft lights of flame and bulb light reflected in glistening starlets about the room. A small strings quintuplet plays in harmony, contemporaries, and classical as though they were written in the same era. There is a thick body of celebration in the ambiance of the room, absorbing into the lights, and the sounds; the gentle murmur of the people as they dance across the ballroom floor, twirling, dipping and Waltzing in this, a black tie affair. The men are dressed traditionally, though there are a few set apart from the penguins. Mostly it is young men and old men alike, dressed in all of the grandeur of a police interceptor. The women are somewhat more splendid, but not by much, while many look as though they shopped in the same department stores... at the same time... for the same thing; there appears to be no sense of disappointment in the atmosphere. Soft. Glistening. Reflective. I feel someone, among the crowded room, put their hand into the small of my back. It slides up carefully--gently--to the nape of my neck and ushers me forward. I am caught in a moment of memory, my mind whirring back to a time I was a child, where my father would usher me along the same; the small of my back, or the nape of my neck as if to say, "Run along now, go play with your friends.". This isn't my father though, but as I try to turn and see who it is, a hand swiftly pushes my face forward. Not so much as a glimpse of the stranger behind me. Suddenly I feel the muzzle of a gun in the small of my back. "Don't turn around. Keep walking." A gentle, remorseful man's voice sighs. Suddenly, the world becomes colorless to me. The room is as black and white as the tuxedos and gowns that fill it, and everything in my pockets feels ten times too heavy. I reach for my cigarette case, feeling the cool metal of sterling silver. I can feel the etched design, and I can even see it in my mind. A heart with my name in it; a gift from my lover. "Hands out of the pockets." I do as I'm told, trying to find a way to stall any way I can--to get anyone's attention before this man with the sad voice gets his way. My hands are out of my pockets, and the silver of my cigarette case reflects the light of the room across the crowd, but no one notices. No one notices how stiff I am, or how upset I look. "What are you going to do?" I ask him, trying to buy time. Time. Anything to steal a moment. A waiter walks past with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, ignoring me as though I do not exist. "I am going to kill you." He says as we push out of the doors, and into a small hallway. I feel my eyes go blurry as tears fill over the brims. In moments, there is cool air on my face; cold air where the tears streaked, and finally the lump in my throat deflates enough to talk. "Why--why kill me?" I feel his hand leave my neck as we stop. He pulls the silver case from me, and it makes a jingling clatter on the sidewalk as it breaks into halves, spilling cigarettes over the sidewalk. The sprinklers are on. The smell of freshly cut, wet grass is overpowering, but the world is just a blurry, shaky eight millimeter film to me, complete with sepia and scratches. I know this feeling. My mind is beginning to blank. The fear drowning in numbness, but the tears don't stop. I'm not sobbing, but I wish I were. I feel his hand on my shoulder, pushing me to my knees, and my legs betray me as they thank him for the respite from standing. "Don't worry," He soothes. "It will be entirely painless, and very quick." "I--I don't want to die." I hear my voice echo in my head as the muzzle of the gun rests at the back of my skull. "Well, you're a smoker. You're dying anyway. I just thought I'd help you do it sooner." I hear him cock the trigger, as I take a deep breath. I know I won't hear it; feel it. I know I won't feel anything ever again. My head is heavy, and I feel it dropping forward; finally, I'm sobbing. Took long enough. The wind whips through my hair as the man puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. It will all be over soon. What a lousy way to kick the habit. Kicking the Habit Ch. 02 The air is crisp, and clean outside; it smells like what the commercials only wish their soap could smell like. It's what they oughtta smell like... The sprinklers are whirring rapid shots of water over the lush thick of blue-green under moonlight. Soft lamps reflect off of puddles and wet sidewalk, and everything seems so serene. I don't belong here, but if I don't show up then vice is gonna catch on real quick to who I am. The tuxedo I'm wearin' fits too tightly under the arms, and too loosely in the mid section; it definitely ain't me. Normally I'd just rip this monkey suit right off my shoulders, but tonight again is a special occasion o' sorts. I go an' take this jacket off, an' vice is gonna wonder why I have bullet holes and blood stains on the back o' my shirt. Stupid old codger. Too short, too many questions, not enough sense in that thick head of his. Besides, he was gonna kill a lady. I had to put him down. He was a calm one; the cool, creepy kind of calm that makes a serial killer out o' men. Psychotic calm. The former owner of my uncomfortable ass tuxedo wanted to off some dame because she was a smoker. I clubbed her with the grip o' my pistol, but I let her live. The unlucky recipient of my brand o' subterfuge however, wasn't so lucky. He was a little thick, and a little short; short and stocky some would say. I left him resting in his eternal sleep, sittin' high up in the branches o' some ol' pine in the golf course out back o' the estate. I shot the short ol' man twice--just twice. Buried the muzzle o' my barrel deep in his back, and I shot him good. He put up a fierce struggle at first, an' I thought maybe my luck had just run out, but that ain't the case either. Alls I really want to do is slip in the back, make my way real easy like through the crowd, and out the front. I'll steal me a car, and it'll be like I was never here. Can't risk gettin' caught because I left my gun with the ol' dead guy I put down. Didn't wanna take chances slippin' through a crowd o' blue bloods like this. I ain't so young, or nimble anymore. I'm strong, but not like I used to be when I was a wrought iron little bastard full o' piss an' vinegar. Slippin' in is easy. Short little twerp left his invitation in his pocket. I wave it at the doormen as I come walkin?' into this party maybe a little too ruggedly, and a little too roughly. People stare, and I'm thankin' all the Saints under heaven, and beyond that I didn't try to stuff my gun in my trousers. The rich. Damned blue blooded arrogant bastards; same kind o' people who put me behind bars. Murder One, the jury said. Guilty. No one ever even stopped to ask why; just whether or not I did it. I couldn't tell you if any o' these people had judged me, but they're judgin' me now. Too rugged. Too rough. No grace. These bastards all look alike to me. Ain't no one movin' a muscle. Music's playin' still but the band sounds strained. No one's dancin'. Nothin'. Then I see why, as I step out the front o' the Manor. Blues lined up ready for a showdown, and that sweet lookin' lady I clubbed. She's pointin' at me like I'm the one what was gonna kill her. Stupid lady, I saved you. Idiots. I'm not a murderer. At best I'm a world class thief. They order me to put my hands up. "PUT YOUR HANDS UP!" I put my hands up. The seams under the arms o' my new tuxedo rip. It reminds me o' a bad deodorant commercial. Raise your hands. Sure. Cept' I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all why I'm listenin' to any of these mugs. I ain't never hurt a person that didn't deserve it. Her eyes is glassy, I can see it, though mine ain't. I'm calm, but not that creepy kinda cool that those serial killers feel, no. I'm jus' calm. They order me to get down on my knees. Now. "GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES, NOW!" I do as I'm told, mainly cuz' I don't want this to end in bloodshed. Namely mine, but quite possibly the trollop who ratted me out to the badges there. The bastards make sure I know they're not playing with me. I feel a club across the nape of my neck, and I'm face down in badly laid asphalt. It's sharp on my cheeks, and smells like dirt and dirty chocolate. It's sticky, from water runoff. The sprinklers were off now, but the water was still trickling about. An' to think. I was givin' myself up on the life of crime, so I could open myself up one of those fancy flower shoppes. Maybe in Manhattan; probably more like Brooklyn though. I was gonna give up that whole crime thing, but now I'm pretty sure I don't have much o' a choice. What a lousy way to kick the habit. Kicking the Habit Ch. 03 Corruption is an addiction. It's the first taste of any filthy pleasures, for a price. It is not the mere delight in sin that makes a dirty cop, a dirty cop. It's knowing you can get away with it again, and again, and again. Drugs. Sex. Power. Any cop on the straight and narrow avidly avoids these temptations, knowing that once you give in'once you taste the sweet syrup of indulgence'it's almost impossible to give it up. I'm not the cop who said no. Eighteen years in the goddamned force. I've been wounded twice in my career. I am not an uneducated man, just an educated man who took an unfortunate trip down reality lane. Shot'wounded within a damned inch of my life'and I get some shiny medal. Then, it's pat on the back, and they call me a hero. A hero. You take a slug in the back from an overzealous kid, and you're a hero. Put down a notorious criminal after a grueling firefight, and you're a star. I've been putting these bastards away for ten years, so when reality finally hit me, I wept. No one gives a damn. We wear a black band over our badges when a comrade falls. His replacement will be in next week. It happens' besides, he knew the risk. We give out shiny medals, and call wounded cops heroes, but in the end, it's just our job. It's what we signed up for, and no Goddamn it. It will never, ever pay enough. So how do you make it right? It's like cheating on your wife, or cheating on your taxes; the first time is the only hard time. After that, it's the easiest game to play. If you're not sloppy, you can do it forever. They say the truth will always prevail, but what is the truth? What if you controlled the truth? Then this game'this habit'is your power. Suddenly, drugs, sex, and power are yours. The world is yours. Your brothers in arms, naïve children who don't know the way. Then, suddenly you get this pain. It's not physical. It's not mental. It's in your heart'it's like you just found religion. Christ, Himself, just came and donkey punched you in the fucking heart, and you know you've done wrong. I have two boats, and some jet skies. I own a bigger, and better car than I can afford, but they're all paid off. It's dirty money. Blood money. It's dead cops, and crying children. I remember when it began, and I knew where it would end. Here. Tonight. Right now. About ten years ago I put away one of the most notorious thieves that ever existed. I'm not talking about some pussy prick pick pocket, or cat burglar. This guy could steal your house and you'd never know it until it started raining. He was good. Too good. Not as clumsy as a magician, or as dull handed as a sculptor. When I arrested him, the bastard stole my gun, ammo, and the key to my handcuffs. He didn't shoot me. He didn't even escape. It was his accomplice that put the two in my back. It was the same day I turned my back on law enforcement. Sex. Drugs. Power. Money. Money. I had a wife. I had a family. She's gone now, with our children. Money wasn't enough. The distance it put between us was too much. So, I'm giving it up. No more dirty business. One less cop on the take. I retire in two years, but after tonight, I'm requesting a desk job at the station. Maybe I don't deserve it, but once everything's settled, said and done' maybe she'll come back. I miss my daughter. I miss my son. 'and then, there he is. Same guy as ten years ago. How he managed to get out of prison I'll never know, but I'll be damned if he isn't going back. Filthy fucking urchins'but he's a different type. There's a woman standing here, next to me. Looks like she's gonna cry. He doesn't, though. She put in the call, and I guess it was just a moment too late that she realized this cat was the one who saved her life. Oh yeah. He's killed. Dressed ridiculously in an undersized tuxedo, split at the armpits. She told us everything. Thing is. I knew this guy escaped. Tonight, I was told to put him down no matter what. This time, though, I'm going straight. I order him to get down. He does it. I order him to put his hands up. He does it. I'm followed by six officers as I approach the suspect. It's overkill, and I know it. These are no doubt as dirty as I was, these cops. These blood collectors. One of them'Branson'clubs him over the back of his neck, and they start going to work on him. By the time I can get a word to order the halt, he's pretty tender. They drag him, and stow him into the back of my car, bruised, and bleeding. His hands are purple because the cuffs are too tight. There was a small crowd that started to gather, but they've dispersed, no doubt returning to their black tie affair. I'm done. This was the last case. After today I'm back on the straight and narrow. It's how it should have been from the start. I get into my car. 'Mind if I ride along?' I can't see his face, but I can see he's a cop. Could be one of those dirty motherfuckers, but if I tell him anything now, it's my ass. 'Sure partner,' I say in the gruffest voice I can manage. 'Better us two with this sick fucker in back.' I say, pointing my thumb to the back, past the dividing cage. The ride starts out in an uncomfortable silence. After a while, it turns into a pain in the neck. Literally. I feel a splitting pain for just a moment, and then red heat spilling down my neck, into my uniform. I'm getting dizzy, but the officer next to me steadies the car out, as we begin to decrease in speed. I look at him as I slump over to my door, vision fading out. My last sight in this world, another law enforcement officer wielding the simple pocket knife that murdered me. ' and to think I quit the old life. 'what a lousy way to kick the habit.