Home Coming

I’ve had an epiphany, and I want to share.

I’m working tonight.  It’s a quiet night both professionally and literally – there’s no chance of being harmed unless the metaphorical bus runs me down.  Hell, its not often you get time to post to Vox Massacre, while working.  Tonight working means little more than looking out of a window at a house full of sleeping people.  I've done my part, setting up this catastrophe.  Even when it all goes down I won’t be getting my hands dirty, other than by handling a pile of dirty cash, that is.

In fact, if I weren’t so fucking cold and wearing a dead man’s jacket, I’d call this money for nothing.  But in all honesty, it’s better than that.  This feels like a turning point for me; a pivotal moment. 

In the pocket of this jacket are two photos.  Lucy and Chelsey.  The photos are sentimental keep-sakes and are a lot more warming than this smelly old coat.  But of course they don’t have bullet holes in them.

Coincidence 1:  When I found out I was going back to the town of my childhood for this job I grabbed these two photos off a pin-board in my house.  I don’t know why, other than the name of this town resonates with the memory of these women.  Coming home made me want to re-examine them, to see how I’ve changed.  It’s stupid: checking unchanging photos of other people to monitor how I’ve changed.  I'm glad I brought them though, because Lucy and Chelsey are a part of this job.

Lucy broke my heart.  I kept her photo for years to remind myself how cruel love can be.  Young men are so melodramatic.  Now I can admit she didn’t so much break my heart as just stand still while I smashed my heart against her.  She was kind of funny looking: ‘Striking’ my mates called her, which is to say 'kind of ugly' but politely.  I’m not sure what I was trying to do, but that damage was definitely self-inflicted.  Young men are melodramatic and stupid.  What can I say?  It’s probably a good thing she broke my heart because she’s still here selling crack and speed to feed her own nasty little habits. Lucy the Tweaker!  No doubt I'd be doing the same.

Coincidence 2:  Imagine my surprise when I found out this job was staking out Lucy’s lab and flushing out the whole syndicate.  Things are going to get nasty in there, very soon.  As if being a whore, and a drug dealer isn’t enough!  She should have known not to tread on the toes of the local bikers, and she’s no chemist.  She has no one but herself to blame.  Now, apart from a little bit of nostalgia, the photo of Lucy makes me feel nothing. I guess I have changed there.

Ah, but the other photo… the other photo is clearly a piece of my future, not my past.  This fuzzy old snap of Chelsey can still make my head spin once again.  When I look at that face…  I can’t even reconcile what are faults against what is exquisite: those flowing brown locks; the chocolate brown eyes; the stumpy chin; and skull like a cinder block.  She moves with unspeakable grace with broad shoulders and chest which is both lop-sided and flat.  My god, she is beautiful.  Even when I last saw her, with her face contorted into a god-awful howl, I remember marveling at her magnificence.  

Coincidence 3:  I arrive in this cold, wet town and wander into the local St Vinnie’s.  I need something suitable for the local conditions, and there on the rack is this coat.  It’s the coat Clyde the Snide was wearing when he was murdered.  It still has the bullet holes in it.  I have absolutely no fucking idea who would peel an old shitty coat off a dead man, clean it and give it to charity, but there it was.  I got it really cheap and promised to darn over the “very large moth holes”.   It's not as warm as it looks, possibly due to the holes.  Clyde was, of course, Chelsey’s biker-overlord father.

In hindsight I shouldn’t have been around when she found her Old Man dead.  That was coincidence being a bitch.  But coincidence is smiling on me tonight, so I can finally forgive coincidence for that.

Clyde’s murder had nothing to do with me.  I was just a kid then, barely a criminal and not even close to being a killer.  Fuck, bikers shoot bikers. I was still puppy-eyed and trying to be charming: a fly-weight playground heavy.  I was lucky Clyde didn’t shoot me!  If for no reason other than it would make his Princess Chelsey unlikely to fuck my brains out, I would never kill the old prick even if I had the balls (which I didn't).  

This town, having the photos with me, Lucy’s suburban lab, this stinky bullet-riddled coat, doing a job for Clyde’s old chapter….They've all gotta be signs:  I believe I am supposed to find Chelsey.  It's the beginning of the end for me in this dirty job.  I’m getting out.

Oh, yeah.  Fuck, YES!

Right now I have no idea how she will react when I tell her all what I’ve been doing for these years, but I know – Christ, my entire existance suddenly seems to be built of nothing but this one piece of knowledge – that find her I will.  (I don’t think I’ll keep this coat though.  That would probably creep her out a bit too much:  “Hi honey, remember me? I’m a contract killer and criminal handy-man, but despite what you may think I didn’t kill your old man… well, yes actually, this is his jacket!”)

When this job is done I'll ask the bikers about the daughter of their ol’ chief.  I’m sure they’ll be able to give me a solid lead. For a price.  They’re sentimental and family oriented, bikers, so they’re sure to be keeping an eye on her, and I'm sure they'd like some of their cash back.  Once they’ve torn down Lucy’s set-up, with their drug dealing competition included, I’ll have a quiet word.  Then I’ll be on my way, off to find Clyde’s little girl, at last.

OK, we’re on.  As I write, here comes Lucy’s syndicate.  My work here is done, the trap is sprung.  I have a phone call to make, and a life to reclaim.

Good night!