Now while these bells are darking my head, I’ll just admit: the men who left me to mourn the extinction of my son turned out to be holy and full of pious – and with my help now have several severed brothers face down in the street.
Who knew? But at least right here in our cities and shores, the future of hit squads is bright. We just need to drag a few judges behind us on a chain.
Look at me: there was never a sister so covered in flags. All the gang lords worship my dress and their minions bring me my vengeance covered in hot sauce. The last good cop out of town has nothing on me: just look at the foolish company of honest perverts he keeps.
And if you thought you knew me, you’d be wrong. I have a heart and the taste of blood on my tongue. I dream of pine boxes and slippery stones. All of my friends are black or else their whips and chains are passed out in the same wet alley where I was born.
We could move to the center of the boulevard. Or saw the legs off our hope. But what good would that do? I would still be here to catch a beating. You would still pray to clocks and pay brutes like me in crime coins to clean out your dirt.
Let me confess though: I like it. While you roll your life a reefer, I bribe the guards with flashlights, take a joy ride by the surf. It’s days like these when I shatter my violent vows. After all, every now and then: even my bullet must rest.