New dog meet old trick.

They say the first time is always the hardest, some days I might agree. However, today... today is the first time I proactively committed a violent crime against a human being. It was the easiest, most natural thing I've ever done. Am I evil? I really don't feel "evil". Hell, I don't even feel all that guilty. I mean, it's new to me, I'll be the first to admit it and maybe, MAYBE it's just like sex that first couple times. You know, you feel a little naughty at first but you're REALLY enjoying yourself so you keep at it and then... well then the years pass and you still go through the motions if chemistry is there but after awhile it kinda feels you're just looking for an excuse to get dressed up and spend some cas-

ANYWAYS! The crime, my gods, the freedom of the expression, the sincerity of the act, what a head rush! I can taste it still, smell it, feel it... well literally. The aches and pains are still there. The cut and bruise on my right eye, still there. The bruises all over my chest, still there. And that slightly tangy smell of mace that burns like the dickens when sweat runs down my forehead into said cut and eye, it's still there too. In retrospect the whole mugging thing could have gone smoother but hey! I've got 63 dollars and 31 cents in my pocket, a "Molotov Double Bacon Cheddar Burger" in my belly and I've had about as much coffee as one man can drink before the waitress complains to the manager.

Life is good. Well, better than it was before, better than being just a burnt out military flunky, working dead end jobs. A proverbial outcast from the outcasts; Too smart to buy in and too dumb to sell out.

Listen real close now. That was me yesterday. Today I'm someone new, today I'm something new and now... I'm not buying and I'm not selling... I'm Taking.

(Beautifully streaming, like a frantic confession into a payphone that the telecom company forgot to rip out. Welcome to the Rain Dogs.)

“So I heard about this cat that lived down at the foot of Randolph. Or should I say this dog, ‘cause that’s what everybody said he was. Like: ‘You talking about Old Jim? Shit, he’s just a dog.’ Anyway, I heard just the other night that he got lit-up and ripped-apart by some new-kid-in-town looking guy. Heard he didn’t even flinch when he did it, neither. He took his wallet and money and all, right there in front of everybody.

Man, people in this town, they're just a bunch of opinionated cowards, you know? Nobody even did a thing about it. Not that guy, though. He's no coward – least that’s what I heard. ‘Cause shit, Old Jim? He was a dog.”

((Thank you for the feedback, its so nice to get sometimes. I also really dig your written response and appreciate it.))

It's a nice little place here, the neon lights, the slightly worn vinyl seats. It's the kinda joint that you come to for the rest of your life. Be it to share the nights story or lick whatever wounds you may acquire. The smoke hangs like a silk veil for each booth. A gray curtain that hides the back stage culinary catastrophes and bad manners. I didn't even know you can smoke in a restaurant in this town. I like that, maybe twice as much if you can't.

I'm nothing more than a silhouette against the street to these people and hey, that's alright with me... for now. A waitress walks past and I politely touch her hand. I give her the best smile I can muster through the stiffness and swelling.

"Pardon me mam, what's this place called?"

It's amazing what one misses when you're drunk off adrenaline.