Smoking George In A Fight To Stand Urban Warfare: A Story About A Lost Fire Arm
Michael Carmen | 03.10.2006 18:53 | Culture | Indymedia | Social Struggles | Liverpool
Last September 20, the next day from the South stop over, to the downtown where George house was located were some cars parked alongside of Don Pedro Street and the motorcade. I thought that maybe it was the birthday of the guy because he usually like driving black cars so a lot of black cars were parading through the cross road where buildings of newspaper publications are open ‘til six or seven. I knocked at George’s front door and that pink color with varnish on the sides ‘til I knock my third then the door opened and it was him, a tall half American junky from Chicago and his bearded face. He invited me in and offered me the rocking chair opened the disk player and played bluegrass music from Germany. He smiled a little but frowned his face back as if he was like kidding about the early 8 ‘o clock visit. He offered me some opened bisquitz. The house was painted in blue but half part was green and the printed tiles of European design were of course acceptable not to mention that also dried flowers around the sala. The sofa were from province as he mentioned and that it was given to him by a godmother of one of his nephew. George went inside the storage room as he sneezes frequently checking out the barrel of his forty year old bazooka ammunition with some calibers given to him by his half brothers. The room was meshy noticeable that the house was at fifteen. He told me that witches from the seventies were hanging over the town that when some hippies came along offering gifts for the “Sin God” , he was only sixteen at that time now he’s turnin’ 40. A printed copy of the hippy era from George’s portfolio and his ID of associated press based in Chicago showed out from his aged brown envelope. The picking nose after he elucidated the story on the witchcraft. George also told us that the Police used mantras to kill witnesses to the tribunal court before the case creeps to the higher court. We went out to the backyard where the garden of all green leaves and some were hanged to the metal brace to the second roof. A small white dog awaits for the feed. The bench was low and he was a little high of good cannabis and he sneezes again. Two cups of coffee at the patio’s round table and still hot. It wet my CBGB shirt when it spilled from my lips. The half American called the gangs through phone as he settled the gangwar promising an event concert for consoling such grievances about the unfairness of the situation. I talked to the guy when George handed me over the cell phone and they said that there were no killing happened and gave his word that nothing like that will occure. So I supposed that Bigface and Jhonny Brat was lying about a murder.
An hour later, I decided that I should go back to the Port Area to pick up some relatives from the province. George sent me out of the hippy house and shook my right hand. His phone rang and answered it. He gave me the phone saying “it’s for you”. A guy on the phone told me that Bigface was shot dead this early morning. So I returned the phone back and hopped on a taxi. I remembered about the gun that Bigface carried when we were waiting for Jhonny’s black belter cousin. It was a 45 caliber pistol. Stainless and brand new. Bigface told me that it was given by his girlfriend hooker and that it was steeled from a cop costumer of the 2nd street’s sex den. When I was along the boulevard to the Port Area in the taxi, I realized to check if the call about Bigface was true. So I told the cab driver to take me to Malate near Slap Nose Hotel. An hour and twenty minutes later and I saw Jhonny again smoking newly lighted cigar. Haggard and stinky that he would realized afterwards that he looked like an old man in the age of 19. Somebody called my name from the right side of the planted bench when I heard a shot. Then I saw Jhonny lying on the pavement with full of blood all over his body. Also the hole on his head. He was dead with a gun in his belt
Michael Carmen
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