One Drip at A Time

Under the cold night rain, I could feel the sense of fear tingling from my brain.

The sensation I have experienced from times to times. No matter how many times I have done this.

Sticks on my hand, I rush over the dumpster by the dock. My friend said I was a fool because the deal is real and I was just this Brooklyn boy with limping right foot.

You must be wondering, why stick, no it is not there to help me walk, it is my weapon of choice. I have never been fancy the big gun. No effort. One click and you'd be gone.

Once I was saying that this state is only temporary. That I need to make one thing right and escape, one thing and I am done for. An exit plan, so to say.

But I am wrong. This job. This nerve wracking job, has been embedded to me. I have been quite enjoying this job for a while. It is like smoking, once you start you will feel the nicotine kicks your nerve, you will feel dizzy for a while, but you will get used to it, craving for some more until you cannot live with it.

That's who I am now, a vigilante. A vigilante with a stick. Beating up people, the junkie, mostly, for stealing from small Pakistani owned shop in the corner.

And tonight, I gotta feel the warmth of blood dripping from my hand.