The Ruin

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He looked down upon the now empty street, took a long hard draw from his premium cut Habana cigar, and grinned.  ” This town is my town. Ain’t nobody fucking with me no more.” He was filled with a sense of reinstituted confidence and felt more alive than he had in years. His hair was perfectly comed backwards, every straw of hair perfectly in place. The black sunglasses covered his eyes as he gazed down  in the city he now called his own. Frans had made his way to New York shortly after his 19th birthday. As he’d grown tierd of school and being a “regular Joe”, he sought something more. He wanted to own everything, to have it all. That dream was now, every dimension of it, fulfilled. Soon after arriving in NY he had risen to power. Starting his own family, La Cosa Nordstrom, disguised as a laundry firm, he started implementing brutal guerilla warfare upon the other gangs inhabiting New York. His wit, intelligence and disregard for common rules and moral code led his family to greatness within a matter of weeks. One by one, like bricks in a bizarre game of Domino, the rest of the gangs fell. There were only one left - the world famous Sicilian Mob, led by none other than Don Siliente. He turned around from the window and now faced his appartment. There, inside the circle of handmade Italian leathercouches, a man laid tied up on the Moroccan carpet he’d flown in a couple of weeks earlier. The man was shaking, terrified and scared. He wore a black suit, now drenched in blood and sweat and his eyes looked with terror at Frans. This was Don Siliente. A man once so respected in New York that not even the police, or the mayor himself, would touch him. Now he begged for his life. Like a dog. Frans walked up to the man, took of his shades, and broke up in a smile. ” I have taken your city. I have taken your men. Now I, will take your life.” The man screamed and made futile attempts to escape his appending doom. Frans pulled out his gold embroided 45. cal and calmy took aim at Siliente. ” Do you wanna now what the best part is? he said. I’ll blow your brains out right now, I go into my bedroom, make love to your wife and sleep like a baby. I’m a cold blooded motherfucker. This means nothing to me. You are nothing. I am making this world a favor. One less prick to worry about.” He laughed, hard and sinister. Two shots rang out and the appartement went silent. DONT EVER FUCK WITH FRANS NORDSTRÖM. EVER.

He looked down upon the now empty street, took a long hard draw from his premium cut Habana cigar, and grinned. 

” This town is my town. Ain’t nobody fucking with me no more.”

He was filled with a sense of reinstituted confidence and felt more alive than he had in years. His hair was perfectly comed backwards, every straw of hair perfectly in place. The black sunglasses covered his eyes as he gazed down  in the city he now called his own.

Frans had made his way to New York shortly after his 19th birthday. As he’d grown tierd of school and being a “regular Joe”, he sought something more. He wanted to own everything, to have it all. That dream was now, every dimension of it, fulfilled.

Soon after arriving in NY he had risen to power. Starting his own family, La Cosa Nordstrom, disguised as a laundry firm, he started implementing brutal guerilla warfare upon the other gangs inhabiting New York. His wit, intelligence and disregard for common rules and moral code led his family to greatness within a matter of weeks. One by one, like bricks in a bizarre game of Domino, the rest of the gangs fell. There were only one left - the world famous Sicilian Mob, led by none other than Don Siliente.

He turned around from the window and now faced his appartment.

There, inside the circle of handmade Italian leathercouches, a man laid tied up on the Moroccan carpet he’d flown in a couple of weeks earlier. The man was shaking, terrified and scared. He wore a black suit, now drenched in blood and sweat and his eyes looked with terror at Frans. This was Don Siliente. A man once so respected in New York that not even the police, or the mayor himself, would touch him. Now he begged for his life. Like a dog.

Frans walked up to the man, took of his shades, and broke up in a smile.

” I have taken your city. I have taken your men. Now I, will take your life.”

The man screamed and made futile attempts to escape his appending doom. Frans pulled out his gold embroided 45. cal and calmy took aim at Siliente.

” Do you wanna now what the best part is? he said. I’ll blow your brains out right now, I go into my bedroom, make love to your wife and sleep like a baby. I’m a cold blooded motherfucker. This means nothing to me. You are nothing. I am making this world a favor. One less prick to worry about.”

He laughed, hard and sinister. Two shots rang out and the appartement went silent.

DONT EVER FUCK WITH FRANS NORDSTRÖM. EVER.

Blue Bird


there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

- Charles Bukowski

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