Free Nothing by Barry Crowther Page A

groans. He is in a lot of pain. Lot of pain.
    A girl screams.
    I look up as white-teeth is upon me. He grabs my shoulder as I lean across Black-Whitey. I grab the hand of white-teeth and break his thumb. He is in a lot of pain. He jumps backwards and around erratically. Hopping like Tigger. Holding his fucked up hand with his good hand. He screams.
    Fuuuuck. Fuuuuck.
    He takes off between cars and onto Sunset Boulevard. Screaming. Fuuuuck. I listen to the night as it fades. I unclip the rope. Step back in line. The small man with the clipboard is gone. The cops won't be far. I need to be away from here.
    A red light flashes my eyes. Someone I need to know about is here. It could be the cops, the line of people have moved away from me. I stand out in the crowd. Black-Whitey is passed out. Terry the hobo is gone. A white Lincoln Navigator pulls into one of the exclusive parking slots near the entrance. I have no time. I unclip the rope. Step over Black-Whitey and march over to the Lincoln. It's chrome. It's white. It fits.
    Through the blacked out glass I see lights blink inside then disappear as the engine shuts down. A door opens on the drivers side. I go there first. I want to see a black guy wearing all white. He'll point out the other guy, I don't have all fucking night to see him sidle up to the target. I see a leg poke from the lower edge of the door. It's a sneaker and blue jeans. Shit. I change tack quickly and swing around towards the passenger side. As soon as I am out of the line of sight I pull the piece from my waistband. The passenger door is already wide open by the time I get there. I look inside, one of the Colombians, the one with the printed shirt is sat counting hundred dollar bills onto his thigh.
    His eyes widen as he meets mine and recognition kicks in. His eyes then move from my face to my hand and then back again. He stops counting. Frozen. I speak.
    Lost count? Get the fuck out.
    A red light flashes across my eyes. A smell I know, a smell I'm familiar with hits me before the muzzle nestles against the base of my skull.  The Colombian with the printed shirt smiles and spits in my face. I raise my arm, the one without the piece and wipe the spittle away with the crook of my elbow. My hand forms a shape.
    Blood. Brown blood. Brain matter. Skull casing. Bone. Plasma. Fluids. Fragments. Splatter against the white shiny paintwork. I raise the hand with the .22 in it. Pop. Pop. I put 2 rounds into the face of the Colombian. His partner minus face and half his head is slumped at my feet.
    I signal to Largo. We've been fucked. Leave. Now.
    I step over the Colombian, his body toppled against the runner of the Cadillac. The moon is white like bone. Blood looks black. My canvas shoes are matted with black blood. A small clump of flesh with black hair sprouting from it has attached to the band across my foot. I use the other foot to scrape it off.
    Don't fuckin' move a muscle.
    Old Cop has a Saturday Night Special trained on me. Iverson walks past him and grabs the .22 from my grip. He slaps the cuffs on, kinda rough and leads me away.
    The line is still there. Small man with clipboard claps his hands. The line cracks into an unscripted blend of applause and hollers. One guy cheers for the good guy cops. I notice that none of them have caught sight of the Colombian blood bath. They are cheering for Black-Whitey who is being carted on a gurney with paramedics as I'm being led away. No one has checked the blood running into the drains yet. Even crass Californians don't cheer stone cold murder.

HISTORY UNTRIMMED

    Iverson pushes the top of my head into the back seat. Old Cop climbs in behind the wheel and tells me with a laugh in voice.
    You're gone after this little show. Long fuckin' gone.
    Iverson gets into the passenger seat. Old Cop guns the ignition. I stare ahead. I can feel the steel of the handcuffs biting into my wrists. It's a good feeling. It's pain. A gnawing pain that feels like it's cutting me. I tell