The year was 2001 and we were 23, full of dreams, Latin/Italian kings - ready to rule the world and fuck every girl. Five nights a week my cousin A____ and I, our crew in tow, would strut into the club, belligerent and drunk, acting like big shots with huge cocks. We were the buzz around town. We knew everyone who was anyone, who was everyone, and they, in turn, knew us. They all hated us and wanted to shoot us because they wanted to be us. But to our faces, always quick to praise us; always ready to give a hug, kiss our rings, and plant a Judas kiss on a cheek...I like to think because they feared us.
We walked the thin red line every night. We’d pull up to the clubs on our bikes: sleeveless, ripped, and covered in tats. Our socks full of pills, ice nine, and small packets of smack; for the right price we’d guarantee a good time. When we’d enter the floor the crowd would part like the Red Sea - our kingdom of hypocrisy we’d oversee. Every night we’d probably fight with some drunk-piece of shit little bitch in desperate need to get hit. Just like every night we’d share our beds with someone new, or the old stand-by screws. A lonely life, true, but when you’re young it’s all so new and so…right.
I’m older now and things haven’t really changed. Except now I may have a few more gray hairs and fine lines, more tats, a rap sheet, and probably more holes in my brain. I often wonder if things WILL ever change? Will I ever settle down and find me a wife? How about an egg donor? Will I ever have a son to teach how to fight - a baby boy to share my wisdom with? Hah! What wisdom would that be: the useless wisdom of the streets and the scene? Will I teach him the fine art of being a fiend, being broke and a joke? Will he turn out to be a loser…just like me?
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