In Little Lagos Layed an Old English Cross

      The asphalt was unforgiving that morning. It didn’t care that I was just walking to the store, it was going to try and take my shoes with every other step. Then the door tried to break me with its old world heft. VS was a bad choice for supper. In mid groan I heard pops. They didn’t register right away but I figured it out before I stepped on the welcome mat.
      I heard 5, Nicola tapped 6 on the counter. If gunshots are close it’s a draft notice but a couple blocks away, they’re a running gag. A weak incandescent bulb was shining over my head. It tried to show the paltry stock decorating the aisles behind me. The perishables had perished, everything else was getting dusty. All the good stuff was behind the swollen old proprietor in the stock room. That was smart, I’d probably just take it otherwise. He’d take from me, I’d take from him. We were simpatico.
      “Grape nuts, bra, milk.”
      I put down on the table what I thought fair.
      “You’ve got 10 packaged needles. I think that’s enough for milk and a brassiere.”
      Currency in my community is somewhat dynamic.
      “Could an eightball get me some grape nuts?”
      “Cocaine maybe but so little? Meth no, tweakers are … subsistence farming yes?”
      I remembered when this Tienda was Javier’s. Javier (who actually spoke Spanish) use to give me a tits discount. Nicola still looked, but I paid retail. Sometimes more.
      “I’ve got most of a Glock. No trigger, thats all.”
      “That’s shit. What’s a gun that can’t shoot.”
      “A trigger from a gun that can.”
      “I can shoot 8 times when you can’t shoot once. Worthless.”
      I wasn’t getting my grape nuts but I wasn’t letting this slight pass.
      “Well, you can shoot 8 muskets but if I get a trigger assembly, I can shoot 15 times before I reload. Which takes about 5 seconds.”
      “It’s good feature, but trigger is better feature.”
      I could only grudgingly accept that he was correct. 3 miles to the south, just out of Lower Celestia was the beginning of Portland. There sat Wang’s Emporium, where I could get everything I wanted and a Grandfather clock as a bonus. This was dreaming, I like everyone else in Little Lagos had no car. We had big fuck all square buildings full of people, we had guns and drugs, but cars? No. So locals shopped local.
      “I will have my grape nuts old man.”
      “Yes but not for that price… maybe something else?”
      “Are you suggesting?”
      “No.”
      He wasn’t. I was out of shape, way after puberty and he could have anyone around. I suddenly felt old and unfuckable. The room kept on talking without us, whirs, hums and little clicks babbled as Nicola stood on the other side of the counter, tapping. My hands were diving into a tote searching for absolutely nothing, stalling. Then suddenly angry French outside.
      “Old English shit, it’s 7am.”
      Old English starts where Little Lagos just shrugs and gives up. It’s a place where those who won’t have and those who don’t have squat together. Those who don’t have are soon to be lured by the sometimes working indoor plumbing and enticing hope of electricity.
      “Probably drugs.”
      Nicky spiked those few words with a gallon of jealousy.
      “Sugar.” My inner cynic used my tongue.
      “Sugar makes hope. Hope is better than drugs.”
      I was going to argue the finer points of hope and antibiotics but then I heard a rifle, and again. Something about Nicola’s face told me he wasn’t going to to help. I could’ve tried to get something out of his delinquent conscience but sadly, my better parts screamed a little louder than his and I was soon out of the door with the bra and the milk on the table. Outside, with not a shadow of a gunman, I found myself a corpse. All that anger, that life, and here I was stepping in it, my soles were dripping with it.
      He was a powerful little man, who may have looked like a towheaded Aryan angel a decade prior to our meeting before he got pocked and scarred. The wool of his tunic was coarse, soiled and unusable. There was a big crucifix around his neck and a Bulova that was quite still hanging off his likewise unmoving wrist. Promptly, they became mine and entered my bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I found a dog waiting his turn. I met his gaze. I’d give him his due once I took what I could. That’s how it goes, those who live get priority over those who don’t.
      AMO
      A minute earlier and I would have missed it but the dawn had come and there it was engraved on a beautiful sleek shiny metal box, with ear buds. If a man should know one bit of Latin, I guess thats not a bad bit. was almost giddy as I reached down for it. I was hoping to hear something good.
      “Onri? Onri!”
      Instead I found myself pointing a gun at a pretty little savage that was maybe 16. I couldn’t remember grabbing the glock. My finger had already pulled, impotently. She was unaware of the context, for all she cared I just didn’t like her. Slowly time returned to normal and the scene started to make sense. Man buys music for a girl, music goes away, man gets angry. I pointed at her and then the mp3 player.
      “Amo?”
      “Agostina.”
      Amo.
      I got up, and I walked his cross over to her. She would get more use out of it than I would. I gave her 3 rings too, that I didn’t know I’d taken. I kept the watch. I was going to tell her that I didn’t do it, that I could probably fix her music but I didn’t have the words. We just stood there.
      I’m ashamed to say I was still pining for grape nuts.

Anywho I try to make these so that they can stand on their own but.. here’s the first Dis story.Here’s the second one.

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