Barney Mancuso, dying fat fuck, with a rotten hole boring through his soul, rattled sourly along in the passenger seat of Jack "Faggot" Kersarge's Smartcar—You have got to be fucking kidding me. I'm going out in a Smartcar, my fat ass?
Barney had been the Narco Cop from Hell, so named by the dopers for his habit of whooping their ass and waxing Irishly philosophic while drunk—back when he could still get drunk that was.
Then he moved on to become a pretty good Homicide cop—earning the hatred of his colleagues by and large.
His wife had fired him after he had passed out drunk muff diving on her sister at the worst Christmas party in family history, who was of course already passed out drunk herself—making it look doubly wrong...
This was the final fuck-it day in the short, haggard life of Barney Mancuso. The darkie, towelhead wannabe who had whacked little Arbese was going to pay with his life, and this faɡɡot, twerp Kersarge was going tow rite al about it, making Barney seem slightly less the piece-of-shit he was...
He thought he recalled putting on some real clothes of his, but they kind of hung on him. Maybe he wasn't as fat as he supposed and it was just this car. He was wiping puke off of his chin as he rolled the window back up and the foul paste leant taste to his words as Kersarge looked at him worriedly. They were parked in an alley behind Monument Street over by Hopkins.
"What are we doing in this alley, Faggot?"
"You directed us here, Barney."
"Oh yeah, my spare badge and gun."
"What, you are retired—not even a cop, by definiti—"
The stream of heavy steaming vomit that hit his gay green polo shirt silenced Kersarge, who got out of the Smartcar in a sickening state, "Barney, my shirt, my car? What the fuck!"
Barney hobbled over to the back of the vacant where he had busted Lewis "Bling-Bling" Tate's face against the wall and loosed the brickwork. Later, ingeniously, as that douchebag Detective Brillo Pad, that back-talking dyke bitch, had been getting her lap dance from the blonde girl they hired for her birthday party, Barney had stolen her badge and backup gun, a nice snub nose .38, and hidden it here, behind these crumbling bricks, in this crumbling building, in this crumbling city—Yes!
He tore open the plastic storage baggie, clipped on the badge to his crookedly buttoned shirt, checked the cylinder and found six hanging judges seated in their cylindrical benches, and pocketed it.
He was walking back to the Smartcar with Kersarge, who was whining about toxic chemo vomit in his beautiful car you could park on a sidewalk—oh and now the faɡɡot was concerning about these two big darkies getting out of a conversion van behind them. Barney waved off the prattling faɡɡot and turned to look at fucking Richard Roundtree without the sunglasses and Isaac Hayes without the cool.
"What do you darkies want?"
Kersarge's voice sounded, "They want to get through the alley and we're parked in the way, Barn."
The two darkies were, however, upset about him noting their complexion and began talking shit, so he thrust the muzzle of the .38 through one splintering set of rotten teeth capped in gold and while that darkie fell out like bitch he pressed the muzzle into the groin of the Isaac Hayes knockoff and said, "You can have the little faɡɡot car. We're taking your van—now fuckoff!"
Soon he was seated in the A-Team van as Kersarge backed it down the alley whining about loosing his car, being kidnapped and the fact that you can't call African Americans darkies. In the meantime the two brothers were cussing and making a fuss about not being able to fit in the Smartcar, to which Jack Kersarge answered, "At least you have my keys—this fucking thing is hotwired!"
Barney then began to belly laugh and the pain almost sent him back to the Celtic Nile where he was serenely sober Pharaoh. As the searing pain overtook him he grabbed his side and Kersarge picked up speed as a third black man with a bat, an older guy with white hair who used to play on a TV show about an old guy having a heart attack in a junk yard while arguing with his smartass boy, began chasing them down the alley screaming about his conversion van! If only he had the strength to straighten up and shoot this old cuss he could make it a real crime, but the pain was too much.
He managed to say, "Take me to the Lexington Market. It's on the way. I need to fix this."
So on he rumbled, the agony of a god clawing its way out of his guts, keeping him company as he rode in style, in his Old Darkie Chariot, across the city that had shit in his mind's mouth for thirty years, on his sacred way to a reckoning with Black Superman, to avenge the killing of some cute hoodrat who probably would have stolen the Sacred Heart of The Virgin Mary if it were on display in mortal space.
And the agonized god's voice tolled like a cracked bell, "Onward, faɡɡot soldier—onward!"
