excerpt from "The Real Badge of Courage"

Shallow clouds hung heavy in the night sky, carelessly clumped together like a bachelors bed sheets. Rain misted to the ground dampening the wickless thirsty street. The road stretched on quiet and comfortless, eerie and alone. Streetlights glistened off the wet pavement concealing the hardened face of this city. I held my arms tight to my body. My hands tucked away in the pockets of my black canvas jacket. The only sound was the soft slapping of my boots in the puddles as I walked. The night was complete in its darkness and solitude. I walked those downtown streets for what seemed like hours.

I often walked the streets and allys of downtown to be alone. I don't know why I alienate myself. I felt isolated. I've work so hard all my life for nothing and nothing is exactly what I've got. Sometimes it's fuck everyone, and other times it's fuck me. The more I see the more I hate. I hate the way people treat each other. People pass me and they stare straight through me.

Across the street I spotted a dry place to sit down. Without breaking pace I crossed the street and walked over to a small two person park style bench. Horizontal wood slats with blistered and flaking lacquer mirrored my haggard soul. The bench sat beneath a sun bleach green awning of a store front. The shop was a mom and pop style coffee house with a faux antique decor. Shops like that make me sad. They are placed in the ground floor corner suites of skyscrapers as a part of some urban redevelopment project meant to give downtown a hometown ambiance. The American dream exploited for all it's worth.
I sat down on the bench and pulled out a cigarette from my pack. I placed the butt between my lips and search a moment for the Zippo my brother gave me on my last birthday. I slid it out of my jeans pocket. A quick flick of the flint wheel and the wick ignited. I lit the tip of my cigarette and inhaled deeply. In the silence of the night I could hear the crackle of the tobacco as the cherry caught fire. The smoke seemed extraordinarily thick in the chilly night air. I leaned back and let the nicotine flood my blood stream. I drew the cigarette away from my lips and hid the lighter in my jacket. I leaned forward and propped myself on my knees with my elbows. I looked solemnly at my feet. Those old boots I wore had definitely seen better days. The toe leather was scuffed away and the signature yellow stitching was frayed and fuzzy. The waffle maker soles had all but been worn through. I logged a lot of miles in those boots, but thinking back I realized I had never really been anywhere.
As I sat in the dark under that faded green cover, I looked out at the sleeping giants that towered around me. I sucked the last drag of my cigarette and flicked the butt into the street. It sailed through the air, end over end, like a Chinese acrobat. I paused a moment to hear it hiss as it died in a puddle.

I didn't real care much for this rain, but the wet streets in all their naked glory gave me comfort. Up ahead I spied a little street marquee that read Dickey’s Pub hanging above a steel door and a gas light sign. I needed a drink. Inside, the patrons all had the same life hardened faces. Only the degree of desperation set them apart from each other. An old black man sat alone in a circle booth to my right. His wide brimmed hat hid his eyes. A cigarette hung haphazardly from wiry fingers. A glass of whiskey rested motionless on the table in front of him. I couldn't tell if he was asleep, or a wake, or dead.

Along the far wall sat a May-December couple. The old man wore a knock-off Tommy Bahama style Hawaiian shirt and khaki slacks. His arm was wrapped around the young woman's waist as he kissed on her neck. She stared off into space the way someone does while waiting for a bus. The man was old enough to be a grandfather, and the girl was too bored with him to care.

A small group swarmed around the billiard table bathing in cheap booze and flattering cheaper women. There were five of them, three brutes and a pair of leathery cougars. One of the men was thick from an obvious misuse of anabolic-human growth hormones. Raised and jagged veins streak like mountain ranges across the landscape of his neck. He flexed and postured for the two older women. Skin dangled from the women like soggy bread on a sandwich. Their tits spilled out of blouses and their belly fat overflowed their jeans. The other two men shot a game of nine ball. One was a loud mouth chubby bastard. He seemed to make it a point to swear as often as possible. The other had a slight muscular build. His hair was frosted and styled in a chaotic mess.

In the middle of the floor ran a divider wall. On the far side sat a group of middle aged men in matching blue shirts. They sat with their backs to the door and the light in the bar obscured their faces.

The barkeep was a fat, bald sonofabitch with a greasy face. He leaned on the bar watching a static replay of a baseball game. I sat down at the bar. My shoes pealed from the concrete floor. He eyeballed me and I motioned for a beer. The bar sank from an amber glow. Dank and desperate, this place looked how I felt. The bartender leaned into talk. His breath smelled of cheese and scotch. Jeff was his name. He told me how he would take home brawds and fuck them in filthy ways. The way this guy looked, he was either slipping them roofies or he was paying for it. My guess was it was a little of both. Jeff was a disgusting wretch of a human, and the last thing I needed was a visual of this guy fucking.

The thickest brute walked up on my left. He ordered a fresh round of drinks for his parlor gang. He turned into me as he stepped away and bumped my shoulder, spilling beer on my sleeve. He said nothing, not even an apology. As he walked back I said "Excuse you." with a noticeable emphasis on the sarcasm. 
"EXCUSE YOU!?" He answered back with a raised voice.
"No," I replied "Excuse YOU."
"YOU LOOKIN' FER A PROBLEM MUTHA FUCKA" He shouted. His two pals perked up and began to advance in my direction, pool cues in hand. "I SAID SUMTHIN' TA YA BITCH! WHAT? YA CAN'T HEAR NOW!" He stepped into me flaring his chest into the back side of my shoulder. I didn't turn around. "OH I SEE, YOU SOME KIND OF PUSSY!"
"No, that’s not it." I said in a low voice. He leaned in. 

 "What was that pussy" he said, lowering his voice and matching my tone. He leaned a little further to get in my face. I grabbed my bottle and smashed it over his head. He stumbled back a step or two. As quickly as I could I drove the broken end of the bottle deep into his neck. He fell back trying to grab for his bloody face, gasping for air. His buddies ran at me.