What a Wonderful World:An Excerpt from Murderland Part 1: H8

I.
Sometimes he has the courtesy to wear shades. There is something oh-so-thrilling about making the asshole behind the desk feel like losing his lunch, but this time he doesn’t. This time, he is wearing the shades, but it isn’t quite courtesy, no, he doesn’t really know the meaning of the word. He does this so the man will be able to look at him, and he’ll be able to look down over them and cause drama, cause the man’s blood to turn to ice. He waits for the question that bothers him most to do it.
“So, Jack, what made you want to do what you do now?”
He waits for it. He’s been working on his timing for awhile. 3, 2, 1…0. He always includes the zero when he counts down, and that’s when he goes. Down come the shades, and the surgically enlarged mandibles expand into a smile that other mouths are incapable of.
“Well, Richard, all the cowboy and astronaut slots were filled up.”
He smiles, although he stares through time, looking through the crack in the closet door to see a room full of old boxes, neglected tools and dusty books. The place where they put the forgotten things. He hears the squeal of joy in the distance, knowing his mother is lifting it into the air or tickling it. He hears the front door open and the heavy footsteps of his stepfather. Only a few hours until everybody goes to bed and his mother brings up a little tray of food. Why live when you don’t exist? He watches himself close his eyes and pretend that nothing is there, but he knows when he opens them the closet and the family and the baby will be there. If he closed his eyes on the set, the talk show would still be there, the audience would still be there, the Sun, big burning zero betrays its nature. We can only do what we can. There is less and less every day, someday, some wonderful day…
II.
The pimp likes the prophet, but the prophet is never sure about the pimp. The prophet opens the box, and the pimp smiles. He genuinely wants to hug the old man, although the stench is nigh unbearable. The pimp claps his hands, and the girl brings a stack of papers. The prophet looks them over, reads words that nobody else knows are there and nods his approval.
“Will this help?” asks the pimp, who genuinely wonders, although the old man’s box is worth several hundred dollars.
“We can only do what we can,” says the prophet. He knows hundreds of others think the same thing.
III.
Stupid fucking clowns. King shit Kyle springs his swordcane and Joey can’t help but sigh. Joey draws his knife and tries to let them know he means business with his eyes. The Gacys aren’t armed. Who would have expected them to be. They’re big, but they’re not armed Their leader looks his boys over and looks Kyle’s boys over and knows sure as mama’s monthlies they’re dusties if they even bother. Joey knows that Kyle just wants to make a mess though, if he wants to pomp he should go ahead and pomp, find some sweetbait make meatloaf. The tophat falls over Kyle’s eyes as he advances. Joey can’t help but laugh. Mr. Badass Ripkid leader madeup as the scourge of Whitechapel thinks he can stack the dusties but he can’t even wear his fuckin’ hat right. It seems for a second like a stupid way of life, but how else are you gonna feel free? So fuck ‘im. Go along with it. Swallow your pride. Kyle’s pathetic, but we can only do what we can.