Charlestown…

I’m still in fuckin’ Charlestown.

The smell of cat piss raids my nostrils, as a baby’s screams storm my ears.

My head thumps in rhythm with my heart as the smells and sounds of this cheap apartment collide to drag me from the fade.

The soothing darkness is backed into a corner by the trespassing sun.

“You still ain’t up?”, She asks me, in that annoying accent. “Getcha fuckin’ ass up and outta here before I call Ma and tell her you’re in town.”

I growl and bear my teeth, a weary dog responding to another rolled up newspaper.

“Oh fuck you, Eddie.” She laughs. “Go get a job, you fuckin’ bum. “

Becky throws something at me. It bounces off of my head. She falls into hysterics, then heads back to her room. I smell shit, faint at first.

“What the fuck is that smell, Beck?!” I wonder, the weight of my head like an anvil, crushing the pillow.

She laughs. The smell has gone from faint, to strong, to offensive. I sit up and feel the object roll off me onto the floor.

“You..” I whisper in amazement, the sheer audacity of her actions slowing their registration.

I spy the ominous roll of cloth, plastic, and paper, the notorious white bulb that is unmistakable in its formation.

“FUCKIN DIAPAHS, BECK?!”

She laughs.

“You’re supposed to be the mature one!” I argue, the volume turned up to eleven.

Her cackling is maddening. I whip the diaper at her door like Curt Shilling, the thud indescribably satisfying. For a moment I am Charlie Sheen fucking a hooker made of cocaine.

“The fuck was that?” , she calls out from behind her stained barricade. I replace her dimming laughter with my own. “The fuck did you do, Eddie?”

“Looks like somebody murdered Count Chocula in front of your fuckin’ door!”

Content with my retribution, I grab my essentials and sprint out the door
before she has a chance to counterattack with a fresh Huggie.

The hallways of this death trap reek of decay, the years of Gen X’s neglect now manifesting itself in the form of carcinogenic inhalants, the asbestos and black mold hovering behind me, like some dirty Rican soaked in cheap cologne. I hold my breath and quicken my pace, eager to suck in a breath of air that isn’t filled with the Reaper’s dirty coughs. I nearly kick the exit open when I reach it, exhaling and pulling in some sweet Boston air with the urgency a Jersey hoodrat escaping a Great White concert. Moisture in the air is typical this time a year. Reminds me of the overcast skies I’d resent as a kid, playing street hockey, praying for another minute of escape before God took drained his cock on my bliss. Back then I was happy, another Irish kid in another Irish neighborhood with no way of escaping without a hockey stick in my hand. I was fucking good. I had a wrist shot that made Gretzky look inaccurate and a knack for being in the right place at the right time. I could do it now if it wasn’t for this fucking arm.

Merely acknowledging it in my mind immediately sets the trail ablaze, like the fuse on a stick of TNT.

I trace down the outside of it with two fingers to ease the annoyance without making it worse. Some days I catch myself tracing it without realizing it, trying to figure out how I ended up with this thickly-tissued Ethernet cable running down my bicep.

As I walk down towards the gym, I call up Caty. It takes her a few rings, but she answers. She always answers for big bro.

“Hey Collin,” She whispers, her voice faint, her words unformed.

“You pull another double shift?”

“Triple. Hospital is short staffed.”

“You’re a saint on Earth, sis,” I laugh. “You need to start getting comped like one.”

“Most saints died poor, or they were executed.”

“Ahhh, I could never get ridda you that easily.”

She laughs.

“What are you doing today?” she asks. “You wanna go catch a flick?”

“Can’t. I gotta go train.”

“You sure? It’s my only day off this week,” she insists. My arm burns like Shia Laboef’s conscience when he commits plagiarism. I try to ignore it.

“I love ya, but I gotta go train. Fuckin’ Eric won’t push me unless I’m in there every day.” I check the scar to make sure it isn’t tearing. I’ve never felt it burn this intensely. It’s practically screaming at me, it’s voice like magma and razors.

“Yeah, yeah. Go roll around with your friends in your underwear and let your little sister go to the movies by herself.”

“Maybe tonight. I gotta see what Colleen is doin’ first,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to mask my discomfort. I rub my arm against my torso and try to focus on the conversation, the pain waving at me, begging for attention. It’s about as ignorable as Kate Upton pulling her ass cheeks apart. “She’s gonna bust my balls if I don’t take her out.”

Silence from my sister.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she mumbles.

“Caty…”

“You already know we don’t like her, Eddie,” she admits. Caty isn’t the confrontational type, either. She’s more of a “deflect all potential conflict away with humor or silence” type.

“I don’t really like her either,” I laugh.

“Yeah,” she sighs. That’s about all I’m gonna get out of her on the matter.

“Look,” I start. “I’m gonna go get my gym on, get some training on, and then me and Colleen are gonna come pick you up and take you to see whatever shitty Cameron Diaz movie is out. Cool?”

She hangs up on me, probably laughing to herself. Hilarious. I barely notice that my arm’s stopped itching.

I open the door to the gym, hit by a blast of old sweat and testosterone, the kind of stench that you can’t wash out of your gym shorts unless you use a flamethrower. It’s as if the sense of competition becomes ingrained in the fabric.

“The fuck you been?” Eric asks, his voice like brakes grinding. He doesn’t bother looking over towards me, from high on his pedestal, standing on the ring apron, watching some new guys try to figure out how to shoot a double leg.

“No, that’s not it you dumb bastards!” he yells with disgust, his entire head glowing red, like a weakened boss in a Nintendo game. “Fuckin-“
He finally looks over at me.

“Get your ass in the ring now,” he exclaims, a wad of pleghm shooting out.

I drop my bag and roll in, barely standing up before Eric the Red shoots a double leg takedown on me and drops me on my head. He can barely stand up afterwards, and reaches out to me to pull him up. I grab my nuts and try to clear my head instead, a disrespectful sentiment that sends the old Pollock into hysterics.

“That,” he huffs, “is how you shoot a double-fucking-leg-fucking-takedown.”

He waddles back over to his spot then looks at me.

“The fuck you staring at? Get to fucking work!”

An agonizing, energy depleting hour later, my legs are barely working and I’ve puked twice. I might puke again, but it’s going to be my organs coming out. I got nothing left.

“One more round!” Eric yells. My training partners don’t answer the bell, although I begrudgingly shuffle to the middle of the ring, arms protecting my hips, ready to grapple.

“That’s balls!” Eric yells, pointing at me. “There’s two of you, and one of him, and he’s whoopin’ your asses, AND FUCKING he’s still ready to go.”

They look at me, defeated.

“That’s it for the day boys. Eddie, come here.”

I shuffle to the corner, and Eric slaps me in the face gently, his reward to me for working my ass off. I rub my sweaty forehead on his t-shirt, eliciting a sound from him that can only be described as “Old curmudgeon”.

“I got some good news for you, kid. You’re signed.”

“I am?”

“The fuck’s a matter with your ears? I fucking said your fucking signed, dumb shit. You’ve got a match next fucking week.”

“How’s the pay?” I ask. He slaps me.

“Mother fucking Mary, Mother of Christ you are fucking stupid!”

“Right,” I whisper, my head down.

“This is an opportunity, period. You’re gonna go out there, and you’re gonna show them that you’re the baddest motherfucker alive.”

“Yes, sir.”
He snorts and spits, missing the trash can, grunting when it splatters on the floor

“You’re gonna wrestle under your own name, and you’re gonna walk out to that fucking Shitting in Boston song.”
He’s talking about Dropkick Murphy’s rendition of Shipping Up to Boston, a punk song the rest of the country is sick of, but that Boston residents seem to break into every time they have a pint in their hand.

“Eric, that’s hack.”

Another slap.

“Jesus Titty Fucking Christ do you wanna make money or not, E?”
I shrug, afraid to defend my artistic integrity, as if I have any.

“You do! So you need to fucking brand yourself. You’re from fucking Boston! Boston is H-O-T FUCKING HOT right now. Thank Ben Buttflap or whatever the fuck his name is!”
I smirk.

“You gonna make me have shamrocks on my ass and wear green too?”

He tries to slap me but I evade, and he has all the speed of molasses rolling down a hill.

“Come the fuck here! You deserve this one!” He yells at me with a smile on his face.

“Thanks so much for everything, Eric,” I say earnestly. “You’re truly the father I never had.”

“Awe, don’t be such a . I’ll see you tomorrow.”

____________________________________________________

Fallujah.

I’m back in fuckin’ Fallujah.

I’m clearing a house, rifle at the ready. We’ve got intel that KSM might be here, hiding in a hidden room, cowering behind a wall in a hut. Poor little KSM, the mastermind of the 9/11 attacks is being hunted and is public enemy number 2 in the U.S. I walk steadily, silently, following the line with my team, covering the space, slicing the pie.

We reach the bookcase. My gut drops as a inspect it. A tall, wide, dark, the Shaq of bookcases. It’s top shelf filled, save for two spots, like the black eyes of a shark, and we’re it’s next meal.

“Three,” the team leader counts. My heart is beating, thumping - drums in the rain forest.

“Two,” he follows. I take a deep breath through my nose, steadying my hands. It’s fuckin’ Jumanji in my chest.

“One!” he screams, and two teammates bring it down. We raise our guns, ready for a fight. Instead we find an open doorway, a small light illuminating a family hiding behind, the eye of Allah watching over them in the darkness.

“That’s not KSM!” our team leader yells, comparing the man to the picture in his hand. The father holds his hands high in the air. The children cry, comforted by the woman, her figure reminiscent of a ghost from Scooby-Doo. Her entire body shrouded from head to toe in black cloth that seems blacker than the seventh circle of hell. Her only defining characteristic is her eyes. They’re green, an impossible shade of jade, shining like gems next to a three alarm fire.

“GET THE FUCK DOWN!” the team leader screams. I keep my weapon trained on the father as he starts to lower his hands, speaking Arabic, unintelligible to us. He’s mumbling something over and over, getting louder and louder. He puts his hands on his wife’s shoulders and screams “ALLAHU AKBAR” as she raises her fist and presses.....

Black.

I’m in Fallujah. I should be on my back, smothered by wood and bits of bone, and covering me like a worm in a cemetery. My gear is gone, my rifle sucked in to the void. I look down at my feet, no longer filling boots, but black loafers.
The father is in front of me, his chest a mangled combination of veins, tendons, and bloody bits, held together only by my imagination.

“It is God’s will,” he says, pointing to his right. “You have much left to do.”

I look where he’s pointing, time moving slowly, my vision blurry, my arm throbbing. I look down at it, the shrapnel returned to my flesh, where I found it after the explosion.

“I’m fuckin’ dreaming again,” I say to myself, this nightmare a repeat of a show I seem to catch every night at two in the morning. I’m tired of this same fuckin’ episode over and over again. How many times do they need to play the one with the Soup Nazi?

“Please, somebody!” I hear a woman’s voice from somewhere in the darkness, a new storyline I’ve yet to discover. “A new episode?” I wonder aloud, curiosity overcoming fear and guilt. I realize it’s originating from the direction he was pointing. I see nothing but embers, fireflies in this pitch black void, swirling like trash caught in a windstorm.

I push my way forward, the screams of the woman still somewhere at my twelve. A street light appears in front of me, the light shining straight down. The girl screams again, crawling backwards through the light, trying to evade her pursuer. Popcorn appears in my hands, as I take a seat on the leather chair that fades in. “I love murder mysteries!”

He pushes forward, the hood covering his face, his shadow casting down on the victim. Her short, black hair is clumped, gelled together by blood.Her attacker prolongs her terror, savoring every moment. Though I can’t see his face, I know he’s smiling.

“Please, no!” she begs.

“Run bitch!” I shout, dropping the popcorn. My arm still tucked at my side, I feel a quick stab of pain shoot from my finger to my shoulder, Dale Earnhardt racing up my nerves, crashing into the walls. “Get the fuck up and run!”

He doesn’t look at me; neither of them do.

“HEY!” I scream. He stops, glances towards me, but doesn’t acknowledge me. He pulls back his hood.

“What the fuck?” Is all I’m able to get out before he begins to stab the girl in her chest repeatedly and rhythmically. I’m reminded of Will Ferrell banging on a cowbell. My conscience takes over, and I am no longer a spectator. I try to intervene, to do anything, but I can’t move. I’m encased in carbonite. I scream at him, beg him to stop, trapped under ice as he brutalizes this poor girl. Her legs twitch, her body convulses, and finally she stops moving. Her existence has been extinguished.
Satisfied, he stands up and takes a deep breath, absorbing her soul as it leaves her body, her wispy spirit sucked in through his nostrils. He stops suddenly, then looks back towards me. He pulls his hood back up, and I forget his face as if I’ve never seen it.

Everything goes black again. He’s still out there, watching me. waiting for me to move first, so he can ambush me in the void. The hairs on my arm stand up, like a million soldiers on watch, waiting for Charlie. I hold my breath, but my heart thumps in my chest like The Giant taunting Jack. Fee, it beats. Fi, it thumps. Fo, it pounds. Fum, it stomps. My stomach churns, my nerves are fried, and then the smell hits me.
It’s cat piss. It raids my nostrils. A baby’s screams storm my ears.

Charlestown.

Thank fuckin’ God I’m still in Charlestown.