Call me Johnny. Johnny Harpoon

Call me Johnny. Johnny Harpoon. This is my city. Ten million zeroes, and no matter how you add it up, still comes out the same…zero. It’s like one shoe lying in the gutter in the rain and nobody knows where the other shoe is and why there’s never more than one– Dead eyes staring up at the steel-wool sky crunch of broken glass beneath my heels hiss of my tires rolling through the sweaty night. I’m meeting some flybait calls himself “Slash” or “Trash” says he can put a name to the polaroid in my pocket for the right price…a dime bag of milk-sugar skag I keep stashed for assholes like him. I smell him coming, that metallic B.O. He scans the Polaroid with some snot-caked black box he built himself, says “3645 Market Street. Ask for Dog.” Palms the skag. Fades into the alley. Two hours later I’m at the door asking for Dog. There’s a squeal like a flash charging and the Subsonic Taser hits me in the back. As I go down I tongue my false tooth twice and my hat fires a dart into Dog’s throat. I rubber leg it out the door and collapse onto a pile of garbage bags. I come to ten minutes later, they’re loading Dog into the meat wagon, and the blue uniform is playing Keith Moon on my head with his nightstick. He passes his handscan over my wrist and my picture and license number come up on its little screen. He arrests me anyway. I’m leaving the station house and I’m beat. I drag ass into the all-night liquor store for a deck of butts and a bottle. Some dork with a headful of Carbona has a shotgun at Chang’s belly. I drop to one knee, pull my .22 out of my sock and fire. The explosive round just glides into that junky’s brain pan, and he blooms like a hamburger rose. Chang’s splattered with brains and blood, but I don’t pay for the butts or the booze. I look back, Chang’s pulping that slime with his baseball bat, smiling like it’s his wedding day. Call me johnny. Johnny Harpoon. This is my city…10 million zeroes and no matter how you add it up it still comes out the same..zero. I’m going home to plug my head into the wall socket. Get some relief.

Listen to the track

listen to the track

Author: Blaine L. Reininger

Blaine L. Reininger was born July 10, 1953 in Pueblo, Colorado. Then he lived a life. By and by, he founded Tuxedomoon with Steven Brown in 1977. He traipsed around America, tuxedomooning until 1980, when he began to traipse around Europe. As a direct result of all of this traipsing, many musical compositions were composed, most of which found their way to some sort of mechanical device capable of reproducing musical compositions. This was mostly for the good. He now lives in Athens, Greece, where he is content.

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