And we don't need the ladyCryin' 'cause the story's sad.
Rocky mountain way
Is better than the way we had.
Yeah, yeah, yeah…
- Rocky Mountain Way, Triumph, 1977
No, I don’t feel guilty.
I’ll feel guilty when the suits on Bay St. stop smirking over their human shaped stepping stones. When the corporations stop trumpeting their billions of dollars of profits off the back of millions of dollar-a-day third world slaves. When religious zealots of all stripes stop putting guns or righteousness into the hands or heads of their brainwashed children.
It’s a long line before it’s my turn to feel the guilt I deserve.
As far as I had researched, Mercurio Palsemetti* had no family-shaped vacuum in his life. I’d have to let him know what that’s like. Maybe we’d have time to chat about denying our guilt too.
From what I’ve been able to glean so far, the organized criminals in Ontario have been able to keep to themselves through an unspoken geography of territories. The two minute ejaculation of violent stupidity that brought me into this was an exception. But it’s not just their “business is business” attitude that keeps things quiescent. There’s a criminal buffer between the larger groups. A cartilage that prevents the bones from scraping together. The sinovial fluid gang, if you will.
Mercurio is their lawyer. Yes, somebody has to represent them, but does he have to be so flagrantly rich about it? From the number of quotes this guy has in the Star and the Sun, you’d think he has his thumb on their publishers.
Palsemetti’s digs were north of Toronto, blessed with a wonderful ravine view and sequestered behind a twelve foot iron and masonry wall. The main house was over 4000 square feet. The coach house housed an indoor pool. Lucky coach. I knew the layout because I obtained the blueprints for fifty dollars at a municipal government office; rich folk have contractors renovating their places so often, they get tired of asking for ID and permit numbers.
I assumed he had a security system, and the movie action stars might be able to “tap” into the security cameras or snip the green wire, but this ex-I.T. professional for a large medical lab firm can’t even hotwire a kid’s tricycle.
So while my ribs and cheek bone reformed their relationships with the rest of my body, I sat in a car, following, stalking, getting to know all about Mercurio. Now every time I see the sculpted nasal bone of a BMW Roadster, I get that little hormonal jazz under my diaphragm.
His schedule was a nightmare. Completely unpredictable. Sometimes he’d come home at 8 p.m. Other times long after midnight. So I parked three miles away, nearly broke an ankle climbing down into the ravine and got into my evening wear. Kevlar is the new black.
That day before all this, I watched my wife sob so deeply she gagged on her own vomit. Since the day she left, I’ve added fifty pounds of muscle. I was never out of shape, but I never imagined I’d be able to bench press over 500 pounds. As I nearly hurled myself over that fence, the shrunken balls, the bacne and that new ache in my liver became completely worth it.
I hunkered in the back corner of his yard, nervous about motion detectors, and watched his football field long driveway for those blinding Roadster halogen headlights. How many accidents have those arrogant fucking things caused? Why aren’t they illegal? I told myself that if I didn’t get what I wanted from him, I’d smash those damn floodlights on my way out.
Finally a car turns in. Automatic gate opens without a squeak. Half way down the drive I hear one of the 3 garage doors start to open, automatically. Automatically, I sprint for the back of his house. As his car/penis slides into his house/vagina, I roll in behind. I’m this S.O.B’s new S.T.D.
Mercurio hauls his ass and a gym bag out of the car. This guy is in half-decent shape. But all he has to bench-press right then is the alarm code beside the door that leads from the garage into the house.
As the last digit of the code is in, I charge. My shoulder rams him in the lumbar/kidney area. For the next month, he’ll piss pink and think of me.
Our combined weight cracks the door in half. About ten seconds later, he’s in hand-cuffs and I’ve tasered him twice in the throat. Just for the pure fuck-with-him of it.
It’s May --, 199-. Approximately 11:30 p.m. He’s got a long night ahead of him.
- Bloggist’s note: Not his real name obviously, but he needs a moniker because he comes back later.
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