415 Man
Around the block on the sidewalk, 415 Man is there
On this scorching hot day in Los Angeles Pedestrians cover their noses as they walk by Disgusted at the sight of his very existence — One surrounded by decomposing litter, degeneracy and despair
His skin and muscle, riddled with Dust, grease and needle marks His shopping cart, loaded with Heavy baggage from his heavy past His face, hidden beneath the untrimmed beard Displaying a cynical smirk the world cares not to see
Few would bother to know, that his hope has been lost long ago That he has too much pride, yet too little faith That he no longer wants to live, but isn’t quite ready to die
His eyes gazing into the crowd
A knife in his left hand, a metal stick in another, And some whitish powder in his windpipes Which he has just ingested moments ago
His blood flows, through his lungs, into his brain And he can no longer contain himself
He feels that he is under attack That his heart is set on fire That his skin is peeled off That his head is about to explode
And he must stand up, he must fight
He must defend himself against the assailant, the imaginary monster Because though he no longer wants to live as a loser, he isn’t quite ready to die as one either
A knife in his left hand, a metal stick in another Anguish and rage reflected in his pupils
He lets out a deep growl, followed by a loud grunt He raises the knife over his chest And swings the metal stick in the air
Stab, miss Stab, miss Stab, miss
Deeper each time, he repeatedly pushes the knife Into the imaginary monster he’s struggling against
He watches bystanders turning themselves into mayhem Drowning in their own helpless and powerless screams, they flee To the direction of the sirens a few blocks away
Sound of sirens, louder and louder Closer and closer
But as a young lady crosses his path Her eyes glued on her freshly-purchased, overpriced smartphone Oblivious enough to not notice what is taking place around her And defiant enough to ignore 415 Man’s worldly existence
Stab, hit Stab, hit Stab, hit
Gravity dragging her body to the ground She coughs up a mouthful of liquid, dark-crimson in color Her bowels partially dangling in the air, adjacent To a Snapchat message typed but not yet finished And to a nameless pop song continuing in her headphones
The man takes a step closer, rejoicing at the thought — That he’s about to defeat the imaginary monster at last That he’s about to be not a loser anymore That he’s about to defeat the imaginary monster at last That he’s about to be not a loser anymore That he’s about to take his life back at last That he’s about to be not a loser anymore
He lets out a deep growl, followed by a loud grunt
Once more he raises his knife and metal stick, Above the young lady’s disfigured mortal being
Once more he raises his knife and metal stick, Aiming for the imaginary monster’s heart Aiming for the imaginary monster’s chest Aiming for the source of all his misery and suffering —
Pow Pow Pow
Right before he could slice the young lady’s heart in half 415 Man now joins her on the sidewalk instead
“Fuck!” A young-, inexperienced-looking uniform shrieks “Oh fuck! Shots fired! Shots fired…fuck!” His voice, his right hand and his Glock trembling in fear
He stands still, transfixed, deathly motionless As his colleague calmly speaks into the radio — “Code 3…10-71…two down, stabbing and GSW, requesting two RAs”
As 415 Man keeps her company Lying on the cold, cemented sidewalk On this scorching hot day in Los Angeles