Dick’s Diary

I know what this city is really like. Every night, kneeling in its own filth, choking on the cock of corrupt politics, with heartless policemen in service of slimy mob bosses crawling all over its back. I get out of my car, give the local thugs a dirty look. I dive into the alley and get into the restaurant through the back door. Scare the Latino cooks and the fat sous chef, job down the hall and barge into Lou’s office.

The girl that was just riding his fat lap is cowering in the corner. I am pointing my gun. I feel so strong, but it will pass. Before long, I will be drinking myself to sleep, but not yet.

“You scumbag,” I say, “You know what you did.”

“D-dick,” he stutters, “W-what are you talking about?” He has got a rat’s face. He is a rat man.

“You were supposed to serve real crab meat on my son’s birthday. REAL. Not IMITATION crab meat.” I put the gun to his temple. He whimpers. He soils himself. I smirk. “I’ll let you get off with a warning this time.”

I walk out. He knows I will take twenty per cent off that bill. After all, justice has to be served.

Leave a Reply