Damn Bad Reputation Counts 500 Plus Paw Whet Tick Stints
Damn bad reputation counts 500 plus paw whet tick stints
The following fictitious poetic vignette attempts a feeble tale of one ordinary day in life of anonymous miscreant.
"I don't give a damn
about my bad reputation."
I haint never done nobody no harm,
nor did any animals
(code word for other gang members)
get injured or killed
in the making of a video
(our lingo for done deal).
A decoy police officer
(one named Sergeant Smart)
pretended to be a drug dealer.
Turf wars made clear
the domain each mini kingpin oversaw.
Our base, which included
drop outs, whose parents
did not give a fig whether
their son lived or died
(got pitiless date with death)
drove motive to act truant
or commit a serious violation
warranting expulsion
generated a buzzing business
for social services field attending minors.
Thus here we were at our "den",
when this officer (dressed
in plain clothes) wanted some
(even just a dab) smack.
One badass dude of this pack
nicknamed "Hen Owes"
usually tried to "sniff" out trickery
when a new bro showed up out of nowhere.
Me and the boys could “feel vibes”,
and sense an infiltrator, sleuth,
or simply traitor,
(which last mentioned
a real impish whinny ninny),
when we immediately see him.
Between ourselves, we exchanged
specific non verbal signals
if someone ratted on us.
Thar haint nuttin worse getting duped.
A posse member
(if found out got pole axed for revenge).
Usually the beans already spilled
with a caper on our tail,
but the ragamuffin who tattled
would pay with his life.
At this instance, I felt trapped.
No doubt flaunting law groupthink
and figurative cohesiveness
exhibited obvious signs of defeat.
Once no escape in the cards,
each "coyote" barked, howled,
and jabbered like any other teenage punk
when outsmarted by authority
decorated figure head honcho.
A hair brained simultaneous idea
lit up all our brains too kill
this menacing enforcer of the law.
As if on cue, the beefiest beastie boy
sucker punched, and pistol whipped,
and kicked in the groin this pisser,
who lied thru his teeth.
They all did!
We knew that.
The unmarked car
the mutilated body mortally wounded
with a couple/few token gunshots
for good measure got stuffed
in the trunk of the vehicle.
Already headquarters triggered
the slain global positioning satellite
to track location of this rookie.
We subsequently found out,
he attended the same hell hole high school
some years before we
plugged, plotted, planned
to bomb the damn building
to kingdom come.
Since the moniker
"bad company" linkedin
to every f**k'n trouble
maker and threat
to other students in general
and homicidal maniacal
reputation in particular,
thus gave us bragging
(cachet damn reputation)
rights in this underground
world wide web of all gory
blood lust and violence.
Live to be freely mean and die,
or a nasty, short and brutish life
found most every day a shooting gallery.
A temporary bond meant nothing,
(or meeting the barrel of a gun)
if a turncoat wielded a loose silky tongue
spoiling opportunities
to mow down another body.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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