Gangsters of Lazarus

[Crusty Carlos]

 

My mother taught me to always look out for myself. Because she never did. Growing up in the slums of Birmingham without food or people that gave a damn about me at home turned me into something I don't like to think about. My mind roves briefly over a few encounters with ministers I've had. They would visit in prison. Always talking about how I can still decide what kind of life I want to live.

Yeah right.

I hook a pretzel out of the bag stuck between the seats of my dirt colored pickup and munch on it slowly, letting every salt crystal dissolve on my tongue before chewing. My eyes flit around the door of the little 'bama gas station. The glass hasn't been cleaned for a year or more, but I can still catch murky glimpses of my man shuffling around inside.

Last week I got a call from hellbrother Dange up in Montgomery. Wanted me to throw some snarls into this guy's trip. Last time he gave me some cash for my services, but I get the impression that's not happening this job. I can't really complain, although it sure rubs me the wrong way. Dange is a political dude. I hate him to high heaven 'cause he's downright rude, but he gets me out of the bars so I do what he wants.

I pop open the car door as Mr. Lemon (no, that's not his real name, but he has this stupidly bright yellow shirt on so eh) finishes paying up inside.

Gun on my hip. Cool.