All too easy.

John O'neil eased his car into the space at the end of the street. He chose a spot in the shade as the tempeture had nearly hit the 100 degree mark. It was the kind of the heat that living things died in and it had put him in a foul mood. He was pouring sweat, practically dripping, the product of the heat and the double scotch he had consumed at lunch. It was heat like this that reminded him of another place, another time. Of his time in the pacific as a marine, surronded by the stench of death and decay, leeches, mosquitos and rain. He remembered as he had seen his friends all around him being killed, of being pinned down in his position for so long, he remembered thinking that if he survived the ordeal if he came back he would do good in the world. That he would become a positive force in the rest of his years. John had came back alive, even with a few medals on his chest to show his valor. Still all the plaudits and all the accliam could not get rid of the memories, the horrific images that stayed with him and never seemed to fade. He had joined the union as a laborer when he got back, through a connection from his cousin and had taken the job as seriously as the army. The work was tough outside in the sun, but he liked it. He liked the kind of people he worked with, the working folk. Many of them had come from the same kind of backround as him. Still John had always been cleaver and he could slowly start to see who was really pulling the strings. He was a natural leader and he began to move up to become an organizer and than slowly he began to see even more closely who was really in control. Men whose interests coulden't be farthur from the workers. Still he had rationalized it away feeling that it was a nessacary evil to deal with such characters. And he had enriched himself considerably as he had done so. John lumbered out of the car and walked toward the social club. The Palma restaurant and bar looked like any other neighborhood establishment blending in quite well with the decor. Few would have guessed that withthin those walls some of the most important decesion about city contracts were being made. John himself would not have guessed it either were it not that he was so deeply immersed. He got on well with the Italians, they shared the same religion and the same attitudes about certain things. They had both faced discrimination and persecution upon they're arrival in this country and had struggled to make their voices heard and obtain status. He reached the door and walked in, the place was somewhat dimly lit and at first the denizens seemed to look at him warily, soon he saw a familiar face 'Johnny!, you mick bastard what bring you out here.' He regognized Tommy instantly, 'I guess to see what you dago's are up to.' He sidled his way up to the bar shaking Tommy's hand. 'Is Vito around?' He asked. 'Yeah he's in the back taking care of something. You need a drink?' 'You really need to ask? Yeah get me a double scotch straight up.' The bartender, and aging Sicilian quickly obliged producing a glass on the bar and pouring a generous amount into it. The Sicilian had owned the bar for years, but had fallen on some hard times. He was an uncle of Vito's and Vito had agreed to purchese the bar from him and let him continue to live in the upstairs apartment in exchange for him letting Vito and his associates congreagate there. 'So how you been Johnny?' 'Alright except for this fucking heat.' He took a long swig of his scotch. 'I been inside with the AC all day my friend.' Tommy remarked. 'Some of us got things to take care of.' John remarked. 'By things you mean bottles of scotch?' Johnny laughed. 'Well that too. But i'm getting thing done in the process and thats all that matters.' Johnny finished the scotch off. A short swarthy figured emerged from the backroom. 'Johnny, how are you.' Vito said as he emerged.

No redeeming qualities.

'I don't like it.' The fat man said as he stared at the television. 'Whats that?' the girl next to him replied. 'New orelenes, went there once, bunch of rednecks.' He muttered offering something of a half-assed explanation. How incredibly insightful, Frank thought sarcastically. He stood in the back of the breakroom waiting for his time to begin. Fifteen minutes. The fat one always showed up an hour early, usually to watch wrestling until his time began. Frank could never understand that. Sure he tried to make it in at least a few minutes early to be on time but an hour? That seemed like tourture to him. A full hour of being on the premises without being compensated at all. Utter stupidity he thought. He had been on edge for the past week though. No booze, no weed, and no sex had seemingly taken its toll on him. It had been six days since he had taken a drink, three days since weed and a millenia since he had gotten laid. Normally the last one he could deal with but the lack of booze and weed had made him think about it more. He wanted to kill someone. Well maybe not kill exactly but at least maim and he had felt himself snapping at everyone. Frank looked at the clock, ten more minutes to go. He worked the night shift stocking shelves and normally he would be happy as a clam. But normally he would also be either drunk or stoned. Since he was neither he felt increasingly on edge, that if someone fucked with him in any way that he would snap, go insane. That he would behave like those postal workers from the early nineties, mowing down his co-workers indiscriminatly. The thought had ouccured to him before but he has brused it aside, as an idle fantasy, a product of too much time spent alone. The main thing that kept him back was his faculties of logic and reason and that jail sucked so very much. Frank glanced at the fat man again attempting to ascertain some knowledge of his nature. They had worked togeather for five years yet had seldom spoke even in passing. It was that way with human beings, he had thought, that people could be neighbors for years and yet never exchange a single word. How we all isolate ourselves from one another. Five minutes. Frank stared at the clock hoping it would perpetually remain at five minutes to ten. That time would stand still and he woulden't have to actually experience the next eight hours. Still he knew this was mere conjecture, mere fantasizing on his part. Frank looked back up at the clock, two minutes, I guess its time, he thought as he walked down towards the time clock.

The good idea pt 2

'Are you sure you know where your going?' Joe asked betraying the anxiousness he felt. They had been wandering around the third floor for almost a half hour and Alan had yet to find the door of the Russian. Several time he had come close almost to the point of indicating this was was place before they had heard the low din of voices, and steps. Joe had a fear of knocking some random person's door down of coming in and than leaving realizing they had the wrong place, of arrest, serious jail time, all of the extremes involved in such a breaking and entering operation. It was true what Alan said, that someone who is in the business of dealing drugs would not likely call the cops. What was also true, that he knew without thinking about it too much was that drug dealers might have friends. Friends who would not be as forgiving as the cops. Still Joe had not voiced these concerns. Most likely they would be disregarded even mocked so it struck him as an exercise in futility to even raise them. Joe was used to being belittled, disregarded, even blatantly mocked in his dealings with Alan. It was the price he paid and the price he accepted when he did business with him. 'I think this is it.' Alan said stopping before a door marked 14. 'We passed this one earlier and you didn't say anything.' 'This time I remember its all coming back to me.' Joe took all he was hearing with a grain of salt. 'Well your doing the kicking, you convinced me to come along, this is all your idea.' Alan hesitated, 'Come on man were both in this together.' 'It was your idea in the first place.' Alan finally assented. 'Alright.' He raised his boot and gave the door a powerful kick near the middle of it. 'Fuck!' Alan screamed recoiling his foot. 'Alright we just gotta give it a few tries.' Joe felt reluctant to make the effort but he figured that he had expanded enough effort and taken enough time to take it worth his while. He kicked the door with all of his strength and it seemed to move slightly. Alan took another shot at it and the door seemed to move slightly. Joe raised his foot and kicked with all his might the the door suddenly open and a breeze swept through. Alan walked in cautiously as if stepping upon the surface of some alien planet. Something about it seemed unreal. Joe followed in the same fashion reluctant but eager to push on. It was a spartan affair with few decoration of adornments and mainly the basic things needed for a lone person to inhabit a home. At first Alan seemed unsure as if this were the right place but soon these feelings were assuaged. He went into the bedroom and extracted a backpack. He opened it and pulled out a massive bag of herb. 'Now were in business.'

'