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5 September 2017

Money Trees

by Andrew

Green things they are, little Martians, jumping. They sing all the way up there, the cicadas. I missed that most, to be honest, that snake tongue. Todd honks his horn. His wife pulls up her pants. So political his talk always runs, Greg's. He'd do well to plug it up, like Tiffany, his wife, all plugged up by Bob. You need some cocaine? I say. Looks fun.

Then the cops come. The boys in blue, banging down everyone in their sight with their batons. They shot Gerald. Just walked up, and he walked outside, and bang, bang. And that was that.

That fried, white egg is talking on the television. He's congratulating the cops who shot him, Gerald. The crowd there, in the TV, they cheer for the egg. A round of applause goes up all round. What is this shit? I tell Armando to change the channel. He was in the Army. He looks at me like I'll kill you. He salutes the televison and walks outside. I grab my bag and go out the other door. I sneak, had to get out of there. Cancer they pump through the air conditioning vents anyway. The insurance man was there the other day. Sign-up for some health insurance, that's right. Which seems fishy. Tammy, our babysitter, she hasn't even been in, slowly dying in the hospital, all used up. Hope she got hers, some insurance. Regardless, she dies still. Or she doesn't.

On the radio, most the black boys are talking about Coke and ice. He got his bitch in the Ferrari. What? Who cares? Gerald is dead. They just shot him, just like that. They invited them over for dinner afterwards too, the cops, I forgot to mention. But that damn Todd, he's too political anyway. Politics and religion, you'd better hush up. They had a nice, big steak. Steaks all round they ate. Those cows are from Amarillo, boy, they spit, proud. The place smells like shit. They can barely move there in Amarillo, the cows, right off the highway even, the 40. A tourist destination, to boot. Come see our cows, America, your cows.

Down in Marfa, they shot some Mexicans. I just don't understand. Is Mexico that bad? Because who the hell wants to come here? The United States, the ant hill, everyone carrying their crumbs, scurrying all round. The cicadas in the trees swoop down for a feast, the little blue Hindis above, the one percenters. They just called Dad for a job finally there in California. Come pick some grapes, they said. You asked for it, I said. He wouldn't hear of it of course, getting his nails dirty. I ate mine for a snack.

They flock round me like vultures, the cops. But still at night, the purple sky, I walk. I got sandals, look, I say. I'm not doing a thing. I can't even run in these. And then Bill walks up behind. What's this? They flock still. One car, two car, three car, zooming by, four car, one with lights, an ambulance too, seven car, red and blue, all in an hour's walk I see. Seven cops in Europe in months I saw total, if that. America, the herd, the United States, I mean, the cows. The cops are the dogs. The rich are the farmers. Capitalism is the butcher.

There's nothing to it. One reality to the next. The black boys got it right I think. They know. It's hopeless to fight against it. Get their bitches in your Ferraris. That's the thing, revenge. All there is to it. Then send the bitch back to grandpa to suck his dripping dick for a nickel when she needs it. And she gives me a quarter. I turn round and buy cocaine and sell it right back to them. Flip the game. Insurance you want to buy, to get our Xanax and Vicodin? No thanks. Buy my cocaine instead, piggies. You want insurance, on your life, I suggest you buy though. We catch your kind out here, and you know how it goes. You remember Gerald?

Me, I'm camoflaged. Robin Hood, the gypsy. Catch them on vacation, they never expect. Or even if they do, completely out of their comfort zone they are. Not so safe anymore out here, are we, outside our pens? A week in Italy you say? What luxury! Your accent gives it away, clear as day. Black and blue they get beat for a meal. The rest goes back to the gutter. They start staying home then in their pens, fortified by their fences. Let them scratch eachother to death there instead, the bedbugs. All are welcome of course, purple, blue, green, pink, yellow, black, white, all religions, everyone. If not, then get back into your pen, I suggest, to wait for death to come, that certain one to which you subscribe, and get back to work, the ant hill.


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