There he sat, enamored with his own collection of things—a 1970s vintage car, a mansion with boundless halls and charm, records from every major and half-famous artist from all the greatest decades queued up nicely to drop onto a Thorens TD-124. But what was it all worth anyway? Indentured corruptitude as a means of shedding sacrificial blood in the streets to the Dons?
Cigar smoke caught his eye as it escaped his breath, highlighted by the heavy yellow glow of a Bankers Lamp. It was the only light in the room. It cast shadows across his fitted suit exposing his forward-slouched elbows-on-knees figure in the corner of what he called his “Biblioteca Oasi”. To his left, illuminated like an amber lantern, a sweaty glass of bourbon and an ashtray perched atop a sleek wooden side table whose undercarriage was cloaked in darkness by the surface boards.
And there his thoughts raced. When would enough be enough? This should be enough. This had to be enough. He’d had enough.
He puffed one last time at his Cohiba Behike before setting it down half-smoked. With a toss he erased the amber from his glass, gritting his teeth as he stood pulling the cold steel barrel of a Berreta into his stride.
As he met the doorframe, a farewell glance revealed a shimmering scarlet rivulet creeping out from the darkness along a polished hardwood floor.
This wasn’t enough. This was war.
A Poet’s Qualm 