Fiction: Luke and the kid.

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The Heretic
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Fiction: Luke and the kid.

Postby The Heretic » Fri May 08, 2009 5:37 pm

The kid and I were heading to Sylvia’s since it was right around the corner from where we stay. It had been a crap day, and I was in the mood for some pork chops and V had never eaten black eye peas because he’s a Jew. Since the ride was sitting on the hydraulic lift at Pepe’s since the CV joints went out, it was shoe leather rather than the Caddy to get there.

“So Luke, why the face?”

“Remember that job I did for that guy Patel?”


“Well since the store got damaged while I was taking care of the punks muscling him, he deducted the damages from the bill”.


“Yeah I showed him the clause in the contract, but the damn Indian says he won’t pay.”


“I shot it over to Jeryn, let the Indian deal with our lawyer. I may be owning a bodega after this. And by the way is it still a bodega if it’s owned by Indians?”

“Well it says so on the outside”

“Yeah but that’s when it was owned by this Cuban guy Manny.”

“They still sell Spanish stuff.”

“Next to the curry and that crap I can’t read.”

“It’s in Sanskrit”

“It’s friggin chicken scratch; it’s not a bodega unless it’s got bachata blasting out like those Dominican places on Broadway.”

“Still. It says Bodega on the outside.”

“It gonna say Luke’s on the outside if this bitch don’t pay.”

V started laughing and going on about me behind the counter selling wrapping papers and condoms and trying to stop the crack heads from lifting forties out of the freezer, and I wasn’t really laughing so I was glad we got to Sylvia’s before I had to cave in his skull for being so funny.

As it has been unfortunately true for awhile, Sylvia’s was full of kids from Columbia discussing one professor or the other or some frat party. It just makes me sick when white folk all of a sudden show up and ruin a good place for black folks. Damn it, Malcolm was right. Why don’t they go to the Carnegie? Damn.

“Why are they called black eye peas?”

“See the little black dot V?

“Oh? What’s that green sh*t?”

“Greens white boy.”


The kid ate up the fried chicken and the black eye peas. He said the mac and cheese reminded him of his grandmother’s kugel. I just shook my head and stated that the Jews took it from Africa, and we started arguing.

It was on the way home.


It was a young woman’s voice. It was a voice in panic and fear, and it was coming from the alley. V and I went and saw one young woman, and two crack heads. One of them was a skinny smelly grungy hairy little Puerto Rican. The other was an equally grungy hairy smelly strung out white boy. Both looked like they were about 21 going on dead. They had ripped her sweater off, and were trying to get her skirt, when all of a sudden-like I tackled one of them and proceeded to kick his ass.

It wasn’t hard to do, I slapped him around. Hit his head against the wall, and the dumpster, and the ground two three or six times. I ripped his stanky clothes off of him, leaving him in his buck naked skinny ass I'm gonna die before twenty five self just lying there. I picked him up and kicked him in the ass and told him to run.

“Run, bitch, run.”

Aint nothing funnier than a bleeding naked crack head running down Lenox.

Meanwhile, in the background, V had picked up the other asshole and was playing pong with him against the building walls. Do you know that if you slam a crack head against a building more than fifteen times at high speed they tend to go unconscious? We left that one in the dumpster. It was behind the Chinese place and it gets picked up tomorrow morning. If he don’t wake up before that, he’ll be deep in the landfill by noon. Funny.

I turned around to help the young lady. She was pretty, dark skinned, curvy, a lot of long black hair. She had that smart and sexy thing going on at the same time, and daaaamn she had back.

“You ok miss?” I said.

“Yes thank you. Melissa?”


“My name is Melissa.” She said.

“Oh ok Melissa. I’m…..”

“Luke Cage, I know you from the papers.”

“Right and my colleague here is Justice.”


“That’s my Hero name.” The white boy had come back from checking on his now unconscious pong ball.

“You don’t have a mask.”

“I know.”

“Weren’t you just in a jail?”


“Isn’t your name Astro something or other?”

“Astrovik, Vance Astrovik.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Astrovik”

She didn’t look to worse for wear. You could tell she was a city girl; she just brushed herself off and straightened herself up. She looked straight at me then.

“Do you think you guys could help me get to the 126th street station?”

“Absolutely.” I replied.

We all walked together to 126, and then I asked Vance if he could make sure she got home, she thanked me and they both went down together.

I figured by the time I got home, the Rolling Rock in fridge would be cold. I was right. I checked my messages. Jeryn called saying he had gotten the message about Patel and that he would just inform the gentleman to please note addendum 6 on the standard contract about the penalties involved for non payment. Lawyers scare me.

The other message was from this thick piece of chocolate from Queens that I would definitely be going to see once the ride was rolling.

After a shower I went up to the roof to have me a few cold ones while sitting on my lawn chair. Yeah, my ghetto balcony was the best place to enjoy the view of my city. Every once in awhile when it all goes right, the cars, the buses, the noise, the lights, New York reminds you why you love her. With a big yellow moon shining down, she’s just damn beautiful.

That’s when the kid just floated up to the roof, and sat on the ledge next to me.

“Beer?” I asked.

He nodded.

“The other guys don’t do what we did, do they?” He asked

“Nope. They’re off stopping alien invasions, or some crazy ass monster, or some mad genius with his atomic suckmydickatron. They aint down here. Not Thor, not Iron Man, not the Fantastic Four. Down here it’s me, sometimes Spiderman, Daredevil when he aint up Fisk’s nose. Hell even Castle does some good now and then. But usually, it’s just me and my city. “

“‘Night Luke.”

“Night V.”

The kid stepped off the roof and floated down to his window.

Yeah just me and her.
A heretic is a man who sees with his own eyes-----Gotthold Ephraim Lessing

"The measure of the homeland’s independence can be gauged by the amount of independence enjoyed by her children, and, as we have already said, there can be no free homeland while her children are slaves."-----Enrique Roig de San Martin

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