Manhattan Jungle

Sweet stink of sweat.  Dark streets.  Harsh lights.  Death in the air.

Dre pushes the old Chevy hard, gripping the leather on the steering wheel with one hand easy.  With the other hand he taps the barrel of the big revolver against his chin.  Tap, tap, tap.  Morse code for nervous.

He says, “I’m gonna fix things for good, jus you wait little brother.”

Dre knows his way round upper Manhattan, knows where the cops got blind eyes.  He knows what he’s doing.  Mama didn’t raise no dummies.

The car stops at Johnson’s drug store.  

“Better not look, little brother.”