One Night in Baltimore

The taste of the pizza at Zella's lingers, As do the words of the poem read that night. The Raven is a classic, and often read at PoeZella. The two young men talk at length about the meaning of the poem as they head up Lombard towards Schroeder. Hopefully the liquor store there is still open. Poetry is thirsty business.

"I still don't get it," Willie grunts. "Is the Raven real or just a figmint of the guy's imagination?" Willie is a concrete thinker. A man of action. Is it food? Eat it. Is it a threat? Kill it. Both actions fly at a speed few can match.

Bongo, on the other hand, is a man of subtlety. Nuance, art and, most of all, rhythm. He smiles at Willie's question. "It really doesn't matter, does it? I mean, sure, Poe had something in mind, but the poem is meant to spark just that kind of question in the mind of the reader. The great power of poetry is in ambiguity. Art is about a conversation between the creator and the receiver of the work. Both are important. If it means something particular to you, then that's great. Take what you want from the poem, and make it yours.

"OK. I see that." Willie sees more and more since the cerebral booster started kicking in. Nevertheless, the fog of his early days hasn't all burned off. "But, what about ..." Bongo's hand on his shoulder halts him. He is looking up Mt. Clare St., towards the public garden, tilting his head side to side. Willie's learned. If Bongo hears something, it's there.

"Voices. Kid. In trouble. I hear whining and crying. Maybe some hitting. Let's see what's up." The two of them move in liquid silence up the street, spread apart on either side, Willie on the west, farther from the garden side, Bongo in the shadows along the walls on the east side. Willie has his Ceska Black Scorpion out from under his jacket. That's for when he wants to be discreet, on a night out for fun. It seems small in his big, ork hand. Bongo has a couple of throwing knives at the ready. More fitting for a gracile human. Overreaction? Maybe, but this is the big city at night.

As they come closer to the community garden, the tree cover prevents direct sight, but the voices are clearer. A small voice whimpers, "But I don' wanna take a message. My mom says no to that kind of thing. I just wanted to check my carrots. Make sure the rats leave 'em alone."

"Your momma's rules are for the daytime. I run the night. You come out here at night, you work for me." a heavy Boston accent carries this threat and marks the speaker as one the two young men know. Moved into Baltimore a while back, and not a local. Bad news. Lots of death and mayhem as he worked to take control.

Into the trees now, eyesight adjusting to the darkness, the men see a small boy on his knees, holding his face in one hand. A large man, another ork, stands over him. Two others stand back watching. His goons. They haven't seen or heard Willie and Bongo.

Bongo throws his Voice over to the other side of them. "Karl, you slime. Your out of your territory here. Get the fuck outta here or you die." All three turn to see who is there. Willie thinks to himself, "This is too easy. I can take 'em all down with a few bursts." But then, there is the matter of the child. Collateral damage for sure. Even if he doesn't get hit, the blood and guts will traumatize him.

"Who you think you're talkin' to? Show yourself." One of the goons grabs the child, and holds a gun to the boy's head, still looking in the direction of the Voice. Mean, but stupid. Willie sees a chance. Oh, it would be soooo easy.

"This is our turf, Karl," the Voice continues. "Stay out." The thugs start to catch on that the Voice is a fake, and start to look around. The goon holding the boy turns his gun and gaze toward the two young men. But his grip on the child loosens. The boy bolts away, ducking behind one of the raised vegetable garden beds. Shielded by the earth and wooden frame.

"There it is!" Shouts Willie. two quick bursts from his machine pistol, and both goons go down, not quite dead, but out action. A knife appears, seemingly by magic, burying itself in Karl's left leg. Funny how so little armor is designed for the legs. Karl goes down, hard.

"You .. messin'... with the wrong man!" He shouts, gritting his teeth between words.

Bongo steps out from behind the tree he used as cover, and walks up to Karl. Willie is off to the side, covering the scene with his weapon. "You got it wrong, Karl. This is our neighborhood, and you don't belong. You're alive only because we don't want the kid to see death, even if it is scum like you. And because the thug that seconds for you is even stupider and more violent than you. So here's the deal. You stay out of this neighborhood, and we and the rest of us leave you alone. Come back, and we'll hunt you down. War is bad for business, Karl. Be a good businessman."

Karl sputters and looks like he is about to pop a vein in his neck. But the drop is on him, and he is a survivor. "Deal," he grunts.

The two goons are rising slowly, shakily. "Drop your weapons and pick up your boss. Get out of here, now." The two do as they're told, and fireman's chair their boss to a black sedan up the street. Willie covers their departure, while Bongo collects the weapons. "Enough nuyen in these to cover a good bottle of whisky. Damn shame it's too late, now. The store will be closed." Bongo looks for the boy, but he is gone. "A survivor, that one, too."

Willie chuckles. "I know a place. But your tender tummy might not handle the goods."

Bongo puts an arm around Willie's shoulders, well, one of them anyway. "Just try me, big boy."

Neither one of them thinks this is over.