Insert Chassis Albuquerque: Chapter 4 - " King Of The Dreamers"

Chapter 4 - " King Of The Dreamers"

A LIGHT RAIN fell across Tokyo.
I looked out the window over the dull, gray landscape of TV aerials poking into the sky and out over the smoking, smoldering remains of the city in the distance looking much like an old, ugly industrial painting with its thick dirty, smudged colors.
The City: A peculiar entity of cement, steel and people. High-rise lifestyles bound eternally skyward, glass buildings fingered the tired skyline like perverts.
Things to do in wasteland New York, Downtown Tokyo: Get stabbed, see young mothers aged 14 and younger pushing prams, overhear loud arguments on mobile phones about who unfaithfully fucked who the night before all the whilst wearing all the evidence of their one-night stands, illegitimate babies sat on high hips waving paternity tests at their ex’s denying them visitation and yelling whose mother was a whore - how could life not be expected to flourish in such vulgar, primordial condition?
Scientific fact: Rats live longest when there's plague or disease.
If Life’s a balance between one’s expectations and the budget available, one’s perception is inextricably handicapped by one’s expectations. My view? A view overlooking the railway tracks and the homeless who holed up and hid in the empty, discarded railway carriages and the under railway bridges to the abandoned industrial wastelands beyond.
“Chic industrial charm, look at all this space…!” the realtor had marveled.
“Are those bullet holes…?” I’d asked.
There appeared to have been a shoot-out at some point, the walls lightly riddled with what the realtor clarified as historically insignificant "small-arms" fire from “light caliber” weapons; why was never discussed, but the signs are all there: Old bullet holes in the walls from old, forgotten wars.
I’d peered into a bullet hole.
I could see clear through the goddamn wall.
Suddenly another eye had appeared and stared suspiciously back at me.
That's just the kind of building it was, people staring.
The realtor had insisted: “Those are features – why, you’d be lucky to find another like this with such rich heritage, with so much character and charm. We’ve already had tremendous interest…!”
Tremendous interest in the damp, in the cold and how mold grew on the walls and practically engaged in conversation he'd no doubt meant. Sometimes, if I was really lucky, what was I’d just assumed at first the cheap stink of rented accommodation, the stench of sewage and dirty dish-and-bathroom water came up through the kitchen sink and really warmed the little place up. There was something familiarly burnt and sour about the air I’d recognized, though, that melancholic taste stale dreams forgotten for some time have.
Dreams, we all have them.
But when I was young I’d taken a dark turn.
“When you were young we all took a dark turn,” my father and mother were always blaming me. I don't blame them, but it would be a help if I explained they were generally poorly educated, something they'd being taught to be. Largely responsible for contributing to the delinquency of a minor, scientific studies would no doubt have demonstrated they were incapable of physically being parents without resorting to some kind of bullshit. Growing up in Downtown Tokyo, I was on the receiving end of constant negative comments and situations, such as this one: One day, my father collecting me from school, driving home he spotted a sign on the side of the road:


Immediately he'd pulled over to investigate the nature of this offer only to discover - there's a time and a place for everything but, talk about coincidence, very enterprising, there was my mother. She’d been missing for several days already. There’d been no need for this type of disgusting display by her but, as usual, she'd insisted on it because, according to my father, my mother hadn't seemed embarrassed or even uncomfortable when he'd confronted her. In fact, she'd offered him the works for $50, "… a family discount rate," she'd told him. father must've been about 45 minutes. Clearly satisfied when he'd re-emerged, “Usually it’s about $120 for the works. You're mother's a whore," he’d told me bluntly.
"She is," I’d agreed.
But my father, he'd mistook my conforming opinion as a question because he'd said: "She is, son. I'm sorry.”
I knew by the time I was 3 my mother was getting around. The only difference between a prostitute and my mother was my mother didn't usually charge.
The difference between Shimansky and my mother? Shimansky somehow profited when fucking you. Shimansky always seemed to make a margin.

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