Disorder Ch. 16

His Kingdom

His foot slammed to the floor, the gas pedal trapped beneath. With the windows open on the Dodge Charger, modified to his specs, of course, John laughed at the city that he had conquered, although no one would know that he was the one driving it, hair whipping back from his face. No one knew who he was -- not like that, at least. No one knew that he was really their king.

That was Donnie's doing, of course, but he still toyed idly with the daydream, grinding up the tarmac at high speeds, dangerous speeds, uncaring of the lines of traffic that he zoomed in and out of. His mind worked quicker on crack so it only stood to reason that he would be able to concentrate all the more at higher speeds. That was how it went, wasn't it? Of course, it was. It was his fucking world and, whatever Donnie said about staying on the down-low and all that shit, it was his to damn well rule as much as he pleased.

John smirked, though it was an open-mouthed kind of one that would have branded him more than a little deranged if he had changed to glance at his reflection in the wing mirror. He didn't look in mirrors much anymore. He already had the perfect image of himself in his head.

The world... His kingdom... What more could he fucking want? The world was his to claim and he only had to spread the tendrils of the sordidly lucrative drug-trade out and out from the city, infiltrating through the belly of America. It was all for him and he cocked his head as if he was explaining it all to somewhere who was standing right there before him, completely and utterly awed by all that he had done.

How did you do it? He imagined them asking him, holding a fuzzy microphone up to catch every last one of his oh so very important words. What will you do next?

But they did not deserve to know the ins and outs of his delightful tale and, even in his imagination, he laughed them off, whipping around a corner as he shot off his chosen street, the neon, flashing lights of the city shimmering in his wake. The nightlife was pounding on a Saturday night, although the days of the week had, long ago, ceased to mean all that much to him. What did it matter, after all, when he controlled every last fucking thing about the city and everyone who dared live in it?

He laughed, though there was no one there to hear him, just as he'd wanted it.

His brother? In it all to the end with him.

His other brother? Head down, reaping the spoils quietly in the background. Donnie made sure he was taken care of too. He was kind like that.

The people of the city? Half of them high or coked-up, addicted to the crystal he was selling, peddling far and wide. The rest were trying weed as fresh strains were used as a gateway drug, their addictive qualities teased into existence through something that, frankly, he didn't give a fuck about. Let those growing the shit deal with that. He paid them and made a lot more from what they grew, that was that. It was the people though that were wrapped around his little finger, well and truly, paws at his disposal on a chessboard of life that was, ecstatically, one-sided. All in his favour of course.

Who else, who else? John smirked, a demonic chuckle bubbling up from the back of his throat as he swept his gaze across the road without really seeing it, on the wrong side. What did that matter? He didn't hit anything unless he wanted to.

The cops?

Hah!

In the palm of his fucking hand.

No one could stop him and those that may have, once, had the power to quaked in their boots, skulking through the shadows like the rats they were. He ground his teeth together, clenching them into a feral grimace. Fucking imbeciles. They were nothing to him -- nothing! And, still, they were out there, living like they had any right at all to breathe the same air he did.

He'd wipe them out, every last one of them. Of course, he wouldn't have to directly target them for that to happen, that would be too easy. The main streets whipped by as he broke every speed limit, slamming on a handbrake turn in a squeal of rubber to whip through an intersection. No-one stopped him and no one would stop him from running every goddamn bastard that thought that they could take him on, even at some point, out of town. They'd all see the truth of it in the end and that was his truth, the truth that he wrote for them and played out for those sorry fucks each and every day of their sorry fucking lives.

They'd all know, they'd all see. He bared his teeth and shot off down a side-street, not even noticing how narrowly he avoided a bin. It jarred in his rear-view mirror but John's attention was always ahead, always forward, blood up and pumping, thriving in the shell that his body had become. Yet that shell was strong and vital in a way that he didn't understand, surviving the abuse of drug overdoses and alcohol intoxication time after time again. It should not have been viable at his age, edging into years that he had not imagined he would even reach. To many, he was not old, yet the mirror told a tale of a much younger man still in the prime of his life, perhaps even barely in his twenties.

He did not see it, his image already perfection. It was all as he wanted it to be and he veered dangerously through the streets, the Dodge Charger squealing as it fought the abuse on the wheel. Of course, it was a machine and would do all that he wanted it to but was that not the beauty of the entire city being a machine? John laughed and laughed, heading out of the city, one madman locked up in his own car, though it was a prison that he could escape out of whenever it suited him.

Out of the city -- yes. Somewhere he could put his foot down on the pedal and really fuck the hell off out of them. There was nothing like speed to rip through him, his drug of choice at that time. Charles too had a penchant for joyriding and John could not have said whose car he was actually driving at that moment either.

Wait... He laughed again, shaking his head, hair catching on his lip, a sticky itch that had to be scratched. What the fuck was he thinking? What was he even saying? He owned the fucking car! He owned everything in the thrice fucking damned city so why in damnation not would it not be his goddamn car?

It was wrong, words that were not his running through his head, all jumbled together. That was not his style, not his language, yet the curses kept on coming, spat from his lips like poison. Yet what poison could possibly live in his lungs? He was the man, the king, the one that everyone looked up to -- even if they did not know he was there, who he was!

The outlook beckoned him, the road leading far from the city that could have taken him on a route to another town. Would there be fresh challenges along that way too? But, no: not that night. He wouldn't disappear into the starry dream, his eyes reflecting the gleam of the cosmos above, when Donnie was waiting back in his penthouse apartment for him, probably pacing, probably worrying. Bless him. He'd take a look, take a look and come back -- yes, that was it. His foot inched down on the pedal, music blaring, though he could not have named the artist of whatever belting track was reeling out even then.

Sound. Sensation. It all wrapped itself up around him as his head lifted, seeming to separate from his body on an euphoric high, looking down on himself in the car as he shot on, the needle on the speedometer creeping up and up. Let it move, he told the car, the person sitting down there with their hair whipping in the wind. It would go and go -- and it was about time he saw just how much that suped-up ride could actually do!

He cheered himself on, floating and keeping pace with the car, although he had no sensation, up there, of actually moving. Disengaging from his physical body, he whistled on a high of drugs, eyes half-lidded and yet seeing more than he ever had before. Whether or not that was actually so was by the by, for he was the king of them all, the ruler that they bowed down to, the one that they kissed the feet of. Even the stars themselves would lie down before him and beg for mercy if they knew who he was and, truly, he believed himself even then to be capable of taking on what lay beyond the bounds of an earthly realm too.

And then he was back in his body, wrenching at the steering wheel, tyres skidding and screeching, the car shooting sideways, though the resistance under him resulting in a rancid burning, clawing and cloying at the back of his throat. He was in no real danger even if he did stop a shade too close to the barrier that would have sent him down the cliff into the mess of houses below, the suburbs for the rich folk. Donnie had a place down there and John squinted to see it, choosing a random pinprick of light and deciding that that had to be just where Donnie would have been, if he was home.

"Hulllloooo, Doooonnnniiiieeee!"

He hollered, hands cupped to his mouth, screaming out the window as if there was any way for his voice to carry that far. Of course, he was too far out for anyone in that suburb to hear him even if he was most likely aggravating those nearby. That didn't matter to him, however, as he lit a cigarette and dangled it out of the corner of his mouth, soothed by the familiar taste of tobacco, even though he more usually partook in stronger drugs.

Was nicotine a drug? Well, that depended on who you spoke to...

"Mine..."

He said it out loud, the paper of the burning cigarette moistened by his lips, his tongue probing it curiously as if his body did not quite recognise what he was doing.

"All mine..."

And it was so, lording it over his kingdom, even though Donnie was not there to share it with him. That was all well and good though as Donnie was safe back at home and he laughed like a madman all over again, stretching his arms back over his head, shoulder blades pushed back, breath wobbling somewhere in the region of his Adam's apple.

The city stretched out before him, though he was still technically in the scope of it, the world dropping away, laid out there for his taking. And it was his, the world in the palm of his hand, John, even then, holding out his hand as if he thought he could hold it all, his hand raised to frame the skyscrapers and buildings that reached so high with his fingers cupped on either side.

"Fucking arseholes..."

No one was there to stop him. No one would care. Nobody had ever cared about John.

It was there that he sat, legs kicked up on the dashboard, just to watch as the lights faded, overcome by a red glow of dawn that would herald a new day, just as the dawn had for so many years before.

John sucked in a breath, body tight, muscles stiff as if he had sat there, lording it up, for far too long. Yet it was all for him, the dawn, the glow of light touching his kingdom. He was as eternal as the dawn.

And he was going to show them all one hell of a ride.