The King of New York (2019)

Chapter 1: Chris Pond

Chris entered New York City for the first time. The silver train rattled like a broken wheeled shopping cart into Penn Station. This is like Disney World but real! The unforeseen dungeon pressure squeezed his skull and neck as he powered through the submarine texture: rows of iron bolts up high. Now craving the Big Apple's sun, he moved on the balls of his Air Jordan's. Hold it together Chris. The mist of ancient burnt rubber crawled his nostrils and metal wet his sneakers. Dimmed yellow and black garage floors, glowing red exit signs, and a blue corridor of thick concrete that tickled his toes seemed endless. Both eyes burned by LED bulbs warming the tiled graffiti against a homeless man of oily skin, folded up into a purple robe, gazed back like a starved upside-down Channel Catfish. Poor man. I wish I had cash. The steel and iron ached, screamed, and breathed hard.

Chris took school buses and drove muscle cars in circles around the glass swamps and silver skies of Savannah. He now climbed the stairs to the station's eatery. There gulped down his third Budweiser into an empty stomach. Mobs of people dripped around him like sideways rain. His stomach would groan for hot pizza laid naked: melting, greasing, and burning behind glass. I could fuck that pepperoni and cheese if I was back in Georgia. But instead, his hollow gut ignored and doused in freezing yellow foam. Industrial foam to unplug the firing neurons from his anxiety attack. He swallowed away three more canned-inches contemplating a poster of John Travolta in a marshmallow white suit.

He heard the tunnels roar like Godzilla. I always wanted to be fucked on a New York subway. Pressed against the glass in public. I saw that scene on TV once. Law and Order?

Carrying a once heavy silver beer can, he boarded a graffitied car with seizure lights. New Yorkers and tourists stood with their elbows and nipples aligned. A tall man, like Abe Lincoln, stood in a green trench coat. The man examined the floor around his boots. Popcorn and a red sticky stain but then a swirling newspaper clipping. Chris stood next to him and could see the Empire State building after the window panes launched into the sparkling stratosphere.

"Has anyone ever told you, you could pass for our 14^th president?" Chris said.

Abe ignored him. Or was it 16? Chris found a spot, white, curved, with two red spots of wax. Like a bowling alley seat from the Jetson's cartoon he now cracked his knuckles against. Then smothered his bottom into the plastic. A cold Georgian bare ass fighting a new cold within unscathed Levi's. No socks but orange moccasins, and an ultra-thin Calvin Klein V-neck, black, and one size too big.

After a penetrating squeak—like chalk on steroids against a slate stone, it was down stairs with each sunk step, condensing thicker pressure. A three-hundred-pound man contemplated him above his New York Times. The man's glasses fogged up. Tapping of rain could be heard. "Where you from?" the large man said.

"Not from here," Chris said.

"Clearly...My name is Henry. What is yours?"

"I am Chris."

"Chris, do you have the faintest idea of where you are?"

"I am lost and loving it."

"At least you admit it. Most lie."

"You know where I can get SNL tickets?"

"Maybe I know someone," Henry said.

"Yeah?" Chris said.

"But you have to work for it," Henry said.

"Yeah?" Chris said.

"Yeah."

"Like what...I mean like what man?" Chris said.

"Do you have any talents?"

"Of course, I have talents motherfucker. I am alone in New York City!"

"Feisty...so what talents...how old are you?

"Twenty-one."

Chapter 2: I am Razor Paint

I needed to scrape some fluoride paste past my grill. My third coke and that phosphoric acid was eroding my smile, save my gold crowns. I saw that fat fuck chatting with that young skinny southern gent. I intervened because that is what I do in the slums of flying newspapers and soulless billboards of beautiful well-to-do humans. I last had eaten a Big Mac three days ago, hemorrhoids swinging past my balls, and an eye twitch only resolved by a five-gallon drum of sweet Latin bananas. It's that potassium for the twitches.

"Hey homeboy. I wouldn't listen to old Henry. Not one word," I said. "I'll show you were they filmed Taxi Driver, get SNL tickets for you and all that shit!"

"You are eavesdropping you little punk?" Henry said. "This is Razor, one of the Graffiti kings of the subways and will get you on Riker's Island quicker than anything that I can set up for you."

"My talents!" Chris said. "I can paint. I can do graffiti! I am an artist! That is why I came to New York! I once vandalized a Home Depot, the plywood, the stinky fresh cut plywood where there's that fine saw dust you would violently snort up your nose if you could!"

"He is all yours Razor. Shit. He sounds crazier than you!" Henry said.

Chapter 3: Razor's Master Plan

Chris and Razor stuffed their elongated gasps with greased cheese and pepperoni. Both laughed while New York's finest pizza slid down, lighting warm fire places in their turquoise caverned guts.

"Your tag name is "Bronx's Bubble Butt Burner! "BBBB" And tonight, you are going to burn, my southern brother!" Razor said.

"You need a full body Brazilian wax from my cousin, Skull-Almond," Razor said.

Hours later, the moon glowed the red bricks and broken glass windows. The white graffiti like lanterns in dark rooms. Batman would have turned around. A blue glowing smear like Luke's light saber curved letters, ephemeral, in the midnight air. Led by Razor's hand. "There are red bricks, grey-brown sediment, rusted trains—old and new, bathroom tiles, fresh painted cement, all for the taking, ready to be signed by us, the subculture royalty in the dark alleys. The sun goes down, the moon leads the fortunate to their front doors and us to the pavement, and the sun pulls back the red curtains of our graffiti's birth! What are you going to do BBBB?"

Chris's mind dragged him back into a green decrepit boat with his father. Fishing the summertime Savannah swamps. It was this third Budweiser that unleashed fantastic secret fluids flushing the crevices of his aching mind. Dad caught a leviathan Catfish that would later break his grill. It was like an imagery fishing line that yanked the sides of Chris's lips to smile once more at his simple and delighted father. But in his mind, his smooth naked body, oiled like a seal, goosebumps swaying the freezing A/C current, the sweet smells of Cinnamon and Vodka, all the eyes of stranger onlookers absorbing the glare off his freezing bubble butt ass cheeks. He snuck out that night and danced. "I will do Abe Lincoln."

"Just Abe? Your Bronx's Bubble Butt, you need bubble letters brother!" Razor said.

"Abe once said 'Labor is Superior to Capital and deserves much the higher consideration!" Chris said. "Why do I have to paint naked as a Jay-Bird?"

"Because I am going to film you live on Facebook. New York will love it!" Razor said.

"Can they track me?" Chris said.

"No." Razor said. "I don't know"

The spray soaked the brick. Abe formed like a purple monochromatic ghost that splashed along in mid-flight. The incandescence broke out the black iron lanterns to show the wobbling of Chris's ass as he shook anew the insides of the arousal cans. Some of New York and the globe watched the live stream. His smooth thighs stretched over a mobster's stepping stool. One a few tough guys walked into nooses to escape something worse. The rattled pea mixed the fresh orange paint for the bubble letters. Chris's ass cheeks wiggled as he leaned in for "Labor is Superior...".

"Dude they found you...RUN!" Razor said.

Chapter 4: Room 237 and I am Chris Pond

I started to my right and into a fucking puddle. The New York rain mixed with a billion particles of Northern Industry and its people licked my lower half naked and soaked. My bare ass smooshed against a cold wall behind a dumpster.

He was painted in red light. An old Wall Street man in his seventies, bald, black government glasses, grinding teeth, and he spotted me. I ran up a fire escape grasping banisters that felt like the back of a viper, wet scales that flinched on each tug. Every window was shattered except where there wasn't any. I climbed into a tan hallway with red doors. My ass wet from New York's puddles, wobbling flesh, my cock tapping each thigh, left, right, left, right, until I stomped my feet still. I looked down and saw my Abe Lincoln illuminated like the only flower in a garden. A crowd semi-circled around it. I screamed. They all looked up at me. My body started rocking.

I was bent over, and Wall Street was deep in my Bubble Ass. All he wore was his diamond coated Rolex. It sparked bits of the moon in my peripheral vision. His cock was like marble but still curved to the stars. It was cut, smooth, and disappeared inside me as his thrusts rattled this Brazilian waxed ivory ass. My flesh shimmied like a delicate and controlled seizure.

"Go BBBB! You are famous now!" the below gust said.

"Awwwwww!" Nice ass graffiti guy!

I felt Wall Street's seamen splash my buns like a broken water balloon of hot maple syrup.

Next was a tall black man, naked, handsome wearing a purple tie and three gold rings. His rich chocolate dick was ten inches and sculpted by Degas. "Awwwwwww!" I screamed.

Next was another man, then a gothic woman with a strap on, then two guys at once. He climbed out on the ledge to slide his boner in my mouth.

I walked the alley ways naked and bruised, but untouchable. Razor let me sleep in his 1976 Nova. I emailed my dad.

Dad. I am a famous artist in New York. In fact, I just got fucked by New York and I feel like I needed to do that a hundred years ago. I feel like this place is now my home. The disgusting shit, the scrap yards, the graffiti, the needles in the park, the broken windows, the prostitutes, the corrupted cops, the serial killers, the wall street thieves, are not something on television any more. They are mine to worry about and take care of.

Yours Truly,

The King of New York