Busker sat down and thoughtfully finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich at the shelter over on Main Street. It was the best he'd have for a few more years. There was a little piece of crust remaining on his knife from the sandwich, just enough dry crust that a wipe would suffice, and not an entire wash. Love the little pleasures. Feeling a little spry, he delighted a few of the regulars by asking one to spit a tooth pick at him, which he would then dissect in the middle of the air, long-wise. They thought it was a rare feat, and it was--a singularity. The only man, the only time, the only knife for such an occasion.

He (or his clone) had been frequenting this place for a long time now, watching the tenants in the shadows, listening to the night air. Months ago, the air had grown foul with the dreams of hopeful youths eager for a quick buck, filled with tales from The Streets. You know, The Streets--filled with the exact same layer of filth and grime almost every time the tales are told, connected inch by inch, a dirty aorta spilling and simultaneously pumping beneath the Heartland.

A rap studio had opened up across the street from the shelter.

Busker took a long time to walk across the street. A week and a half, exactly. Every inhabitant in the shelter wondered who this young man was--he wasn't a volunteer, and he didn't have shit all over him. He stayed, talked a little, cooked, ate, whatever. He was always tying people's shoes for some reason. On the tenth-and-a-half day, they noticed something dark in his eyes, his posture.

After hearing the story about Old Ronnie and how he got the condom stuck on his toe for the fifth time this week, he excused himself and went to the lockers, returning with a very packed duffel bag. Busker thought, "Would Luke Cage do this? He's not real...maybe I'm not real."

Busker was very, very real.

He walked across the street to Mortar Records, home of pictures of dozens of pairs of gleaming gold teeth, album covers that looked more like diamond-encrusted battlefield photos.

What is the purpose of a Platinum Bazooka?

-----

Mortar Records loomed mid-sized over Rommel's shadow as he approached. It was everything he'd expected it to be, an extra story taller than the shops on the Quarter, fake gilded corinthian columns flanking the entrance, sculpted gangsta gods turned away from the building like innocent bystanders. Had these been alive, they would crumble under the gaze of a one Rommel Busker.

He passed under the high, blood-red awning and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, the strap pulling at his chest--the classic Indiana Jones bag-carrying position. Heroes set trends.

A Quick Inventory of Necessities revealed:
Jericho Left and Jericho Right, his trusted guns (he was certain that they wouldn't be needed this time out, but you never know. He knew, but you don't). Full Duffel Bag, and a pair of classic all-black PF flyers, tied neatly, quietly shuffling through the hallways of Mortar Records, Inc. Busker walked past a couple of ground level lounge-type areas, and damned if he didn't see the norm for every music video out today--mounds of cash, scores of scantily-clad honeys, hot tubs and crates of guns and ammo, with nary a digitized blur to erase the madness. He stopped and turned to find that everybody was actually moving in slow motion. It dawned on him.

"This thing is a fucking virus."

As he thought this, two body guards noticed him through the bustling party, stepped out of slow motion, and rushed him into the red-and-gold-leaf hallway. Immediately sensing that Busker was an outsider, they skipped the pleasantries of introductions and went straight for his throat.

To begin, the hallway was incredibly small, as per the designs of most buildings in the Quarter. The guards, roughly seven feet tall and several feet wide, grabbed at Busker...

At this point, it is of utmost importance to address to the reader that PF Flyers, once a popular children's shoe in parking lots and stickball games the world over, have a durability and a power unmatched. Rommel, sensing a child's view of the world will reign supreme, never ever let go of his loyalty to the shoes. As the guards (named Nuck Nuck and Weezie, respectively) rushed towards him, Rommel executed a baseball slide right into Weezie's shin. Where Rommel used to be, there now was an empty space, soon occupied by young sir Nuck, smashing into the former. What happens next, in a series of debilitating grapples accompanied by the percussion of black rubber soles on tacky wallpaper, is the short story of how two grown-ass men were wedged in between two walls and suspended approximately two feet above the air (rather uncomfortably). Busker bounded up the staircase at the end of the hallway, anxious to have words with Gideon Mort, founder of Mortar Records, Inc, Pimp, baller, hustler, killer, Kingpin of the quarter. He pushed through the double doors and upon looking at his intended target, said nothing.

"What are you doing here?" said Mort. His smirk was firmly plastered onto his face from years of never knowing defeat (and a double shot of Jack Daniels).

"Trying to make things better."

"What, you gonna kill me or something? Do you know how many people try that in the span of a day to me?"

"That idea's played, man. Done to death, actually. No. What I have here--" Rommel slung the light duffel off his back and onto the table--"is your life. I took it from you. I figured since you're so good at making a life for yourself, by yourself, you can start all over again."

Busker opened a file folder and produced a slip of paper, which indicated that six million dollars, once belonging to a mister Gideon Mort, was now in the possession of the shelter across the street.

"Last week, I found out that embezzling millions of dollars was actually easier than picking pockets. But not as much fun. In this case, it had to be done, though."

Mort's cool finally broke into a scowl.

Rommel smiled."Also, your beats are terrible. Get a fuckin' Ornette Coleman record. And don't poison this block ever again." His smile turned into a steely gaze.

Gideon's hand reached for the silent alarm. Guards arrived momentarily, after fixing the human wedge from downstairs. Rommel ran, and steeled himself for a dive through a plate glass window and subsequent stitches, however, the sting of economic shutdown had occured earlier in the week, as Mort realized that he didn't have enough money to replace a broken pane, and Rommel flew through the silken curtains, only to hit the awning rolling, falling to the street below.

It's like this: In any realm of life, there are numerous ways of receiving what is known as "the hook up." If you know a butcher well enough, you're bound to get prime cuts of meat from time to time. Mechanics can tell you secrets about cars. Knowing Rommel Busker could get you a Hand-of-God miracle on the average of twice a week.

Landing on knees and sneakers, he whipped around just in time to clutch an old man who was about to get hit by a car. Rommel sighed.

"How many times do I have to say it, Ronnie? Crosswalk."

With the voice of a dozen old coots from old western flicks, Ronnie gasped, "Oh, you saved my life! Blessed be. I cain't die on no Wednesday."

"Why not?"

"Why, it's Manwich day! That there's goddamn why, son!"

"Gotcha."

They both went back across the street for a hot meal.

-----

Next: Death Wears a Pale Hoodie