Shermantown

                                                      (“Let’s Go”)
         “Come on let’s go morons.”
         “Hey, shut up Ricky”
         “Hey leave Ricky alone he’s higher up than you, Gill”
         “Oh look out Jim’s a tough guy.”
         “Alright both of yous shut up!  I know what the boss wants a quick question and if we’re turned down kill him.”
         “Ok so I and Gill will take the Nova.  Jim you take the P.O.S. Vega.”
         “Gee thanks Ricky.”
         “No problem.”
         “Let’s get going.”
         They peeled out of the parking garage and began their long drive to some slum in the middle of Nevada.  They needed to get some goon that worked for the boss years ago.
         “Hey Ricky yous think it was a good idea to have Jim drive alone?”
         “Probably not, but if that depressed shmuck didn’t take his meds and offs himself.  It’s not my problem.”
         “You’re cold Ricky”
         “Na I’m boiling hot baby, ha-ha.”
         “Yeah whatever, so who we going after.”
         “I don’t know use to be the head hit man for the family.”
         “You think he’s just going to leave his new life to pick up his old one?”
         “I’d think so the family always treats her kind with luxuries most can’t get.”
         “Yeah, but maybe he left for a good reason.”
         “If he left he just got spooked by a job gone bad or something.  People lose their heads sometimes, hopefully he found his again.”
         “Yeah.”
         “What the hell is Jim doing?”
         “I don’t know… he’s stopped back there.  Oh my god! He’s got a gun to his head!  Turn this around now Ricky.”
         “That mook better not pull it.”  They squeal to a stop in front of Jim’s Vega.
         “Jim don’t pull that goddamn trigger!”
         “Why the hell not?  I’ve just been driving thinking about the times before this.  The times when I didn’t have to kill peoples.  All I want is to get away from this place.  So you guys just get out of here!”
         “Jim how do you expect me to get this Vega back to Vegas?  You know Gill’s a retard, he can’t drive.”
         “That’s all I’m good for to you, to drive a Vega?”
         “It’s more than that Jim, you’re the one the boss wants to see succeed.”
         “Really?”
         “Sure think about it, you’ve been with the family for four years… your time’s coming!”
         “Alright.”  Jim said as he dropped the gun.
         “That’s my boy.  Let’s saddle up were only thirty seven miles out.”
         They continued on the rest of the way, Jim in the Vega and the others in the Nova.  They pulled onto a ranch.  A silver trailer shone in the morning sun.
         “Ok boys stay under that tree there keep those Aks close.”
         “Will do.”
         Ricky walks up to the front door and gives a knock.  He clicks the hammer back on his .357 magnum.  The door swings open.
         “Morning Mr. Wailings.”
         “Uh, morning to you too.  Can I help you with something?”
         “Yeah actually you can.  I was sent here by my boss, you might know him, Anthony Spilotro?”
         “Yeah I know him, so what you need?”
         “Well you need to come back with me to Vegas.  The place has gone to hell lately; we need your gun hand again.  I’ve heard a lot of things about you.  Joined the mob scene in 1959, started right away as a killer, your famous assassination of the Cincetti clan leader with an axe making you the Albert “The Axe” Wailings.  You quickly ran up the ranks of the Spilotro chain.  I couldn’t believe you killed two guys with one of your hands… ah!”
         “Jesus, get on point that guy just shot Ricky!”  Gill shouted as Jim and him moved forward, Kalashnikovs in hand.

                                                    (Burning Up)

                                                My shadow killed
                                                    Eyes chilled
                                Power I possessed was of life and death
                                                  I burn at night
                                          Toss and turn with freight
                      I held the gun to a head and listened for the last breath
                                        Mind numbed by exasperation
                                        Due to these constant lacerations
                              I might as well have assassinated the nation
                                        Maybe I’d be the new sensation
                                        I’m going crazy lost without a soul
                                            I see myself dead on a knoll
                                Promise me mother you’ll forgive my hands
                                  They were working death for another man
                                            I helped this struggling clan
                            Reach the top of this place they call the promise land
                                                    I’ll find safety here
                                                Hopefully I can cohere


                                                Albert Wailings, 1972


                                                      (Shermantown)
         Tires like Velcro as they peeled off the smoldering driveway.  The '71 Vega slammed into drive her wheels squealed lightly as she began her long journey.  A blistering Nevada August heat liquefied the concrete ahead and boiled the blood to the obliterated chrome trailer behind.  A man, the inhabitant of the Vega, now cruised at a cool ninety miles per hour.  Marlboro smoke licked at his rough face, swam through his salt and pepper stubble, and swirled out into the arid air.  His bloody wife beater battered on his sweaty chest and his callused thumb beat nervously on the wheel.  The radio buzzed with a stagnant signal.  Albert Wailings was heading to Shermantown.

That morning…

         A scent of coffee lifted the flavorless morning and the local White Pine County news played.  Neighs of the horses brought the sun over the monotonous mountains.  Al sat on his couch facing the door relaxing before the laborious day, just like he’d done for fifteen years.  The difference – a knock.  He stood to answer.  He flung the door open.  There a man stood in a black suit, .357 Magnum cocked, and a toothpick sliding side to side grazing his bleach blonde moustache.  This man began explaining that he came to get Albert.  He started tearing through Albert’s past like the pages in Green Eggs and Ham.  The man said they needed him back, scum was pouring onto the streets of Vegas.  As the man rambled on about the famous killings this now peaceful man had completed, Al thought how he paid his dues.  He already poured the blood of the innocent for the mobs gain.  The coffee mug began to quake under Albert’s frustrated grasp.  The searing black coffee splashed onto the man’s face, he shrilled as the toothpick began tumbling to the ground.
         Albert sprang to the bedroom in that old trailer.  In mid flight he snatched the shotgun next to his bed, peered down the hallway and the click of the trigger sent a sheet of bb’s shearing the skin and black cloth from the man’s body.  The bloody mass ranted and stammered about.  Al’s left foot squeaked in the puddle of red while his right sent the man flying back out the door.  Pointing the barrel towards the squirming rat, from the hip, Al made the sand dance and the vultures pleased.  Suddenly two more men appeared from underneath the shade of Al’s front tree, Kalashnikovs in hand.
         The last Al saw was them slinging those cannons over their shoulders before the door shut giving no protection in its latching.  Al dove right and held his head between his legs.  Those two boys out front started the gunpowder symphony on how to kill a trailer with lead.  The place instantly filled with debris.  Cabinets clamored to the linoleum floor as holes weakened the restraints on the walls.  Tires exploded causing tremendous shifts in the level of the floor.  Hot coffee in the pot sprayed onto Al’s back.  Pillows puffed like a teddy bear receiving a stabbing.  Plinking, like a million rocks hitting a speeding car, polluted Al’s hearing.  The shells left the chamber of the cannons getting warmer the longer they stayed in the Nevada air.  Finally the victorious metal clinks of empty clips awoke Al.  Al peered out one of the bullet holes nearby.  The men began to leave but, one of them turned and saw the reoccurring light in the bullet holes.  He yelled some command at his partner.  A car’s engine revved and began to chug towards the center of the trailer.  Al threw his body into the bedroom as the Chevy Nova split the Swiss cheese trailer in two.
         Al had survived.  He heard feet sifting through the sand.  He grabbed a piece of paneling split and now dagger shaped.  The feet got closer; Al sat his body at the edge of the split point.  The feet got so close you could now hear the man breathing just around the corner.  Al lunged from around the corner and drove that paneling at a forty-five degree angle straight through the man’s chest.  He grabbed the man’s gun, still in hand, and shot the other black clothed villain right between his eyes.  Finally the noise had calmed back to horse’s neighs in the morning rays.  Al let out a corrosive yell of will as he yanked a clothes hanger out of his leg.  He now sat in the sand and dirt right next to the man he shot in-between the eyes.  He searched his wallet and found the calling card for the so called, “CEO of The Fabulous Flamingo.”  Then he took the man’s Marlboros and relieved himself on the man’s dead back before he shuffled into the '71 Vega.

Back to the road…
         
        He told himself that all he needed to do was to get to Shermantown then take the bus to Lander County Airport.  Al continued to cruise at perilous speeds down the vacant road.  He began to talk to himself about how he’d get away and start a new life far from his past.  Alaska, yes it was perfect as he began to feel positive about his conundrum.  Suddenly the heavy engine of the Vega shut off.  He stopped right at a rustic sign next to the road.  Shermantown thirty-seven miles and spray painted at the bottom, my place seventy-five miles.  Popping the hood he looked, as the carburetor burst into flames.  He began to have convulsive giggles of tears.  He grabbed the shotgun out of the trunk and set out like an egg on a frying pan.
         Hours of walking began to give him a clammy sweat in the heat and a head as light as helium.  His eyes began to roll in his skull as he tried to stay sane.  A euphoric tingle went down his spine; his knees began to wobble over his feet.  The heat wave on the road began to move closer, until it was a field of blur in Al’s eyes.  Hip down numbed as his head inevitably feel.  Falling onto the sun scarred concrete his cheek began to sizzle.  One green eye lay open as Al stared at gleaming black armor.  A scorpion, close enough to see its saliva stretch from bottom jaw to top.  Al thought fear but couldn’t get away from it.  It stammered in a defensive half circle around his face.  It moved in close and with a hair raising hiss, an inch from Al’s face, extended its venomous spike and jabbed it into Al’s brow above his open eye.  Everything began to get cold as his lid unwillingly shut.

                                                      (She’s Gone)
         I tried calling the kids, none answered.  I can’t believe you’re gone.  Just the father and I stand under the closing day.  I hope you realize that I may be the only soul here with you, but that soul flourishes and can never fade away.  I’ll always be with you.  We made those vows and I intend to keep them.  Ever since I first saw your bubble gum eyes across that train, I never lost that feeling they gave me.  I could stare into them all day.  If I felt down or lost I just thought of those eyes.  Now I have to stare at that face seeking comfort when that face is why I need comfort.  That sense of ‘My side of the bed is the only warm one now,’ hasn’t quite stuck.  I’ll keep the covers you made on the bed forever still, your warmth from that last night will stay trapped until I’m with you again.  I’ll let the father put you in your final resting place.  I can’t watch you sink into this earth.  I’ll be at home, rocking in my chair as usual, beer in hand and don’t worry I’ll rinse the can.
         I hope I said all I needed to say.  I just can’t believe she’s gone.  I took her for granted and she knew that.  I knew that, but it’s like my purpose is gone.  My truck doesn’t even seem to drive the same.  Twilight breaks through the clouds in the distance.  Hopefully she caught the elevator.  Our kids too lost in their pursuit of money to come see their half for the last time.  Maybe I’ll just finish myself off tonight.  No, she wouldn’t want that.  I just can’t go on.  What am I going to do with her truck, horse, and old debts?  I say screw the government they can’t demand money from the dead.
         What the… a body?  I’ll stop, she’d want me to.  Oh my, he’s definitely messed up.  My, my, my a scorpion’s bite.  Come on stranger we got to get you to safety.  His body is awfully limp; well he’s still carrying a pulse.  Here we go first time home without her and I got a dying man in my hands.  Maybe this is the final task I have to complete to get me to heaven with my angel.  Let’s get those wounds stitched.  What happened to his leg?  Here we go suck the poison from his eye.  Oh boy, puss.  We’re going to have to go past home remedy.
         There we go boy.  You’re looking good.  Ah a beer and my chair, concluded telecasts and a book.  She told me to read it a thousand times; I never have, until now.  So many pages, I have to do it for her.  The American Dream: A Man’s Journey sound’s fitting.  Well let’s begin, good night fellow I’ll see you in the morning.
                                          (Part 2 of Shermantown)
The next day…

         A rough hand tapped on Al’s forehead.  Al opened his eye gradually as pain began to grow over his body.  Leg bandaged from the hanger wound, neck and back on the verge of black with blood blisters pulsating constantly, cheek badly burned, and a poorer sight than he previously remembered.  A voice told Al to stay calm.  Dust particles danced in the five a.m. sun rays that spewed into the dated room.  Al’s weak sight peered at the burly man in the wooden rocking chair across from him.  The large man leaned in close to Al and introduced himself as Buck Chillinger.  He explained how he found Al on the side of the road driving back from his wife’s funeral.  Buck told Al about his eye.  How when he got Al home his eye was balloon sized and his pupil had disappeared.  Buck noticed the scorpion wound and applied a home remedy to it, and was forced to remove the destroyed eye.  Al brought his shaking hands to his face and felt the leather eye patch.
         Buck was a kind rancher, like Al had become in the recent years.  He wore hard brown leather boots and a large gray beard.  He had a rough voice that grinded on every word that left his chapped lips.  He spoke of his deceased wife as a saint and how he no longer had a point in this world.  Buck mentioned that a man shouldn’t have to put something to death and bring something from death in the same day, only god could do those things.  He stared Al in the eye and told him that wherever he was trying to get to, he has to realize that running isn’t the way to face your past.  Al’s face changed as he realized that Buck figured him out.  Then he gave a little evil smirk and told Buck that he understood.
         Buck offered his wife’s pickup to Al to finish his journey.  Al took it with open arms.  Buck gave him a thermos of coffee and a fresh pack of shells for his shotgun.  Al revved up the engine of the rusted pickup and watched as Buck slumped and walked back to his vacant house.  It was now nine a.m. and Al had a four hour drive to Las Vegas.  The Spilotro family was going to get a little surprise.  Al stopped at Ely City to stock up.  He got a handgun, new clothes, first aid kit, and more ammo.  Albert Wailings was heading to Las Vegas.
In Vegas…
         The “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas” sign brought back haunting memories of trips to Lake Mead with “wise guys” in the trunk.  Al knew who he was after, Anthony “The Ant” Spilotro.  He ran the Stardust and the Fabulous Flamingo Casinos.  Anthony had his grasp on the cops too.  That little pissant was the one that promised Al his freedom from the mob.  He also bought the trailer his goons just got done destroying.  Al was going to make sure Anthony paid for his mistake.
         Al pulled down Las Vegas Boulevard at two p.m. and parked in the Fabulous Flamingo’s parking garage.  He stepped out into the echoing noises of cars humming on the street, people chatting, and money clattering into slot machine trays.  He headed through the garage for the doors just inside the bustling casino that fed Anthony’s unpopular crime ring.  Picking up a pay phone he pulled out the dirty calling card.  His fingers nervously pressed the numbers.  “The Ant” answered.  Al announced himself and explained to Anthony why he so quickly killed the men that arrived at his trailer.  They instantly pulled their cannons on his property and he didn’t allow them to say much.  He didn’t have the slightest idea they were associated with Spilotro, well at least that’s what Al told Anthony.  Anthony quickly understood and apologized for sending such amateurs.  He said he needed Al to do some “cleaning.”  He told Al to come as quickly as possible to his office.
         Albert hung up the phone, felt the handgun in his belt, and began to move fluidly through the casino.  He grazed past tourists, found the locations of Anthony’s goons, broke the thick layer of smoke in the air, and opened the stairwell door to begin the ascent.  Al now stood before two bodyguards that were blocking the door to Anthony.  They went in to begin a pat down on Al.  Al knew this would happen.  He waited until one was feeling his leg and the other began to space out at the ceiling.
         Al’s hand dropped from the air and snatched the handle of the gun in his belt.  The one feeling his leg was silenced first, an easy kill, eyes down and brainstem in clear sight.  The other bodyguard snapped his eyes onto Al, just as the chamber let another bullet sail strait through the bodyguard’s skull.  Al now twisted the handle on Anthony’s door.  He flew into the room.  In mid stride, as Anthony reached for a gun in his drawer, Al shot him in the shoulder.  He then sprinted over Anthony’s desk and kicked him in the chest causing him to fall on his back.  Al now lay atop Anthony, the gun aimed right at his eye, ready to fire.  The gunshot never rang through the gaudy office.  Al told Anthony he’s not here to kill any more people, he’s done enough of that.  He lets Anthony know that he’ll find his other enemies and let them finish him off.  Al shot in the air, and placed the steaming barrel onto Anthony’s teary cheek.  With a final stare Al stormed out of the office.
         He saw the elevator climbing towards the floor he was on.  Al began to soar down the stairs.  He panted heavily as he debated with himself if he made the right choice.  With each stair that passed under his feet he felt regret for not pulling that trigger.  It didn’t matter now; Al did what he had to do.  He had to get out of that casino, back in his truck, and out of sight.
         Voices entered the first floor of the stairwell’s nine.  Al spun around the banister by the fifth floors door.  He had to get lower.  Stampeding feet rumbled up towards Al.  He darted by the fourth floors door.  The goons were seconds from him.  He saw his chance and took it.  Shattering through the third story window Al landed onto the top level of the parking garage.
         Bullets began to zing around his back as he hauled for the ramp leading lower.  Car doors collapsed and flexed with each bullet that hit.  The men shooting at Al screamed all sorts of banter as he stumbled down the ramp.  Al blew past some old ladies on the second story of the garage.  Al now on the bottom level, dove into his truck and started the rust bucket with a thunderous roar.  His pupils were dilated and his lids wide open as the adrenaline surged through his veins.  He slipped out onto the road just as the pursers poured onto the bottom level.  Driving past the front of the Flamingo he saw dirty cops and hired guns swarm the place like ants to sugar.
         
                                                (“What a Shmuck!”)
         “What a Shmuck!”
         “Anthony calm down, let’s act civilized.”
         “Anthony calm down, blah, blah, blah.  Tony do you know what were dealing with?”
         “No you haven’t said much.”
         “This Albert Wailings.  I sent three of my finest men to bring him back here so he could roll in the riches forever more.  He’s the best gun I’ve ever seen.  My pa used him to get the Spilotros to where we are.  He repays me and my father by killing my men and disappearing.  I sent a follow up crew they said it was a war zone.  No sign of the scumbag.  There’s no doubt he’s heading for me, he’s just trying to cause some trouble.”
         “Well what you want me to do about it?”
         “Tony ‘The Brute’ Brutelli needs to protect his friend.  We need to work together to keep an eye out for this guy.  I have the last picture I had of him circulating to my men.  Here’s one for your end.  He’s probably changed quite a bit since then though, so keep a sharp eye.  Can I count on you?”
         “Yeah of course Anthony, you’ve always had an influential radiance to Vegas.  I only wish I could have that.”
         “Well get this guy and maybe we’ll talk about you getting a new place on the strip, Fremont is old Vegas.  You have a lot of power, though so I respect that and you know I do.”
         “Yeah you say it clearly with all your gift baskets, cards, and the occasional gun for me to play with.”
         “What you trying to say that’s not enough?  I’ll gladly pay for your casino if you promise not to shoot me; I always have our best interest.”
         “I know you do.”
         “Well then don’t scare me with those sarcastic comments.”
         “Yeah, yeah, yeah I know you don’t have anything to be scared of Mr. Spilotro.  Well I got to get back to my business, we done here?”
         “Yeah, come back soon you old ‘Brute’.”
         “Yeah I’ll see you soon Anthony.”  Mr. Brutelli said as he walked out of the room shaking his head.

                                              (Part 3 Shermantown)
        Al was now heading to Fremont Street, a short distance from the Fabulous Flamingo.  He needed to get a hold of Mr. Tony “The Brute” Brutelli.  The Brutelli’s were the other family with a dominating grasp on Vegas.  Al helped Tony Brutelli back in his mob days.  Anthony would tell Al that he needed to head over to Brutelli territory where Tony would tell him who he needed killed.  It was the way that the Spilotros would keep the Brutellis from attacking them.  That was Anthony’s way of giving the Brutellis a favor; sending Al.  Hopefully Tony would sympathize with Al and help.
         The last Al heard Tony was held up at the Golden Nugget.  He parked his truck out front of the Golden Nugget.  He slipped a Marlboro into his chapped lips before entering the Casino.  The red carpet gleamed in the sun.  A group of guys looked at Al’s eye patch.  He closed his good eye and told them it was a wink; they chuckled as he walked with a smile to the desk.  The lady greeted him; he said he needed to speak to Mr. Tony Brutelli.  She showed him to the elevator and told him the fourth floor on his left.
         Al tapped twice lightly on Mr. Tony Brutelli’s door.  He was told to enter.  Mr. Tony told him that he should kill him right there and call Spilotro, but he knew Al always had a good business mind.  Al was invited to take a seat while the large Tony puffed on his cigar.  Al sat and explained to Mr. Tony Brutelli what Anthony Spilotro was trying to have him do.  He told him how they came and shot up his place.  Tony said how the world was falling to backstabbers and disloyal hypocrites of the mob life.  Tony told Al that he respects him and understands what his problems are.  He asked what Al wanted.  Al said it something along the lines of kill every Spilotro you can find.  Tony “The Brute” Brutelli stayed true to his name, he agreed.  He felt it was time they expanded; they were reaching a plateau of income.  With a hand shake and a cheer of scotch Al left the smoggy office.  He closed the doors just as Brutelli started his phone calls.
         Tony had told Al to look for the new light on the strip that night.  Brutellis were going to spread Spilotro’s blood all over the streets of Vegas.  Tony told Al to expect Mr. Spilotro’s death at nine p.m.  Al stood out front of the Golden Nugget looking around with a smile on his rough face.  He took a final puff of the cig before he smothered it into the sidewalk, the tar cloud licked off his face.  He got into the truck and began heading to the Airport.
         It was seven p.m. and Al just bought a ticket that would let him leave his past at eight forty-five p.m.  Al walked through that airport as weights left his body and shattered the phony floor behind him.  He couldn’t believe it was all going to be final.  Sitting at the terminal with no bags and only a single cig left, Al began noticing people…  The cute girl across from him, the business man with his suit case and pictures of his kids, the young men laughing after a great vacation, and another man lost in his attempt to get away from his boring town.
         The now seating announcement brought Al out of his euphoric state.  As he took his window seat next to the cute girl, Al started burning his last cig.  The girl took a puff and they started talking.  The plane began to head out onto the runway.  The girl said she loved take off, Al agreed.  The jet began to rumble and the course was clear.  The metal mammoth left the ground.  Al looked out his window as the new light raged on the strip.  The Fabulous Flamingo was an inferno of flames and panic.  He turned back and looked at his rustic watch as it clicked to the nine p.m. position.  He peered at the girls bright blue eyes and smiled.  Albert Wailing was heading the Anchorage - far from his past.

                                                  (Burning Out)

                                                Stresses gone
                                        My mind churns the past
                                        A strong pulp is outclassed
                                          Energy begins to spawn
                                            Freedom of movement
                                      Mother I’m working for Heaven
                                              Sickness is absent
                                Forgive me I’m fighting evil to get more even
                                            My head is on straight
                                            Never again will it hate
                                              My hands are clean
                                    That’s the way they should seem
                                              I’m with a girl now
                                          Soon I’ll be writing my vow
                                      Hopefully things stay the same
                                          Or I’ll be changing my name


                                              Albert Wailings, 1974