Monroe Tropics (words by Jason Kim)

The retribution diabolically handled with unforgettable execution demands respect to the inept ultimate.

Proficient and detailed, Parsons walked to the rights of the curb. Distinct in his work and patience, oozed the ooze each watcher forgave voluntarily.

The watch indicated the seemingly triangulating monsoon particular to that summer’s afternoon. Dauntingly dragging his epsilon, onto the crest of his white beaten button top.

He stroke that match, kissing that fragrant lock trapped within the classic but unmistakable coffin which evenly scorched the pleasure into the cortex of his heart and brain.

The bodies of wretched recluse, whom lied within his breast pocket, until summoned quietly and effortlessly, called for death and silent short conversation. Hessians dedicated to the fuming endeavor. Three died within those 15 minutes.

It was time.

Parsons was regretful, in his view and from without.

He’d done a bad thing.

He’d done a very bad thing.

The memories of the tyrannical deeds, done to height. It had to be done. He didn’t know. Second guess? No.

She was a beauty. Glimpse of her sheen deflected across the blue Chevy, classic and gorgeous. Catlike eyes, stilting long legs. Oh what a cool drink of tequila. Oh a shot would be good right now.

His destiny wasn’t complete. He could not stop. Couldn’t be distracted. He was doomed. He knew it.

Dragging weights on shoulders he’s never felt, clogged up and down the knees forward. They were heavy, he reckoned. Indeed they were.

The heat was damning. It pierced the heavy and humid air, with a zap and zip. Scorching the linen, parching his skin, drowning the cells in understood monotony.

His mind was too cluttered, step by step. Cacophony of silence and images flooded in front of his visuals.

“I’m sorry for what I’d done, Rachel“, he murmured, under his breath, as he slowly wiped the speckle of sweat from his eye brows.

“I’m sorry for what I am. I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes, for a micro second. He walked again.

It wasn’t always like this. Trembling with fear now, Parsons was a man’s man. A man who could predict the outcome, and get it done.

It was 1995, on a hot day like it was today. It was his glory years, he thought to himself.

You see, he was the best. The best damn gangster on this side of the tracks. And he knew it.

Best of all, everyone else knew it.

“I made it happen…I was king…”, he murmured to himself again. His eyes now were glazed with pity, putrified and stagnant.

Destiny in its holy might, never could foresee, the density in challenges, collecting on to one’s feet. A pool of hope, redemption, science, regret, retribution, harm, forgiveness, triumph, calculation, bargaining, and silence- collections of a hateful encyclopedic emblem of knowledge and anti-knowledge.

All is to avail. Useless and deleting.

Collar no longer stiff, dripping with thickness of his sweat. Clear and focused, his fedora hat stained with guilt. Guilt longing for its pass, to carry further the stench of undoing. Destruction set from the first time, and only time.

“What have I done…”

Parsons was here now.