The Beautiful Clowns

There is another one. Tall blond, shutter-shade sunglasses, pink novelty tee, and jeans that show me too much ass. We are trying to march down this boulevard to make a scene. Me and my gang, we aren't funny and are not here to chase tail, even if we did find it mildly attractive. Pocka-dots and an ironic sense of humor. When the clowns roll walk into where you live, you will find that you were on our turf all along.
This was a long time coming. We should have just taken what was ours. We had a girl selling on a street corner. Snow, not ass, we don't sell ass. We give stupid people stuff that keeps them stupid and there is no woman who deserves to be some banker's sweet escape. I find that women fight just as well as men, if they are treated like they can. Mother's fight better, pain tolerance and a constant angry stare.
Take Bridge, she was fourteen when we found her. Skinny as wire on a fence and high on crack. I don't give wasts of girls like that a second look but not Bridge. Even on rock, she was still had her wits. Still sharp. She saw me. So, I saw her as an equal.
I was supposed to be discussing a treaty with Tony Birdz. He was a fat fuck. Probably ate to earn that "z." I had come alone into a hive of ballers. They cut holes in the walls around Tony's office so they could ice the negotiator. I went in alone but it didn't take much convince the girls to be solders. I have a way of talking to women, especially sharp women. How did I take out all the guns on the other side of the wall, with all eyes on me? Well, I had their eyes. So, Bridge, got their throats, sharp girl. Then I decided to see if tony could fly. It sounds good but those fat fucks need to be rolled out of windows. They cleaned him off the new turf.
Now we are marching, full color, rank and file. This peace of ass with designer bullshit crosses the street, with eyes on me, as if, we were not marching. I wish I were conceded more than I am paranoid. Even through narrow slots, the eyes are on me. I don't let this player get to the curb before I signal Bridge to take a baseball bat to his knees. I crush the guy's stupid glasses. I'm not a murderer or a feminazi, it is a matter of respect and acceptable danger. We would have let him limp away, we had a car to set on fire, but he called me a bitch.
Barbera is rather sensitive to the b-word ever sense her sister was jumped resupplying our pusher. Hung Malone had his boys threaten wait for her in the alley. Some kids found her the next morning, blood pooling around her head like a pillow. They spray-pained "bitchez" on her midriff.
We marched on to Hung's blue car, I don't know stupid car names. He had the "the BoyZ" painted on it. We had to crowbar the trunk open to find where I had left ol' Hungy. "What is with you jerks and using 'z's as much as possible? It isn't that great of a letter. I'd rather you just wrote in Spanish, Hungarian, or where ever the hell you are from with that name." I pulled a squeaky red nose from my pocket and stuck it on Hung. "Anyone want to Hong-k the nose? Okay, you get get a freebie but you have to laugh at my next bad joke."
I pulled the dragon lighter from Hung's pocket. I lit a shirt sleeve we had sticking out the window. We needed a shirt because handkerchiefs are for Molotov Cocktails. What we had was Molotov Keg. I thought it would be funnier.