THE KING OF COMEDY

(Author's Note: To my Constant Readers. Yes, I know some of this is familiar, I'm re-working Brave New World and this new story together as a whole. Most of it, however is new, new new, and if all goes well, I'll be taking BNW down.)

Chapter One: Killing Is Easy. Comedy Is Hard.

"The King Of Comedy" Rolling Stone, May 1975, cover story.

For those who think, life is a comedy.

For those who feel, it is a tragedy.

Whether you think, or feel, it should be obvious that unless you are of the same political opinion as G. Gordon Liddy, or maybe even the infamous "Joe", you should not in any way, shape, or form be an admirer of the Comedian.

He should have "America: Love it or Leave It" tattooed across his chest.

But.

But is the operative word, because there are long-haired, wild-eyed, pot-smoking street-protesting radicals, mellow hippie types, cool-obsessed teeny boppers, groovy groupies, film titans and rock stars, as well as many members of the general public who are neither left nor right who consider this man a hero.

You may well ask yourself what the hell is going on, but I decided to ask the man himself.

The first thing I notice about the Comedian's posh Manhattan high-rise apartment is that the air conditioning is not working.

And New York is in the middle of one of it's usual asphalt-meltingly miserable July heat waves.

As I arrive, at his apartment, the Comedian is sabotaging a plexiglass box over the thermostat with the butt of one of his pistols.

The man is obviously in a bad mood.

He's cursing, fairly growling the swear words, words which you don't usually hear a man from the Love It or Leave It generation uttering.

At least not in public.

Having abandoned trying to break the box, he sheathes his gun, and, laying his huge bricklayers' lands on either side of it, accompanied by some cursing that would make a Led Zeppelin roadie blush, he tears the plastic box out of the wall.

With some plaster for good measure.

Then he cranks the thermostat way down.

With a great whooooooosh, the room is filled with cool air.

As if the building's owner, who I assume is of Middle Eastern origin, can hear him, the Comedian begins to shout down the air vent.

"There! How d'youse like that shit, ya dirty fuckin cunt? Goddamn raghead motherfucker, fuck you! Fuck you, go shit in your fuckin' turban, you fuck! Take that, ya cheap cocksucker!"

He laughs, pleased with himself, and then takes notice of me.

You the guy from the Rolling Stone?"

I nod.

I'm overwhelmed.

And it's not just the vehement profanity, although it is kind of a shock to hear a man from my father's generation saying most of the words that George Carlin tells us we can't say on TV in one sentence.

I can't help it.

The Comedian is bigger in person than he looks on teevee.

With those boots on he has to be six-four, and he's also built like a bricklayer. He's a large, angry, brawling Brooklyn Irishman in black leather and steel stars and stripes, bristling with hardware, muscles, and macho, to the tune of what I'm damn sure is a Cuban cigar.

Looks like the same brand Fidel smokes.

"So, whaddya wanna know?"

What do I want to know?

Before I realise it has come out of my mouth, I have blurted out the thing I want to know the most but have the least business asking.

"What's it like, having the Harlequin for your old lady?"

Oh no.

For a moment, I don't know if he is going to laugh and sock me, or just laugh.

"You the kinda of son of a bitch who can eat scrap metal and piss gasoline? Can you drink half the night, beat five guys in a bar fight, and then fuck like a champ until the sun comes up?"

I answer truthfully.

"No. But I dig Chuck Berry records."

"Good taste in music's only gonna get you so far. She's got a heart of gold, but she's got a wicked left hook and she breathes fire. Kid's a real two-tone, hard-ass motherfucker. I've seen her kill badguys with her bare hands, and laugh at 'em while they're dyin. Now, if you take your cock out and she don't think much of you, she'd laugh in your face and show you the door. The easy way, or the hard way. You better forget about her. So, start talkin'. I ain't got all fuckin' day."

We're not sitting down, or exchanging pleasantries, we're going right to what do I want to know.

Okay.

QUESTION: Why is it, you think, that so many people who have to be crazy to embrace you as a hero still do?

COMEDIAN: Ya mean hippies and alla those types?

QUESTION: Yes.

COMEDIAN: (shrugs) I dunno. The thing about a lot of these hippies, I don't agree with 'em, especially not those fuckin' draft dodgers, but, the ones who go out in the street and yell and put their money where their mouth is, I can respect 'em for that. It's better than sittin' at home listen' ta records, smokin' reefers and ballin' broads. I mean, I ain't sayin' that's all bad, but you kids didn't fuckin' invent it. I mean, I did that shit when I was a kid. I never tried to make it look like a fuckin' statement. I mean, it's a free country, right? Let people say what they want. Yell a little. Knock over a fuckin' councilman's car. Or maybe a city bus, once in awhile. This is America, right? They gotta get it outa their system. When I gotta break up a riot, I always give people a chance to get the fuck out, but they don't. Ya know why? Because they're glad to see me. Because when I show up, the real fun begins. I never saw a peaceful protest in this country. Peaceful, my ass. For every guy and broad with a sign and a flower, there's ten guys and twenty broads who are just lookin' for their chance ta hit a cop with a brick or a two by four. Nobody likes cops too much. That's the way it is. You didn't invent that, either. Or maybe just impress somebody and get laid. Y'see, Americans ain't peaceful people. They wanna fight. That's why they're out there, ya know? So, somebody gets a knock on the head or a rubber bullet in the guts. Next day, they're showin' their buddies and alla the girls the bruise. Yeah, I went up against the Comedian. Motherfucker had to be seven feet tall. I took a fuckin' swing at him. I called him a fuckin' fascist pig. You bet your fuckin' ass I did. Awwww, fuck him, he ain't so much. That's America, ya know?

QUESTION: So you think this is a violent country, and they embrace you because you're a violent man?

COMEDIAN: No, goddamnit! You fuckin' Yippies, you're always tryna make it seem like a big surprise that people, especially Americans, don't take no shit. All this bullshit about violence. All the sudden violence is a dirty word. Yeah, well, maybe Jesus turned the other cheek, but me, I ain't the holy Son of God, and neither is anybody else in this fuckin' country. So, quit shovin' this, oh, you're so violent and I ain't shit up my ass. Because it's bullshit. If some guy walks up to youse tonight when you're at the bar, havin' a beer, an' he throws the beer in your face, grabs the girl your with's tits and calls you a long-haired hippie faggot freak, you're gonna punch him in the face, just like anybody would. No, what I mean is, I think this is a fuckin' free country, an' people like me because I wanna see it stay that way, and I ain't a hypocrite. I'm no angel. Neither is anybody else.

QUESTION: Do you think some American politicians are hypocrites?

COMEDIAN: (laughs) Some? Kid, I been puttin' up with this one an' that one since 1941. From all over the world. Most of 'em are a bunch of lousy fuckin' hypocrites, no matterw hat country they come from. They all drink, an' curse, an' chase broads, and some of 'em get high on shit you an' nobody else could afford to buy. An' they gamble and fuck whores, them stiff 'em on the bill, an' buy fuckin' German luxury cars on taxpayers money. Then, they button themselves up in their empty suit and try to make sure they look squeaky fuckin' clean. Well, I ain't like that, an' I never pretended to be. With me, what youse sees is what youse gets.

QUESTION: I read an article in the New York Times called "The Comedian's America."

COMEDIAN: Egghead bullshit.

QUESTION: Is there such a place?

COMEDIAN: Yeah. Sure. You're fuckin' soakin' in it. Most people, they can't afford to live in that nice, clean, Ozzie an' Harriet goodness fuckin' America. An' they don't want to. They work hard, or study hard, and when they ain't, they wanna have a good time. Drink, go to the movies, get laid, take a drive, lie in the fuckin' sun, ya know? Their life wasn't like no TV show. Their Old Man he worked eight or ten hour days, doin' whatever he did an' came home an told them ta close the fuckin' refrigerator door or take a fuckin' picture. Their Ma made a cake from a box because she hadda lotta work ta do. Or maybe their parents was divorced, or shoulda been. An' they either go ta school, or they got a job an a wife or a husband or somethin', or they're out playin' around, an they gotta lotta bullshit in their fuckin' life, ya know? So, they wanna have a good time while they can. People don't want somebody always waving their finger at them. Do this. Eat that. Buy this. Don't do this, don't eat that, don't buy this. Fuck you, ya know?

QUESTION: So you believe in freedom, then, real freedom? In that case, how do you feel about the drug laws?

COMEDIAN: I feel like whatever you been smokin' you oughta buy it someplace else. Smells like shit.

QUESTION: Hey, I pay a lot of money for that shit.

QUESTION: They took youse for a ride. Oh boy, it's the fuckin' reefer question. I figured you'd get ta that. Everybody your age, ya act like God just invented reefer last fuckin' week, an' He made it just for you. Youse gotta ask everybody, didja ever smoke reefer? I toleja I did, after the war. Jesus, all I did for a year after I got back from Japan was drink, screw, smoke reefers, listen ta records an' chase broads. I prob'ly smoked just as much reefer as any a you guys do. A lotta the guys and broads my age I knew, they did too. Yunno, there's a reason why there's so many of you little bastards, and it ain't because us old bastards went and bought youse at the store, or ordered you from the fuckin' Sears catalog. Jesus, there's probably six people in America in a fuckin' nunnery someplace who never smoked reefer. Fuck! Who cares? I drink booze and fuck broads, too. So sue me! Drag my ass to jail!

QUESTION: (laughs) Yeah. Me too.

COMEDIAN: Yeah, I figured you for it. First question you asked me was what's my girl like, ya little prick. (laughs) Speakin' of which, there, kid, I gotta go someplace. You find out what you wanted to know?

QUESTION: I think so. Can I ask you one more question?

COMEDIAN: Sure. Shoot.

QUESTION: (coughs, nervously) In his book, Under the Hood, Hollis Mason paints you very black, indeed. You came off as being this black-hearted brute who enjoys hurting people. Do you enjoy hurting people?

COMEDIAN: That was a nice tap dance around the fuckin' rapo question.

QUESTION: I heard you tell a reporter if he asked you that question again, you were going to put a cigar out in his eye, so I wasn't saying shit about that.

COMEDIAN: (laughs) You're pretty smart, kid. You know who Mason was writing about? Lemme tell you. My father. If I told you his name, you'd know exactly who the fuck he is. Every cop in the five boroughs had a hard-on for my old man, an' Mason was no exception. Hell, that Corman guy made a movie about my father. It almost got an X. I saw it. It wasn't half fuckin' sick, and weird and violent enough. My Old Man, if you told me his father was the fuckin' Devil, I'd believe youse. The Old Man, fuck, he was the fuckin' king of the rapos. He had as many beefs for rape as he did for murder, an' assault an' extortion. Those things was his business. Rape an' torture, those was his hobbies. He'd fuck anything weaker than him he could beat hard enough to make it sit still long enough for him to get his dick in it. Man, woman, or child. Dogs, too, if they was big enough, I'll bet. Some guys, if their marks couldn't pay, they'd beat up the guy and fuck the wife. That wasn't good enough for Pop. He'd fuck the guy who didn't pay him, too. He loved hurtin' people. He done it for a fuckin' living. Some guys would break your leg, not Pop. He'd put a guy's eye out with his thumb. Cut open his nostrils. Or the sides of his mouth, so that he was always smilin'. Maybe hold his hand over a burner till the meat melted off the bones. It always put him in a good mood, when he got to rape people, an' mutilate 'em, an' fuckin' torture 'em. He'd come home and tell us about it, like most guys talk about what they did at work that day. And he'd sit there and chuckle over it. His idea of a fuckin' joke. Of course, no matter who he'd gutted or skull fucked, he always had a little left over for his family. I still got little scars on the inside of my arms from where he useta grab my arm and put cigarette butts out me. Once, he held my hand over the flame on the stove until it started to melt like a candle. I got six brothers and sisters living. I raised four of 'em. The old man, he killed the other five. That's the kinda bastard he was. Now, if some asshole is a useless criminal piece of shit like my father, yeah, I'll enjoy hurtin' him. Or some fuckin' Nazi. Or Charlie in his black pyjamas, fightin' dirty an' blowin' American kids legs an' their balls off with land mines, sure, I'll enjoy hurtin' them. That 'Nam shit was no fun, ya know. But, I ain't no rapo, I ain't a cold blooded killer, an' I don't hurt people for the fun of it. That was Pop's racket. I ain't like him. If I was, I'd be on the other side of the cape.

QUESTION: Did Hollis Mason know your father?

COMEDIAN: He was a cop, wasn't he, the fuckin' prick? And guess who I'm the spittin' fuckin' image of? Mason's had a hard-on for me for years, partly because I remind him too much of the old man, and partly because Sally Jupiter lied me more'n she liked him. So, we done now? Because I gotta go meet my partner.

QUESTION: Yes. I think so.

I departed, feeling a little numb.

For days, I couldn't get the image out of my mind of a big, brutal, hulking man in a George Raft gangster suit holding a screaming little boy's hand over and open flame until the flesh on it actually began to melt.

So, did I find out what I wanted to know?

Yes, I did.

The Comedian, his nightmarish childhood notwithstanding, is an American everyman.

He's your father, who told you to get away from the goddamn TV when the game was on. He's your friend who hangs around on the corner and complains his old lady is the biggest bitch in the world.

Your brother who hates his lousy job.

Your cousin who gets into fights at the bar all the time.

That one uncle you have who's always telling you about how many fucking Nazis he killed in the Big One.

You know, the one who gets chicks half his age that won't even talk to you.

The Comedian's America is a place where all of us are in it together

And all of us are completely fucked.

So, as long as we're screwed, we want to be able to have a good time, a good life, a good something. He's a nihilist, but he's also a realist.

A man who grew up in a sweltering Brooklyn tenement who can't believe with the rent he's paying that he can't turn on the A/C in his fancy apartment.

So he breaks into the thermostat and turns it down to Alaska.

Fuck you, you cocksucker, he said.

That's why he's everyman's superhero.

Because, no matter what your politics are, or how old you are, or what gender, or how rich or how poor, everybody has thought this to themselves.

Wait a minute.

What the fuck am I putting up with this bullshit for?

This is America. It's a free country, right? Then I'll do what I want to.

And if somebody doesn't like it?

Fuck you, you cocksucker.

East New York, 1937-Night

Mickey Blake had been out on the street after almost a year in the Tombs for about a month.

He went right back to business as usual, whether it was in his house or on the street.

While he was inside, some of those goddamn kids got a little too big for their boots.

Goddamn little bastards.

You couldn't touch Maggie without her getting knocked up big as a fucking house.

God only knew, he loved his wife, in his way, but every time he showed her, she got pregnant.

Twelve of them she popped out, and he took care of five of them.

Five down, five to go.

Five, not seven.

There were two he thought had a chance to make it.

His little chips off the old block, the twins, Eddie and Edie.

One thing Mickey knew, people like them, the world wasn't kind to them.

Killing off the weak ones was more of a mercy to the little bastards than they knew; Mickey loved them too, in his way, and that's why he killed them.

They were better dying at their father's hands when they were too little to know better, and getting a funeral and a tombstone and a decent burial than living long enough to die a crueller, harder death, somewhere down the line, at the hands of strangers.

And end up dumped in unhallowed ground, like so much garbage.

But, Edie and Eddie, they were the strong ones; they would be the ones who'd survive.

That was why Mick the Merciless took it upon himself to make damn sure of it; to toughen them up.

The two of them did some growing up while he was inside, this time.

Time to see just how much.

Mickey turned up the radio.

"Eddie, what the fuck are ya doin' in that fuckin' kitchen? It's the middle of the night."

"Nothin', Pop. Lookin' for food."

"Nothin', huh? Well, while you ain't doin' nothin', go in the can, get the Vaseline an' bring it here."

Getting the Vaseline had been a point of contention for Mick and his oldest living son for years.

He had to hand it to Eddie, even after he'd seen his father kill his older brother, Paul, for telling his Old Man to get it himself, he wasn't afraid.

"Didn't youse hear me, Eddie?"

"I heard youse, Pop. I'm still not gonna be your punk. You want me to stick a knife in youse again? Like when I was ten?"

The boy laughed.

"Hey, I got an idea. You get it for yourself, Pop. It's my turn to be on top. I'll bet it wouldn't be your first time."

That struck Eddie as funny as hell, and he laughed, uproariously.

Mickey went into the kitchen, and he hit him, hard as he could, with a closed fist.

Eddie was almost as tall as he was, now, he was getting to be a real big kid, he could take it.

"You think that's funny, ya little shit? You callin' your father a punk?"

With blood running out of his nose, Eddie was still laughing.

"Yeah. I think it's funny. I mean, why be half a faggot. Why not go all the way?"

Mick hit his son, again, and Eddie hit him back, and knocked out one of his teeth.

Good.

Very good.

"How d'you like them apples, Pop? Yeah. I think it's fuckin' hilarious! My own father's a fuckin' faggot. Betcha like it even better, bein' on the recievin' end from alla those spics and niggers on Riker's Island. Hey, Pop, you go steal some old lady's purse an' get sent back to the joint if that's what you're lookin' for, or go down to the waterfront, but you better leave me the fuck alone!"

Eddie was standing there with both his hands balled into fists, his legs slightly apart, he was ready to take another punch or throw one.

He was 13 years old, and he wasn't as big as his father, but he was almost as tall.

He was trying to grow a moustache, and he had a mean left hook; he was a man, now, and nobody was going to make a punk out of him, even if he had to die for it.

And Edie, when he had tried it with her, the hard way, she had shoved a switchblade against his throat and snarled the same kind of speech at him.

The nice way, that worked a little better.

They might just be all grown up.

"Don't you remember what I did to your brother?" Mickey asked.

"Yeah. I do. And when I was just a little boy, like Paul was, then, ya coulda done it to me, too. But not now. I'd like ta see youse try an' push me down the steps. An' if you think you're gonna lay a fuckin' hand on any of my brothers and sisters anymore, or Ma, or me, you got another think comin'. You been gone a long time, Pop. You wanna live here? Be my guest. But I'm the man of this house, now. I gotta job, I work ta keep us all here, me an' Ma. We had some good times, Pop, so I ain't gonna kill youse outright, although I know I should. You stay outa my way, an' I'll stay outa yours. Or I will fuckin' kill you, you fuckin' evil old sunnuvabitch. I'll fuckin' beat your brains in. I'll see you fuckin' dead, an' you won't be good lookin' no more, before you ever lay your hand, let alone your dick, on me or my of my brothers an' sisters ever again."

Mickey laughed, and slammed his son on the back.

"That's my boy, alright! Now that's my son, that's Good Lookin' Mickey Blake's boy! Chip off the old fuckin' block! Relax, Eddie, lad. Ya got it, kid. Ya passed the test. Go get your sister, I need ta talk to both of youse. She's about ready to hear this, too. Go on. I ain't gonna do nothin' else to youse. To either of youse. Ever again. G'wan. We'll go to that lunch counter at the drugstore at Fulton and Rockaway, after I finish telling youse what I gotta tell youse. It's open all night. You know I got money. I'll buy youse both whatever ya want. Get something for your Ma and the little kids. There's not so much as a fuckin' crumb in this place."

Eddie was hungry, his stomach betrayed his good intentions, snarling at the mere mention of food.

He knew Edie was starving, too, and so were Aggie and the little kids, and Ma.

And, as for Pop ever hurting them, again, well, they had decided while he was last in the joint that the next time he got wise with either of them, in any way, he was a fucking dead man.

Eddie went and woke his sister up.

Edie's eyes were full of sleep as she walked into the kitchen, lighting a cigarette.

"What the fuck, Pop? Yunno I work nights. I just got home an hour or two ago."

"Just listen to me, Edie, or you'll be workin' nights till you're old and grey."

"I dunno about that, Pop. Big Jim took me offa the corner an' put me on breakin' legs. I'm movin' up in the organisation."

Mickey just laughed.

"I'll bet you are. You're my kid, ain'tcha? Now, you listen to me a minute. I know what youse think of me, and you're right. I'm a no-good rotten bastard, and, other than the two of you and Maggie, I don't give a damn who else in this rathole dies, and I figure the other five would be better off that way, just like the five who's tickets I punched already. And, yeah, I done some fairly awful shit to both of youse, treated youse harder than the rest, who I treated pretty hard. Well, now I'm gonna tell you why. Foist, you know what youse are, an' what I am, don't ya?"

Edward and Edith looked at each other, and then at their father.

"You too, Pop?" Edie finally said.

"Yeah. Me too. Where did ya think it came from? Not your Ma. Maybe you see now, why I threw Paul down the steps. Why I beat Pat and Eric outa your mother's belly. Why I didn't get medicine for Laura when she had the flu real bad. An' why I drowned Timmy in the tub. He was fuckin' retarded on top of it, he wasn't gonna have a chance at life. None of 'em were. They wasn't any of 'em even ten years old when they died, they didn't know enough about life ta know they was losin' it. An' none of 'em died at the hands of a stranger. Ya know what this fuckin' world woulda done to 'em? If you two wanna take care of the rest of the bunch, be my fuckin' guest. You're young. You'll learn. When those cocksuckers out there find out what Aggie is, let alone Jimmy, and Mickey, and Allie and Ruthie, and they take 'em out the hard way, you'll learn. I learned. I saw my whole family die when I was just a little older than you. You'll learn."

"Pop, the fuckin' house burnt down. That's what Ma told us."

"Did your Ma tell you that the fire wasn't no fuckin' accident? Listen to me. Other people, they ain't like us and they don't like us. Those sonsabitches out there, they'll fuckin' kill ya soon as look at youse. If ya wanna survive, coming from where ya did, being what youse are, ya gotta be tough as fuckin' leather, and hard as fuckin' nails, and you gotta learn, it's better to be the hammer than the nail, even if you gotta die for it. I think you both got that, now. An' I don't see youse forgettin' it anytime soon. You unnerstan' me?"

"I dunno, Pop. Maybe you just like slappin' women and kids around an' fuckin' little boys in the ass." Eddie replied.

"An' fuckin' little girls. Every which way. Maybe ya just like hurtin' people, an' killin' em, when ya can." Edie added.

"Maybe I do. And the two of you are just like me."

"Not so fast, Pop. I may look like youse, an' maybe I don't mind hurtin' people, an' maybe I wouldn't care if I hadda kill 'em. But innocent people? Women an' kids who never done nothin' against me? My own flesh and blood? Not me, Pop. Not ever." Eddie told him.

Edie nodded in assent.

"You're young, Eddie. You'll learn. Both of youse. You'll learn. Alright. C'mon, then. I'll get youse somethin' ta eat. Now, what the hell makes you think your own father's a faggot, boy? Well?"

Eddie just laughed and shook his head.

"You fuck men, Pop. That's kinda faggoty." Edie explained.

Mick waved his hand, dismissively.

"It's not the same. It's done to prove a point."

"What point?" Edie demanded.

"That he's bigger 'n stronger 'n they are an he can do what he wants with 'em. To hurt 'em as much as possible." Eddie explained.

"Like your brother says." Mick agreed.

"I dunno, Pop. Ya never hurt me." Edie admitted.

"You get enough of that from your customers. Someone's got to be good to you, ain't they? Why not me? I made you, after all. I don't like you doin' that work. I don't mind you bein' in the rackets, but not doin' that work. I'm gonna talk to that bastard pimp of yours, and if he won't bump you up to a better line of work, I'll fuckin' kill him slow."

They had walked down all the stairs and were out on the street, by then.

"If you're gonna kill him, Pop, I want in on that." Edie asserted.

"Me too." Eddie agreed.

"Maybe I won't talk to him, then. Maybe I'll just kill the bastard. Take you two along. Finish your education."

"To prove a point, Pop?"

"That's right, Edie. Now you're catchin' on."

A Funeral, 1937

Father DeNunzio didn't know what to say over the coffin of Michael Patrick Blake.

Alias Good Lookin' Mickey Blake.

Alias Mick the Merciless, one of the most feared, brutal and ruthless gangsters in Brooklyn, let alone East New York.

Unlike most gangsters, Mickey Blake took his work home with him.

He was a genuine sadistic psychopath who showed up for Mass every Sunday with his skinny, battered, frightened wife and ever increasing and then suspiciously decreasing brood of children.

Before their father's death, Fr. DeNunzio had presided over the funerals of five of his children, and everyone in the neighbourhood was fairly sure they had met their deaths at the hands of the big, frightening Black Irishman who stood with their surviving siblings, front and center, with his jaunty hat in his meaty paws.

The rumours of how those unfortunate children passed, and the fates far worse than a few black eyes or split lips that befell their siblings behind closed doors were enough to make the blood run cold.

Fr. DeNunzio was in the unfortunate position of knowing exactly what was and wasn't true about Mickey Blake; the feared enforcer made a full confession of all his misdeeds once a month.

If ever a man deserved Hell, it was the late Michael Patrick Blake.

The only people to show up at the funeral of Mick the Merciless were the family he alternately doted over and abused and neglected.

Including his oldest children, the twins, Edward and Edith.

Eddie in a cast on his hand and Edie in bandages.

They were Mickey's favourites, he treated them better than all the rest of his brood, but , he also mistreated them worst.

Rumour had it that it was the twins, and not a police standoff that killed their father, and these injuries were the results of their efforts.

Incredibly, they all looked sad.

Margaret, the widow, and Agnes and Ruth were crying.

The young boys, Jimmy and Mickey looked terrified, and baby Allison was screaming.

Eddie and Edie stood closest by the coffin, quiet and still, hand in hand, tears streaming down their faces, staring at it in a combination of fear and awe.

Suddenly, Edie threw herself across the flower-draped coffin, and began crying, hysterically.

"Daddy! Oh, Daddy, I'm so sorry! Daddy!"

Her brother, Eddie, went to pry her off the coffin, and he broke down too, weeping in harsh, rasping tears.

"Pop! What do I do now, Pop?" he sobbed.

Father DeNunzio was both moved and horrified.

Molly Blake came and coaxed her children away from their father's coffin, speaking softly in her Brooklyn accent touched with a thick Irish brogue.

"It's alright, now, ssssh, it's alright. Your father wanted it this way, didn't he? He's back where he belongs now, back where he came from, so don't you worry about him. Come on. You can't jump into the grave with him, can you?"

Molly coaxed the twins away from the grave, pressing handkerchiefs into their hands.

"Mickey was a hard man, Father, and a wicked one, and we had a hard and wicked life at his hands. But no one's a bastard all the time, and he was all we had. And the twins, God save them, they were the apples of their father's eye. He loved them. He loved me. And they loved him, and so did I. In spite of everything, it's the God's own truth."

Fr. DeNunzio just nodded, numbly at the widow's words, and waited for a few minutes.

"Well, Eddie, you are the oldest son. You should say something." The priest finally decided.

Eddie let go of his sister's hand, and stood beside the priest, who was clutching his Bible.

"Thanks, Father. Don't worry, me and Ma, we'll make sure we get the kids to Mass, Sundays. Well, I don't hafta tell anybody that my father was a real SOB. Ma loved him, an' when I was little, before he battened onto me, I did too. I usedta think my Pop was just about the biggest, strongest, greatest, best-lookin' man in the whole world. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Funny thing was, in those moments where he'd lay off me, he'd go back to bein' the way he was when I was little, yunno, bein' a good father. An' I'm sittin' here, lookin' at that coffin lid, just waitin' for it to fly open an' have Pop get out and start smackin' the shit outa me, because I almost buried him alive. The lousy part of it is, I'm not sure if I wouldn't be glad to see he wasn't dead. He was an SOB, an' I hated him like the Devil hates a decent man, but, he was my father, an in a crazy kinda way, I guess maybe I still love him. Like God's supposedta love sinners more'n He loves decent people. I dunno. That's all I really got to say. G'bye Pop. We buried ya with your apron, cos we thought ya'd want it that way, and they might not give ya one in Hell, ta keep your suit from gettin' sooty. We all know where you're goin', but Ma will pray for youse, anyway. An' me, every time I gotta send a sunnuvabitch like youse ta Hell, I'll make sure I send him right to ya. So you can make the fire under him all the hotter for me. Until the day I come down to help youse do it. God save me from that, I hope, but somehow, I don't think He can."

They didn't just stay for the first few shovels of Earth to be thrown over Michael Patrick Blake, the lot of them, in the cold rain, with no umbrellas, they all stayed until the last shovel of Earth was tamped down.

Stood and looked at the fresh grave.

"Okay. He's really gone. C'mon, Ma. Let's get the little kids home, before they catch pneumonia." Eddie announced.

Maggie took one more look at the grave.

"Good idea." She said.

Brooklyn, New York. 1939

"Sally, you know who his father was, right?"

Sally was putting her nylons on, and her roommate stood in the doorway of their bedroom, her brow furrowed with worry.

"Everybody in Brooklyn knows who Eddie's father was, June." She said, flippantly.

"How can you be so casual about it? You know, my uncle owed money to Mick the Merciless. He got way behind on his payments. Your Eddie's father, he beat my Uncle Charlie so bad he was in the hospital for a month. I won't even say what else he did to him, it's too dirty and awful. And my Uncle was lucky. How far do you think the apple fell from the tree?"

Sally stood with her back to the mirror, and turned her head, to check if her seams were even.

"If Eddie was going to be like his father, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of killing him. Or so the story goes."

"Well, doesn't it even bother you he's 17? He's just a kid."

"I'm only 20. And Eddie's no kid."

Outside, in the street a car horn blared.

"That'll be Eddie. Don't wait up."

Sally was a good fifteen minutes late, but she made up for all of it, coming down the front steps looking like a million bucks.

Sure, she dressed like the titty dancer she used to be, with bright red lipstick and a cheap, tight dress, and cheap nylons, but Eddie didn't mind.

She liked the way he looked in his father's George Raft suits that he didn't quite fill out yet, and Eddie sure as hell liked the way she looked in her tight dresses from Woolworths.

She opened the door for herself, and got in.

"Where you takin' me tonight, Eddie?"

"How about back to my place, Sal?"

"You know just because you call yourself the Comedian, that doesn't mean you're all that fuckin' funny."

That was the other thing.

Sally had a mouth on her like a longshoreman, and she drank like one, but Eddie kind of liked that, too.

"I figured maybe the movies. An' the Automat. I'm runnin low on dough, this week. Jimmy fell out of the tree next to the house we just fuckin' moved into, and broke his arm. That was fairly fuckin' expensive."

"Okay, Eddie. You get the movie an' dinner and I'll pay for the drinks, later."

They ended up in some joint that used to be a speakeasy. It was a really crumby dive, but they always had good bands playing.

Soon enough, Sally wanted to dance.

The band was playing a real swinging number when they started out dancing, but then they switched to a couple of slower songs.

Sally didn't mind dancing close with him, real close, close enough for the smell of her cheap Woolworth's perfume to stay in his nose all night.

Being that close to her made him feel dizzy, sometimes, and not just from the smell of the perfume.

She had her head on his shoulder, and maybe Eddie had his hand a little too far down her back, but Sally didn't seem to care.

That was when she lifted up her head and put both of her hands with the fire engine red nail polish on them on the back of Eddie's neck, and kissed him on the cheek.

Then, she kissed him on the lips.

Eddie kissed her back, pulling her body in the tight print dress as close to his as he could, both his arms around her, one hand on her ass.

Her lips were very soft, but she held him very hard, and the way she flirted with him with her nimble little tongue made Eddie feel pretty goddamn dizzy, indeed.

The song ended, the kiss ended, the dance ended and Eddie didn't really know how he ended up back at their table.

For all he knew, he flapped his arms and flew.

Sally wrapped a cocktail napkin in an ice cube.

"You've got my lipstick all over your face, Eddie," she laughed, wiping it away.

"Baby, I want your lipstick all over my body." He growled.

"Eddie!" she chastised him.

But she was laughing.

"Come back to the house with me, Sal. I got my own bedroom, now. The kids are all asleep."

"Eddie, I can't."

"Why not? I'm not some stupid kid who doesn't know what he's doing. I ain't gonna knock you up."

"Well, maybe I left my catcher's mitt at home."

"That's okay. I got a whole box of rubbers inna medicine cabinet."

Sally laughed him off and lit a cigarette.

"Not tonight, huh, Eddie? I like you. Too much. Don't push me, alright?"

"Sure Sal. I won't. But you can't blame me for asking."

In the car, by her front stoop, they did some serious fooling around, in which Eddie discovered that Sal got pretty hot, pretty fast and when she did, it took a while for her to cool off.

He got her in the back seat and in the heat of the moment, aided by her failure to wear anything under her dress but her thigh-high stockings, he got to second base and then right around to third in a hell of a hurry.

She was a real redhead, alright.

He'd had a lot of women, but he'd never felt about a woman the way he felt about Sally, and they way she moaned and keened and writhed around under him, gasping his name and holding his head hard between her thighs with both hands.

Jesus, she hadn't hardly even touched him and it was already the best feeling he'd ever had in his life.

Eddie figured he blew his chance to get anything more out of Sally in return when he laughed at the wide eyed-look of shock she was giving him when he was done, but he couldn't help but laugh.

"Jesus, Eddie, I never had a guy do that to me, before! Fuck, I don't think I ever come like that in my life! Where the fuck did you learn how to do that so good?"

"I get a lot of practice. Didja like it, doll? I sure did."

"Ain't that obvious?" she snapped.

Back to her usual tough, snotty self, as she pulled down her dress, and smoothed it out over her knees.

"Well? What about me, huh?"

"What about you, Eddie?" she teased.

Eddie couldn't believe it.

His dick was so hard he could have driven a rivet into a girder with it, and Sally was just acting like it was nothing.

She had to be just about the worst prick teaser he ever met.

She really liked making him squirm.

"C'mon, Sal, that ain't fair! I just sent you to the fuckin' moon, and you're just gonna leave me like this? High and fuckin' dry?"

She put her hand on the doorhandle.

"Yeah. Who ever said life is fair?"

Eddie grabbed her wrist.

He was forcing himself not to grab it too hard, and he was also forcing himself not to push up her dress, unzip his pants, and give it to her whether she liked it or not.

But, he had the feeling she was the kind of broad who liked it, all right.

A lot.

"I said it is! Goddamn it, Sally, you better finish what you fuckin' started!" Eddie snarled.

If it was Pop, he would have smashed her in the face and put his arm across her throat and taken what he wanted.

Eddie was getting dangerously close to doing things Pop's way.

Then, Sally gave him that sly look, and Eddie felt a twinge in his balls that shot deep into his guts.

She was just fucking around with him.

He couldn't help it, he groaned.

Helplessly.

"Jesus, Sal, please, have some fuckin' mercy on me!"

"Well...alright, tiger. I guess you're right. It just wouldn't be fair. But you better not tell anybody! I'll knock you on your ass."

"Who the fuck am I gonna tell? Rolf Mueller? He prob'ly does it better 'n you do, that faggot." Eddie replied.

Sally laughed.

She looked over her shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, then, she unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants and got his cock out.

And she knew exactly what she was doing; this wasn't new to her.

Something else that didn't bother Eddie.

He couldn't help it, when she touched him, he moaned, low and long and loud.

His eyes fluttered shut and his head fell back against the seat.

"Sal..." he gasped.

He opened his eyes long enough to see her look at his cock and lick her lips.

That was it.

Eddie moaned again, he was completely helpless.

"Rolf? Oh no, Eddie. Nobody does it better'n I do."

He tangled his fist in her curly red hair; tears almost ran out of his eyes when he came.

She let him come in her mouth, too, and she didn't spit it out.

Eddie almost told her that he loved her.

"Am I lookin' at you the way you were lookin' at me, Sal?"

"Yeah, Eddie. You are. I think I'm still lookin' at you that way. You're one hell of a man, you fuckin' Mick bastard."

She kissed him.

It was real nice.

"But I gotta go. You call me, real soon, alright?"

"Yeah, Sal. Sure."

Eddie barely made it home, and he crashed out on the couch and woke up the next morning still in his clothes from the night before.

Edie had stayed with the kids that night, and it was just as well, because he couldn't drag himself out of bed to get the kids breakfast and pack them off to school.

He actually fell asleep behind the wheel of the truck at a red light four times.

Later that night, when he was getting his costume on, Edie called him from her place.

"What did the Queen of the Prick Teasers do to ya now, Eddie?"

"I finally got ta third base."

"Yeah. After she reduced you to a quivering pile of jelly."

"Pretty much. She broke me. But I don't care. I'm done. I'm finished. I think I love her. If I don't get to fuck her, I'm just gonna die. Honest to God, Edie. I'm gonna have a fuckin' heart attack, or a wuddyacallit, a fucking stroke, an' I'm just gonna die."

Edie shook her head.

"Eddie, the last thing a guy like you needs is a broad like that. She gets off on pushin' you too far. She pushes , an' pushes, an' pushes. You got Pop's blood in you, Eddie. If she pushes you too far, she ain't gonna like it. And you ain't like Pop. You ain't gonna like it either. Give her up. Give that crazy Polack bitch up, now, before somethin' bad happens."

Eddie thought about it.

"I can't. Edie. I know you're right. But I just fuckin' can't."

New York City 1940 - Night

One thing all that mess with Sal had done, it taught Eddie something about broads you didn't learn around his house.

You had to ask nice.

All the time, every time.

Eddie was no rapo, that had been his father's game, and, armed with this new lesson, he decided that he wasn't fooling around anymore with these broads who gave you the don't touch me, don't touch me, why the hell did you stop touching me, routine.

From now on in, if a broad didn't make it crystal fucking clear that she wanted him, fuck her, the world was full of broads.

And one of your best sources were dolls you saved from death or fates worse than death, because some of them were real grateful for your effort, and grateful for a guy who'd come around when they needed him and make himself scarce when they didn't.

Widows and divorcees, broads who's husbands worked nights or spent them with other women, all kinds of broads.

He got an education in just how lonely and horny a lot of broads were.

Some of them were young and pretty, some were a little older, tall or short, some of them were a little too skinny but they had pretty faces, or they were a little too fat but they had nice tits or good asses.

Eddie didn't care; he wasn't too picky and neither were they, all the broads and dolls who left their windows open or their back doors unlocked for him, all over town.

It was all part of the service, kinda like being the milkman, except Eddie worked the swing shift.

Mavis Sullivan seemed right from the start like his kind of girl.

The kind who was interested.

She was pretty shook up when he was taking her home.

That was another thing.

You never made a pass at a broad the night you saved her; that kind of shot always turned out bad. What you did was, you let her know you were around, if she needed something.

After all, you can't expect a broad to be in the mood when, if he hadn't splattered the son of a bitch who was after her, she'd be lying in a heap in an alley with her stockings ripped and her purse gone and blood running down her legs.

And if she was horny after something like that, and he met some that were, that wasn't the kind of shit he was interested in.

"I'm sorry. I just…never saw so much blood."

"There's a bottle of whiskey in the glove compartment. Go on, have a drink. Yeah, well, if I hadn't happened by, doll, you woulda seen a lot more blood, an' it woulda been yours. Ya don't look like a workin' girl. What the fuck was you doin' out there?"

She drank a little, her hands shaking.

"I'm not a workin' girl. At least, not that kinda work. I had a fight with this guy I went out with. It was only our third or fourth date, and I fought with him and he just put me out of the car. On the docks. At night."

"Maybe it woulda been better for your health to say yes."

"Yeah, well, I gotta job, I'm a secretary, and I already got a kid at home. I don't need another one, and the louse didn't have any protection. An I wasn't gonna do anything else for him, I hardly know the guy. You can catch somethin' ya know, if some guy is dirty. I got a kid to worry about, an' I'm a nice girl, yunno? And no, I ain't married. I'm divorced. So sue me. I'll bet you think I'm cheap, too."

Eddie shrugged.

"Eveybody makes mistakes, doll."

She was a nice-looking broad, or at least not too bad. She had good legs and a nice ass, and a pretty face, although her tits were too small and he didn't usually go for brunettes.

But he liked her; there was something about her.

That was good enough.

"Jesus, I almost got killed, tonight, over that rotten louse. I'll get him. I don't know. I just wanted to have a good time, ya know? I mean, my husband left me with the kid, I work like a dog, and this is what I get for wantin' to have a good time. Some Friday night. Jee-ziz Christ."

Eddie sensed an opening.

"I could show you a real good time, doll."

"Is that part of the service?"

"For you? Sure. And unlike Mr. Personality, I never leave home without protection. An' I'm real clean. I don't run around with broads who could be dirty that youse could catch somethin' from. I got kids at home I gotta worry about, too."

"Yeah? You married?"

"No. They're my Ma's kids. She's dead and so's my Pop. I'm the oldest."

"Yeah? Jesus, that's a harder knock than what I got. Look, if it ain't too much problem, can we do it at my place? I don't like to do it in strange places. Makes me feel like a whore. As long as I'm at home in my own bed, it's alright. Ya know? And I really ain't up to it, tonight. You unnerstan'?"

"Sure I do. Look, I'll be around, maybe on Friday. Is this the joint?"

"Yeah. I'll show youse where the apartment is. I'll leave the window open, and youse can come up the fire escape. How many you got? Kids?"'

"Four."

"Holy shit! I just got the one. Who watches them while you're workin'?"

"My sister. We're the same age."

"Twins, huh? My sister's married to a guy who's twins. Yeah. Friday's good. I'll leave my kid with her."

Mavis Sullivan lived in Hell's Kitchen.

Eddie had three or four broads in Hell's Kitchen, alone, two over on the Upper East Side, three on the Lower East Side, one in Queens, six in Brooklyn, two in the Bronx, one out on Staten Island, two in Jersey and two in Philly.

After he was done with his rounds, at night, he'd visit one of them, sometimes two, then he'd go home, go to bed, and get up in the morning and get the kids off to school.

It was easier that way, for him, and the broads.

Mavis had a brass bed, a double, and she was waiting for him, and had put on some nightie for him.

She had a few stretch marks from having the kid, but she still had a pretty good body, and she was pretty hard up for it; she was all over him, and Eddie threw a couple into her before she seemed like she had enough.

"Ya know, I drive past here on my way home, sometimes." He told her, putting on his costume.

"Yeah? Well maybe next time, you pass by, you can call up here from the pay phone, or somethin'."

"I could do that."

He went back to see her a few times over the next few months, and then one time he called some guy answered the phone, so he crossed her off his list.

He had a lot of them, all over town.

Once he fucked things up with Sal, he never thought about settling down, and he already had four kids to raise.

When he wanted to go out, he'd get one of the broads he knew that liked to have a good time, the single ones without kids, or the divorcees who had their mother or their sister used to babysitting take her out, have a few laughs, take her home again.

If he thought about the future, at all, he usually thought about finding a way back into Sal's good graces, even if it was only once in awhile, or only once.

After all, guys like him didn't get happily ever afters, and Eddie knew that was just the way it was.

New York City, 1941- Eddie and Sally

It was the oldest trick in the book, and Sally knew it.

The big boss was a woman, and she was dangerous as hell.

So what had made her trust another broad, just because she was a woman, too?

Sally struggled against her bonds, cursing herself in silence.

Then the door crashed open, and Hell commenced.

The thing about Mickey Blake, was that he could kill in cold blood.

Not so for his son.

Eddie had to be mad to kill.

Unfortunately for New York's criminal element, the Comedian was a young man full of rage, and it didn't take much to bring that rage out in him.

Being a piece of shit criminal, and reminding him of his monster father was usually good enough.

But, this unlucky son of a bitch, he had the unfortunate distinction of having taken the Silk Spectre hostage, and even though Sally wanted no more to do with him, and probably never would, that didn't change that Eddie loved her, and that he considered her his girl.

Nothing would ever change that.

He held the man, by his throat, held him off the ground, high in the air, and squeezed.

A little harder, and he knew he'd hear bones start to snap, but he needed this asshole alive to talk.

Eddie threw him against the wall, picked up his crumpled body, dragged him by the hair to the stairs, and shoved his head down on the step so that he was biting the cold concrete.

The Comedian jammed his boot down on the top of the man's head.

He screamed, teeth flew everywhere like little red and white rocks, and blood pooled on the concrete steps.

Eddie hauled him to his feet again.

"Tell me where she is, and I'll let you live."

"Downstairs! The boss has her downstairs."

"Now, was that so hard?"

Eddie punched him on the bridge of the nose, breaking it, and probably blacking both the man's eyes.

His adversary crumpled to the ground, and Eddie kicked him once in the ribs and once in the stomach.

"Pick up your fuckin' teeth and get outa here."

The man did as he was told, glad that he'd been shown mercy by the Comedian, and he staggered away.

Eddie went down the stairs, and kicked the door open.

There was a surprised man with a gun at his hip, on the floor, having been knocked over as the oak door blew off his hinges, but Eddie already had his gun in his hand.

He shot the man twice, once in the head, once in the heart.

Sal was tied to a chair.

There was another man there, he put his hands up.

"Sal, did either of these guys get to you?"

"You mean the way you tried to, Eddie? They tried real hard, but you taught me well. I I fought 'em off. I didn't get beat up this bad fallin' down." She told him.

Eddie flew into a rage.

He grabbed something, a chair, broke it in pieces, he was screaming and swearing, raining blows on the surviving goon.

With the chair leg, with his fists, with anything he could touch.

Now, he saw the man dying on the floor, with blood pouring out of his broken body, a lot of it coming from where he got his pants ripped off and a broken-off chair leg wedged up his ass, busted end first, but Eddie was so mad, when he came out of it, he hardly remembered doing it.

There was only one living person in the room besides Sally, and it was another broad, dressed up like a high-class gang moll.

"So, you're the boss, huh? What did you want with the Silk Spectre? You tell these guys to soften her up a little? Huh? Is that it?" the Comedian demanded.

"I'm not afraid of you, big fella. You came down here to save a woman's life, ya won't hurt me. Guys like you, masks, you leave broads alone."

"You don't know me, doll. I leave women alone if they leave me alone. A broad fucks with me, she'll get what a man gets. Now, I'm givin' youse a chance to get the fuck out of here, and you better do it."

Eddie turned his back on the woman.

He had his pistol drawn, and looked at Sally.

She nodded.

It all happened in the twinkling of an eye, and by the time The Boss had her gun in her hand, Eddie had put a bullet through her head.

"Fuckin' mooks. They never listen." He said.

He put his gun away, stepped over the bodies, and tracking through the pool of blood with his boots on, he knelt down beside Sally and untied her.

"Eddie, you crazy motherfucker! How many people did you kill to get to me?"

"About five. What did they want you for, Sal?"

"To make an example of me."

Eddie grinned at her.

"So, I saved your life?"

"Fuck you! Go ahead and shoot me!" Sally spat.

She stood up, pushed past him, and made it halfway up the stairs before she collapsed in a heap.

Eddie picked her up, and carried her the rest of the way out.

"What hospital do you like?"

"Brooklyn General."

"Me too. Lets' go."

New York City, 1945- Greenwich Village, twilight, Wednesday

"You don't understand, Magda. I'm Eddie's first real girlfriend."

"What are you talking about, Sophie? He's a grown man!"

"He's younger than me. He's only 21. And before we met in the war, he never had an actual steady girlfriend. He was a back door man when he was a teenager. Had a bunch of broads stashed around town, who liked seeing him for an hour, late at night, now and then. He was in love with a woman he worked with, but he was 16 and she was 20, and he blew it being a stupid, mean, dumb kid. This is Eddie's first bite at the apple."

"What, he's a war hero, he's a superhero, he gets free cars and radio endorsements, and he meets with the president in Washington, and he's only 21?"

"Eddie's had a helluva life. Maybe worse than mine, and that's saying something. Besides, I like him. We have a good time together, all the time. He's my old army buddy, you know how that is."

Magda was about to say something else, but heavy footsteps on the stairs gave way to six feet and three or four inches of the aforementioned Eddie Blake, decked out in a gangster-looking suit rather than his usual fatigues or work-clothes.

He looked cheap, mean, and dangerous, and that was probably what her sister liked about him.

"Hiya, Magda. How's Ralph?"

"Mr. Schmidt and I are just fine, thank you. Well, I suppose you and my sister are going to go out and paint the town red. Don't let me stop you. Please tell me you have somebody watching those children you're responsible for?"

"My sister." Eddie chuckled.

"Don't worry, Magda! Goodbye, Magda!"

Sophie hustled her sister out the door, as Eddie sat down on the couch and lit a cigar.

She sat beside him.

"If she wasn't my sister, I'd beat the shit out of her."

"Yeah, ya look in the fuckin' dictionary, and right next to Crazy Annoying Jew Broad, they got Magda's picture." Eddie chuckled.

"She's a stereotype with feet. Someday Ralph is going to kill her, and I'll pay for the best defence attorney in New York. So, are you ready to see the hottest jazz band in the five boroughs?"

"Sure, Soph. I was born ready."

Sophie picked a good joint.

The place was jumping, the band was hot, and people were dancing and drinking and smoking reefers in the john and having a good time.

They were blowing some Dixieland and Eddie and Sophie were really cutting the old rug when that high, shrill whistle blew, letting everybody know that it was time to cheese it, the cops had arrived.

That didn't make no never mind to the former Sgt. Major Sophie Kaufmann, USMC Special Forces, or her dance partner, Major Edward Morgan Blake, USMC Special Forces, both of them late of the Invaders, they both knew the cops wouldn't touch them.

"Keep on playin', boys. It's alright." Eddie told the piano player.

"You got an in with the cops, man?"

"Yeah. I'm Eddie Blake. Relax."

The band kept playing, switching to some hot bebop, as pandemonium broke out.

"See, Soph, this is what pisses me off about the fuckin' cops. It's why I'm an independent. The fuckin' streets out there, they're full of hop pushers an' muggers, an' rapists, an' child molesters, an' all kindsa theivin', murderin' scum. An where are the cops? In here, bustin' a whole lotta people for havin' a good time, lettin' every murderer an' thief in town run riot. Drives me fuckin' crazy." Eddie told Sophie.

"Yeah. I guess I see what you mean."

A cop came down, and Eddie didn't miss a beat.

"Is there a problem, officer?"

"Other than the fact you smell like reefer and you're all over that poor girl, not much, Eddie."

"Awww, everybody in this joint smells like reefer, they been smokin' in the john all night. An you can't arrest me for dancin' with my girl. She ain't no teenager."

"You're doing this just to piss me off, Blake! Well, you've succeeded!"

"Relax, Hollis, old buddy. I ain't dancin' close with a lady ta piss youse off. I happen to like gettin' close up with broads. Maybe you should try it, sometime. Hell, maybe you should try dancin' with a guy. Somebody, ya know?"

"You know what, Eddie? Go shit in your hat!"

The cop and his fellow officers hustled about ten people out of the club, and left.

The band finished the song, and everybody who didn't get arrested clapped, and Eddie and Sophie went back to their table.

When the waitress came around, they got a couple more drinks.

"I take it you knew that copper."

"He's a fuckin' asshole! His idea of fightin' crime is to make sure everybody acts like a fuckin' pussy with no balls, just like him. Fuck him." Eddie snarled.

Sophie knew Eddie well enough to know when he was really mad, after all, they had slept in foxholes together, and blown up bridges, and slit Nazi throats and laughed.

"Is he the one who gave you the shoe?"

"Yeah! The fuckin' prick! Thought he'd move in on Sal. He thought wrong. She ain't with me, but she ain't with him, either."

Sophie could see Eddie's mood getting blacker and blacker.

"C'mon, Eddie. The cops ruined this joint for me. Let's go eat at the Automat. Because, you're really gonna need your strength for tonight." She told him.

"Oh yeah? Ya feelin extra horny, tonight, Soph?"

"Like a junkyard dog under a full moon, Eddie. Let's blow this pop stand."

Sleep was something reserved for people who had easier lives than Sophie and Eddie, after they were done bouncing each other off the walls, they put the radio on and talked and smoked and passed a bottle of red wine between each other, waiting for the few hours of sleep they usually got to sneak up on them.

"You ever go and see that shrink about that shell shock deal, Soph?"

"Nope? You."

"Naaah. I'm used ta nightmares."

"Yeah. Me too. So, how are the kids this week?"

"The usual kid shit. Cast comes off Jimmy's arm on Friday, this comin' Monday I gotta take a night off an' go see Allie do somethin' at the school. How's Max doin?"

"Good. They accepted him to the business college. He'll be there for two years, and then, I guess me and him will get married, and open that place. He understands about you, Eddie. Max doesn't mind Wednesdays."

Eddie took another drink of wine.

"Max is a good guy. So, how's NYU treatin' youse?"

"I'll be done before Max is. After what I went through, I can't complain. Have you heard from Jimmy, lately?"

"Yeah. After what happened to him in Japan, with his wife an' their baby gettin' murdered, he's about fuckin' done. He went back home, to Canada. He's livin' in on the old homestead, with his father. Workin' as a lumberjack. He says he's seen enough of the world to last him a million years, an' he figures he'll marry an Indian girl, someday, and raise a bunch of little mutants, and never come down out of the mountains again, no matter what happens to the world."

Eddie passed the bottle, Sophie took a drink, and put it on the night table.

"Sounds like a good idea."

"I kinda wish I had someplace like that ta go, Soph."

"Me too, Eddie. Me too."

And, before either of them realised it, they were asleep.