I’m God’s loneliest man, from New York to Japan. But I had a plan, so in to apply for the job I ran. Busy with his tasks, he barely looks up when he asks, “What are you on the hack for Mister Bickle?” I know I got a knack to crack this pickle. I tell him, “I can’t sleep nights,” not mentioning that instead I get into bar fights. “See, I tried the porn theatre, but ultimately I thought I might as well make some coin on the meter.”

I tell him I’ll work anytime anywhere. I got no life, so why should I care? My conscience is clean, ‘cause I know I served my country as a marine. Now I ride around nights mostly, and while the fares and often ghostly, this might be a good way to meet people, ‘cause my only friend hangs from a church steeple. I just can’t relate to people. It’s a long hustle, but it helps me rustle up a way to keep busy. Last night I even met a doll named Lizzie. She said “you can be rather fickle, ol’ Mister Bickle,” and I smiled ‘cause it gave me a tickle, as she slipped me some extra nickel. But even so I still ain’t got no date, and it’s beginning to fill me with hate. At this rate, I think I’m going to end up with no life mate.

After work in the bar, my friends say I’m doing so fine so far. But I’m taken aback when the black asks me to lend a buck, typical Negro, cheap fuck. They lied, and now I’ve been denied all the best and all of the rest. Will I never be undressed and caressed before my expiration date has been pressed?

He’s the doctor, but I’m impatient. I tell him this city is a mess that I just cannot take, it gives me such a fuckin’ headache. Please, for my sake, give something to fake it so I can make it. Writing the prescription, he’s a little rude, but his meds leave me subdued. Let’s hope now I can get a new attitude.

Thank God, the rain washed the scum off the sidewalks, flowing across the city blocks, until it drips into the docks. In‘Nam, at least the gooks were as clean as the spooks. Here, in some ways it’s more of a fight, ‘cause all the animals come out at night. Whores, scum, pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies. Someday a real rain will bring the pain and wash ‘em down the fuckin’ drain. But for now I’ll take them anywhere; I try so hard not to care.

The angel sees me, and I see her too. And I know just what I need to do. With wet eyes, I ask if she’s lonely, she replies, “do you think it’s me only?” She says Palantine is doing fine, and she looks as good as aged wine. She says she’s never met anyone like me, and I mention that perhaps there’s a movie we could see. I could tell we related, even though she hesitated. She says I’m a pusher; a walking contradiction. I don’t know much of her diction, but I know that’s a bald-faced fiction. Even so, I say, “Your company’s been worth the price. Goodbye, so long, it’s been a slice. I’m glad you took the time to roll the dice. Talking to you over coffee ‘n pie has been so nice.”

I’m just trying to be flirty, but for some reasons she calls the film dirty. “You’re inna hell and you’re gonna die inna hell like the resta ‘em,” this is how condemn that self-righteous hen. Now I know she’s just another lynx, and it stinks, but I’ll have go somewhere else to work out my kinks. They say I’ve gone insane, that I’m crazy, but I know it’s just that the resta New York’s gone lazy. I shouldn’t complain, instead I should be doing something about my bane. This city is like an open sewer, someone needs to flush down the toilet ‘cause sometimes I can hardly take how they’ve spoiled it. After I have boiled it, they will know that I have foiled it.

The passenger says a nigger lives there, and I try to tell myself “why should I care?” but my open jaw is bare. He asks if I see the woman in the window, I think she looks like a total bimbo. I figure the man she’s with for a nigger. He says he’s gonna kill her and her chum with a 44 magnum, I know that gun is good for dealing with scum. He says I must think he’s sick, kinda like a spic, but I ain’t that thick, I know that’s the only way to deal with a dick. Now I’ve got something to imitate, an ideal to fuel my hate.

I feel like I’m caught in some kind of emotional blizzard, so I stop by to talk to the wizard. “God love yah, do what you want, but don’t go on no big fag flaunt.” He asks me what thorns’r in my crown, and I tell ‘im a bitch has got me down. He says “Don’t frown, it happens to the besta us, an’ even alla resta us. Don’t scoff, just take a load off, and things won’t be so tough. I envy yo’ youth, and that’s th’ truth. Go out, find proof for us that you ain’t no doofus.” It’s a sin, but I can’t put it into words for him. Loneliness has followed me my whole life, filling it with strife. It’s in the bars, and it’s in the cars. It’s in the stars and stores, it’s behind all the doors, and it’s on the lips of all the whores. I’m God’s lonely man, and I still have no plan.

The little girl gets into my cab, when the pimp starts to grab. He asks if she wants to be busted, seems his soul is rusted, and he deserves to be dusted. He tells the bitch to be cool, and looks at me like I’m a fool. I turn my head in shame, I know deep down we’re both the same. I see them fucking through her fear in my rear view mirror, and I try not to sneer, and hold back a tear. I feel hectic, like she should be protected. I pop my medication’s cap, he slips me a twenty to ignore the crap. How am I going to deal with this rap? I want to lie down and take a nap, otherwise, I’m likely to snap, and smack the crack-head dead, wish I could fill his brain fulla lead. Instead, I just cringe, and go on a pill binge, and he drags her away, after giving me my pay. I’m never going to be able to forget this day. Like every night, I have to clean cum off the back seat, this job is beginning to wring out my conscience, beat. Despite the twelve hours of work, now I know I won’t be able to sleep ‘cause I notice the blood, and I feel even more like a piece of crud.

It begins with imitation, and it ends in innovation. Scrawl a cross in the bullet, cut the bullshit, don’t be a twit. Again I cringe, but it makes me proud to be on society’s fringe. The first gun’s nickel-plated, and will leave my enemies more than sedated. The thirty-eight will do more than berate. The colt-twenty-five won’t leave anything alive. This is my morning song; too much abuse has gone on for too long. This is my new attitude; there will be no more bad food. This is my lack of frills; there will be no more pills. Every muscle must be tight, every aim must be just right. The idea has been growing in my brain, I can no long wait for real rain, it is my responsibility to bring the pain.

She says she was stoned; maybe that’s why she’s owned. She thinks I’m looking for some action, but I don’t even want a fraction. Sport says, “take it or leave it,” but all I can do is bereave it and I can hardly believe it. “I godda say g’bye to you, ‘cause I got me some chores t’do.” Was he for real, that shit-heel? “You talking to me; you feeling lucky?” Here is a man who wouldn’t take it anymore, a man who showed the scum the door, and left ‘em bleeding on the floor.

He says I can’t park here, but he will soon know fear. Pulling up my trousers to hide my heater, I’m coming out of the porn theatre. I’m going to the coffee shop to meet a chum. The nigger there thinks I’m dumb; he sees my trousers are strained with cum. He asks how it is being young. I tell him I’m doing just fine, while behind us a pimp starts snorting a line. The cops don’t care, seems their moral fibre’s stripped bare. An’ the nigger wants to hang around, and I wish I brought a rope, ‘cause the only way a nigger should hang is by the motherfucking throat. He orders a black decaf, an’ I think he looks obscene. I wish all of New York would just stick to the cream. I may sound mean, but that is my dream, and it always has been.

The wrong roads have been taken, they have left me shaken. The images of red in my head are becoming too much to bear; so I’m gonna have to shave my hair, ‘cause I’m sick of trying not to care. I cruise around the block, popping pills while looking for cheap thrills, sporting my new Mohawk. This is how we got along, when I was covert in ‘Nam. There’s never been any choice, I have to listen to my inner voice. I'll let her fornications provide my motivations. Only the abuse of a young prostitute miss can constitute this, so prepare yourself for God’s Justice. The John just goes on a’rocking as I come a’knocking.

Cry.

In the name of God!

Fry.

In the name of God!

Die.

In the name of God!

After the violence, all is silence, except for her crying, while I sit dying. The magic is gone, now that I am someone. Now I’m responsible for a half-dozen deaths, and I’m no longer impressed with a set of breasts. Seeing her again was my final test. Now I can never rest. It doesn’t matter if you’re a dyke or a kike, a junkie or a flunky, a whore or a boor, if you put me to the test, I’ll show you justice straight out of the wild west. That’s not a threat, just the only warning you scum are gonna get. Y’see I’m quick on the draw, and my aim is without flaw. I’ll make you scream; every doper, fairy and queen, until I’ve washed this stinking city clean.

Fuck the scum.

Fuck.

The.

Scum.

Fuck. The. Scum.