Sunday, 12 August 2012

                                      Another Billy the Kid

His flashing teeth hit you as soon as you saw him. 
Laughing happy a twist of the head.
A smile black jacket tight jeans Nikes. 
A red scarf mischief in movement.
Eyes big alert alive. 
He played guitar.
So where were the spiders. Ziggy classics a Billy speciality.
Borrowing a guitar to busk. 
Generating cash for beer to smooth talk easy girls.
All girls came easy to Billy.
Saw him in a restaurant with twelve girls and he still left them to check out some more.
Confident. So sure always so sure.
I warned him about stealing from a restaurant we dish-washed in.
Rat-faced on expensive wine. Piss-eyed on cheap cheap kitchen brandy.
 There we worked long happy hours exhilarated by the warm afterglow.
He moved down south got married. 
Had a kid and thought he was happy.
No money no happy. 
Too young to die young.
Fell in with the Gallic wrong crowd. Smoked pot dropped acid got bitter.
Owed a living by someone. 
You perhaps. 

Said he did not mean to shoot. The cops fault.
Spoke on the phone to him about his trial. 
Murder is so final. 
But life is not life.
Laughed and said he would be out in five. Guilty not him.
Prison was easy.
A bad-boyz club. 
Free every weekend to catch the latest Movie.
Yes he did drive the getaway car. He liked fast cars. 
Yes he did have a shotgun. He liked guns.
The cops had stitched them up. 
Waiting. Like Dirty Harry. 
Are you feeling lucky.
Yes a gun went off and somebody died. 
But it was not his fault. How could it be.
He had gotten away. Driving fast.
Dumped guns in a river. Buried cash in a forest. Went home to a wife.
He would never work with Frenchmen again.
I asked him who could he trust. His guitar. It played true every-time.
They bugged our meeting. Knew our every move. Could have stopped us at any-time.
So whose fault was it really then. Not his.
The jury loved his teeth his smile his logic.
Misguided getaway driver for thieving murdering johnny foreigners.
Stupid yes. Promise it would not happen ever again. 
Please let me go back to the bad-boyz club.
Billy got away with it. This time.
The body on the stretcher coming out of the woods had his favourite Nikes on.
I saw it on TV. I knew it was him. 
He just had to go back and check on his pension plan.
Never trust a Frenchman. Are you feeling lucky punk.
He laughed he dropped acid he sang Ziggy songs he smoked pot he died.
Blown away by an avenging Gallic Garrett. 
Never cross a Frenchman.
Billy told his Mum he was an entertainer on a Cruise-Ship.
I stood with her as they lowered him down. 
I said at heart he was a good person.
But I knew the lie. 
At heart he was just another Billy the Kid.

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  Another Billy the Kid by Frank Sonderborg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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