I don't rock the lifeboat. I bully informants. I shack with whores. I keep the streets clean. I work my beat in Manhattan and rise through the ranks. The mayor personally pins medals on my chest. The headlines hail a hero. I do what's expected of me, mostly. On occasion, when the world grows too wide beyond the windshield of my patrol car, and there's a sheen on the glass as if it's stained by spit-up blood, I drive around the worst neighborhoods in the five boroughs, and find where the mutilated bodies are laid out in the open. In the woods, the alleys, and abandoned apartment buildings in the meat packing district, the corpses rest. I talk and they listen. I watch over them before the kids come around, leading their friends in packs. The teens always come ready to party, and we share a beer or a J or a girl, and play out the continuous rituals of the ages. Sometimes they try and outplay me. They're packed and I'm packed. Every so often it leads to a shootout or a knife fight or a bloodletting. So far I haven't been taken down, but there's always the chance, and I keep hoping.
