Bust Read Free

rip-off piece of shit he bought on the street in Chinatown, what, ten years ago? He tore the crap out of his Walkman, thinking he had to go current, get one of those iPods. Then he flung the messed-up tape at the guy, spat, and said, “Here’s some Crue. Broaden your fuckin’ horizons, jackass... and take a fuckin’ shower while you’re at it.”
    The guy stared at the tape, stammered, “The fuck am I gonna do with this?”
    Bobby smiled, not giving a shit, and said, “Stick it up your ass, loser.”
    And then he continued up the block, cursing to himself and at the people he passed. Nine ways to Sunday, Bobby Rosa had attitude, or in the current buzz jargon, he had issues.
    When he got back to his apartment on Eighty-ninth and Columbus, Bobby went right to the second bedroom, which he had turned into a darkroom, and started developing the film. The three chicks in a row came out great,but the pictures of the black babe were Bobby’s favorites. Somehow the woman reminded him of his old girlfriend, Tanya.
    Bobby added the tit shots to the collection in his bedroom. He had three walls covered with Central Park boobs, taken during the past two springs and summers. He had all shapes and sizes — implants, flat chests, sagging old ladies, training-bra teenagers — it didn’t matter to him. Then he had an idea, and said out loud, “ The Hot Chicks of Manhattan. ” It had a nice ring to it; he could see it as a coffee table book. He could make a few bucks on the side and it was kind of classy too. Rich assholes would have it out right next to their champagne and caviar. Then, laughing to himself, he took the ass shots and added them to his collection in the bathroom. Next, he went to his shelf, grabbed another tape, The Best of Poison . Letting “Talk Dirty To Me” rip, he leaned back in his wheelchair, admiring his work. He bet, if he wanted to, he could sell his pictures to some classy art magazine, one of those big, thick mothers you have to hold with two hands.
    After a few more minutes of staring at the walls, Bobby looked at his watch. It was 2:15. He realized it was past his usual time for his bowel routine. So he went into the bathroom and transferred himself onto the bowl. As he dug his index finger into the jar of Vaseline he laughed out loud, asked, “This suck or what?”
    About twenty minutes later, Bobby called the lobby and asked the doorman to send a maintenance guy up to his apartment. When the little Jamaican guy arrived, Bobby asked him to take out a big box from the back of his hallway closet.
    “I thought you had a problem with your shower?”
    “Yeah, well I don’t,” Bobby said.
    He was a strong little guy, but the box was so heavy it took all his strength to carry it a few feet. He was out of breath.
    “What the fuck do you have in there?”
    “Oh, just some old clothes,” Bobby said, handing him a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
    When the guy was gone, Bobby opened the box, tearing off the layers of masking tape. Finally, he got it open and removed the bubble wrap, getting a head rush when he saw his weapons. He had three sawed-off shotguns, a couple of rifles, a MAC-11 submachine pistol, two Uzis, some smaller guns, and a gym bag filled with boxes of ammo. No two ways about it — you got hardware, you got juice. Suddenly the world took on a whole other perspective: Now you called the fucking shots. Poison were into “Look What the Cat Dragged In” and he thought, Man, this is it, guns and rock ‘n’ roll.
    He took one of his favorite handguns out of the box, a .40 millimeter Glock Model 27 compact pistol. The “pocket rocket” didn’t pack the power of a shotgun or a Mag, but he loved the black finish. Holding a gun again gave Bobby the same buzz that it always did. The only thing better was firing one, feeling that explosion of power coming out of his body. He’d had a lot of women in his time, but given the choice between a woman and a gun he’d take the gun. It didn’t talk