Red Eyes: Historic Foundations

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Story is marked as mature.

The street had raised Lamar. He knew it was kind of a corrupt balance to the influence of his momma and his grandma, a violent Yang to their less violent Yin. Men ran the streets but everyone kept an eye on them, always ready, always waiting for the next storm. Except the thunderstorms of the street tended to be gunfire and squealing tires.

A bell dinged as he went through the door of the corner mart.

“It's just me, Habib.” Lamar called to the man behind the counter.

“How many times have I told you that's not my name.”

“Shit, man. Our relationship, like this country, is founded on racism.”

“No, our relationship is founded on the fact that you work for Deion. If not for that blood sucker, there would be no relationship.”

Lamar took a bag of chips off the shelf and opened them. "That hurts, man. Tell me the truth, you get robbed less these days, right?"

"With the exception of when you come in and start eating the merchandise, yes. It's not Friday, so what do you want?"

"What have you heard about J.J.?"


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