The People in My Head: Frank Boone
Frank Boone was a small time crook and big time addict. His preferred method of raising funds was to snort several lines of coke, pick up his .44 revolver (stolen of course) and find the nearest convenience store or petrol station. Generally there were at least three of them within short walking distance of whatever hostel he happened to be paying a few dollars a night to sleep in. He would often move straight after the job, put down his cash in some new dive and spend a few days scoring whatever he could find. He wasn't addicted to anything in particular, he would take whatever he could get.
One day he shot a dealer and stole the entire stash, he didn't worry about the chain of events he was setting in motion. Nobody knew who he was, but a turf war had been fought, undeclared, in the area for several weeks. When the poor stooge got hit, nobody even considered Frank part of the equation. Everyone knew it was war. Soon dealers on both sides were vanishing into the ground, families wept for missing children and widows and orphans were left to fend for themselves. In another ten years a new wave of dealers and hookers fighting and killing would be the fruit of a single bullet fired from the gun of a confused addict.
Frank still went on his merry way, knocking over convenience stores, killing the occasional attendant, taking whatever he could find and numbing himself to something he couldn't define. He never paused to consider a soulless existence. He needed, he took, he wanted, he had. His was a simple life equation, but nobody who saw him thought it equated to life.
The day he was shot and killed, it was snowing. The one thing people marveled at when they saw the body was that no blood appeared to have been spilled. So he was remembered as the man so dead that he didn't bleed. And then he was forgotten.
One day he shot a dealer and stole the entire stash, he didn't worry about the chain of events he was setting in motion. Nobody knew who he was, but a turf war had been fought, undeclared, in the area for several weeks. When the poor stooge got hit, nobody even considered Frank part of the equation. Everyone knew it was war. Soon dealers on both sides were vanishing into the ground, families wept for missing children and widows and orphans were left to fend for themselves. In another ten years a new wave of dealers and hookers fighting and killing would be the fruit of a single bullet fired from the gun of a confused addict.
Frank still went on his merry way, knocking over convenience stores, killing the occasional attendant, taking whatever he could find and numbing himself to something he couldn't define. He never paused to consider a soulless existence. He needed, he took, he wanted, he had. His was a simple life equation, but nobody who saw him thought it equated to life.
The day he was shot and killed, it was snowing. The one thing people marveled at when they saw the body was that no blood appeared to have been spilled. So he was remembered as the man so dead that he didn't bleed. And then he was forgotten.
posted by Andrew Lee at 11:17 AM
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