Track 9: Harding The Heartbreaker

TRACK NO. 09: HARDING THE HEARTBREAKER 

NO. 05: THE SICK FUCK

// FRANKIE; MARIANNA'S BROTHER — APRIL 2022 — 11:10 PM — BRINO'S BAR — UNION CITY, NJ //

 

“Yeah, I know Andrew Harding.

He found my sister, Marianna—sweetest soul in all a’ Union City. 

Put his mouth on her, then dipped. 

She ain’t pretty.

And I get to say that, ‘cause I’m her brother.

Marianna’s got that kinda face that makes people squint when lookin’ for a compliment. She’s got a round face with her chin meltin’ into her neck. Nose been confused since birth. Hair’s always hangin’ depressed, thin and limp as hell. Like it don’t got a single ounce’a fight left in it. Hate to say ugly, so I’ll just say what it is: she’s no one’s type.

But she’s a sweetheart. And that’s her fuckin’ curse.

Heart too big. The type who sees the good in everyone.

Thinks if she’s a good person, maybe some motherfucker’ll stay.

She buys mugs for her co-workers at the dentist office off Palisade that say you’re magic or brave is beautiful for no fuckin’ reason. Just ‘cause that’s how she is. Laughs at jokes that ain’t funny. Grabs you food or your Starbucks drink on her way to see you. Shit like that. 

And I warned her. 

Told her straight up—stay the fuck away from any guy givin’ you attention.

‘Cause they ain’t interested in Marianna. They’re interested in whatever part of her they think’s easy. Her kindness. Her money. Even a quick fuck if they’re desperate enough.

Then Andrew fuckin’ Harding comes floatin’ in like some mouthy saint. Next thing I know, she’s sittin’ in our kitchen, huggin’ a mug, starin’ at the wall, daydreamin’ like the bro’s comin’ back.

‘Frankie,’ she said, real quiet too, ‘he said I was sexy.’

Sexy. 

I nearly choked on my pork roll—Taylor ham, if you’re one’a those North-South debate types—spit half of it into the sink. ‘Sexy?’ I said. ‘Nah, Mare. You sure he wasn’t jokin’? He say that shit with a straight face?’

And she goes, ‘He meant it.’ Dead serious. Right before she laid it all on me. 

For an hour, she talked nonstop, man. Kept sayin’ she’s still gonna wait for him. Even if he don’t want her, she’s not gonna shut down again. She’s gonna try. Gonna meet people. Put herself out there like she ain’t scared.

And all I hear? Every fuckin’ version of this endin’ in her gettin’ hurt. More guys who’ll take and leave. More nights of her cryin’ in her room. More rejections. More hearbreak. More of her gettin’ used repeatedly. 

That’s when I knew this guy seriously fucked with her head.

‘Cause once Marianna believes somethin’? She don’t let go. She’ll make excuses for a fuckin’ hurricane if it said sorry. Could show her a video of a guy robbin’ a fuckin’ bodega and she’d be like, ‘But maybe he’s just tryin’ to feed his family.’

Her puttin’ herself out there like that? Shit’s dangerous for somone like her. 

And this guy? This legendary Andrew Harding?

Didn’t even fuck her or ask for head. Nah. Didn’t even try to get his dick wet.

Had to find out from my bro’s sis what that kid did to her, ‘cause Mare told her. He went down on her for two fuckin’ hours, man. Like he’s doin’ a public service. An’ it ain’t just him ghostin’ her. Ain’t just him fillin’ her head with hope. It’s that part that don’t sit right with me. ‘Cause who the fuck does that? Who in their right mind stays there for two hours, then walks away? 

You tellin’ me that’s normal? Nah. 

Something’s deeply wrong with that motherfucker. Real deviant shit. ‘Cause you gotta be a real sick motherfucker to make a girl feel like she’s the only fuckin’ one in the world, worship her pussy, whisper shit like ‘you’re sexy’ while your fuckin’ tongue’s in her, then bounce like she don’t exist. 

And Marianna? She knows she ain’t pretty, knows she ain’t the type to turn heads.

Ain’t had a boy look her in the eye without wincin’ since sophomore year.

Now she thinks there’s hope for another moment just like that. More guys out there just like him. And that fucker—Andrew Harding? He knew exactly what he was doin’. He knew what that hook-up meant to a girl like her. He knew what she’d cling to, and he gave it to her anyway.

Which makes him worse than the usual scumbags. 

He ain’t a player. He’s a psychopath.

So yeah, I wanted him to look me right in the eye and admit he’s a fuckin’ creep. A pussy-fiend, sadist lowlife with a Jesus complex who gets off on makin’ ugly girls feel special—just to rip it away.

I wanted him to admit he knew exactly what he was doin’.

And admit he fuckin’ liked it.

Then a few weeks later, I catch him outside Brino’s. 

You know Brino’s—red crooked canopy, fryer been broken since Easter. Whole place that smells like rotton calamari and back-alley piss. 

It wasn’t planned. I’m not that fuckin’ theatrical. Was on my way home from grabbin’ a slice when I saw him through the window. Some chick with big-ass hoops leanin’ over him, tryin’ to get his attention.

And he had that look—y’know, the one. Relaxed, without a care in the fuckin’ world. Elbows on the bar. That cocky-ass smirk like he can get any girl he fuckin’ wants. 

And in that second? I snapped. Wasn’t thinkin’. Just stood there in the alley by the trash, waitin’. Ten, twelve minutes go by, an’ he comes out solo—light jacket, hood down, keys jinglin’ in his hand. Didn’t check his corners, his surroundings, didn’t even look up—one of them boys who never had to. 

I stepped out.

‘Yo.’

He clocked me right away, then slowed up a little. And I swear to God—he gave me that dumb polite nod like we was passin’ each other on fuckin’ JFK. Like he ain’t wrecked my sister.

‘You fucked her up, bro.’

He had the audacity to look confused. 

Eyebrows all pinched, like he was diggin’ through his memory files tryin’ to figure out which girl I meant. Which fuckin’ girl. Can you imagine thinkin’—huh, I wonder which sad bitch I broke this week?

‘You got her waitin’ for you ass, man. For weeks. Got her hopes up an’ shit.’

And that’s when it fuckin’ hit him. 

Right there—bam—behind his eyes.

You ever see regret knock the wind outta someone? It was that.

So I swung. One clean punch straight to the stomach. Felt it echo up my forearm. 

Fucker was built like a steel beam. Abs like bricks. 

He doubled over, hands on knees, coughin’ like he’d just taken a bullet to the gut.

And I didn’t wanna stop. I got right up on him, grabbed the collar of his jacket, and slammed him up back into the brick so hard the back of his skull clapped it. ‘Two fuckin’ hours?’ I barked, breath hot. ‘You did that to her—for what? Huh? You sick fuckin’ piece of shit.’

He stared past me like I wasn’t even there, breathin’ through his nose, tryna stay calm with his jaw tight. Like I was the one losin’ it. Then he smiled that smug crooked-ass smirk like this was all some big fuckin’ game.

I blacked the fuck out so fast I don’t even know what part’a him I hit next—pure, boiling, holy-shit-black-out.

Another hit.

‘You laughin’? This shit funny to you?’

His head whipped left, blood trailin’ off his lip. He didn’t even wipe it, just let it drip with the same fuckin’ half-dead smile still hangin’ there.

‘The fuck’s wrong with you?’ I shouted in his face, fists shakin’. ‘You some kinda addict or somethin’? That it? Addicted to eatin’ pussy?’ I shoved him again. ‘Got you actin’ like wreckin’ someone’s sister is just another regular fuckin’ Tuesday?’ I cracked him across the side just to feel somethin’ give. ‘You got off on it, didn’t you?’ Another blow. ‘You sick skinny-ass motherfucker.’

I leaned in, spit flyin’ in his face, an’ he didn’t flinch once.

‘Busted in your fuckin’ jeans while eatin’ my little sister? Just goin’ down gets you shootin’ in your fuckin’ pants? That it? That why you eat any pussy with a pulse?’ I shook my head. ‘Probably wouldn’t even needa pulse, huh? You sick fuck.’

He just stared at me, blood down his chin, eyes like glass. And I hated him more for not fightin’ back, for makin’ it feel like I was beatin’ a fuckin’ corpse. I spit on his fuckin’ Nikes, then shoved him off, let him bounce off the bricks like the trash he is. 

He stumbled before rightin’ himself on the brick wall, then stood there, breathin’ all shallow and face a fuckin’ mess. A bleedin’ statue in a cold-ass alley.

He never said a word, so I walked. ‘Cause if I stayed? I was gonna fuckin’ kill him.

And I ain’t goin’ down for that piece of shit.”

 

 

 

“Harding? Oh Jesus, here we fuckin’ go

Ayo, lemme set the fuckin’ scene for you—

Bronx boy in Brick City, Wednesday night, just tryna gas up and bounce.

I come strollin’ outta the Sunoco off 21—Newark tryna act all suburban after dark—with my usual: grape Arizona, Hot Fries, and a thick-ass grudge I ain’t know was still simmerin’, and boom—Lo an’ fuckin’ behold I see this skinny-ass punk leaned up on his dusty-ass Civic with more Bondo than paint, hoodie up like he famous, scrollin’ through his phone, head down like he tryna not be seen. 

At first? Didn’t pay no attention to him. He was just background noise with one’a those punchable pretty-boy faces. Didn’t even recognize him at first, bro. 

But yo—some faces? You feel it in your fists before your brain catches up. Then I see that Jersey lean and those fucked-up, heavy eyes—half-shut, post-pussy nap eyes.

And I’m like nah. Nah. That can’t be him, bro. But it was that motherfucker.

Been waitin’ months to cross paths with this piece’a shit—months.

This the same Jersey low-life who bent Vanessa over her own goddamn Camry—same fuckin’ trunk I used to lean on after teachin’ her how to parallel park up in the Heights. He had her gettin’ her ass ate while she’s sneakin’ a smoke break behind Popeyes like she ain’t got a whole ring waitin’ on layaway. Like she ain’t just told me she loved me.

And me? I’m payin’ for her lashes, her Uber Eats, got her on my Spotify fuckin’ Premium and Netflix accounts. Thinkin’ we tryna build somethin’. Tellin’ my moms she’s the one. Meanwhile she’s out here gettin’ her pussy licked between fried chicken orders by a soft boy with a smirk, a five-dollar chain, and a Honda that sounds like it’s got asthma.

I ain’t say nothin’ at first, just stood real casual, frontin’ like I was just pumpin’ gas, hand grippin’ that nozzel like a 45, tryna keep my pulse from tappin’ outta my fuckin’ throat. Then I ditched the act, walked straight up to him—no intro, no how-you-doin’, no nothin’.

‘Yo, you Harding?’

Bro looks up with them droopy-ass lids, eyes half-dead like I just interrupted his nap.

An’ he just goes, ‘Who’s askin?’ Like we was about to swap life stories at a fuckin’ food truck, like he wasn’t the reason I ain’t slept right in three months.

Fuckin’ Jersey boys—always actin’ calm ‘til you knock their teeth out.

That shit got me heated. ‘Cause my girl cried when she told me what happened. Said he ain’t even give her a chance to stop him, just slid his hand up her thigh and whispered, ‘Don’t overthink it,’ right before he went down. Told her, ‘If your fiance don’t eat your pussy better than me? Leave his ass.’

Then she did leave my ass.

I got up on him real close, nose to nose. ‘You had the nerve to take advantage of my girl, then never even finished the fuckin’ job.’

A fuckin’ lazy-ass smile swung across his face. ‘Couldn’t’ve been me, bro.’ Then he leaned in like we boys. ‘I always fuckin’ finish.’

I snapped with a swing. One punch, knuckles to the mouth, his head jerkin’ sideways. He stumbled back and hawked blood right by the squeegee bucket, then wiped his lip with the sleeve of his raggedy-ass hoodie.

‘You the reason she walked, bro. Don’t front. Had to cancel the whole fuckin’ wedding.’ I narrowed my eyes with a cocked head. ‘Know how much money I lost from that shit?’

Then this smug sonofabitch looks me dead in the eye, grinnin’, and goes, ‘Yo—whoever your girl was? She begged for it. I don’t go lookin’, man. She came to me. If I’d’ve known she was taken? I’da walked. Swear to God. I don’t lay a finger on taken chicks—she wasn’t wearin’ a ring and she ain’t say nothin’.’

Felt my temples throbbin an’ heat steam up behind my eyeballs like I was about to pop a fuckin’ vessel. Swear t-God, my vision tinted red. ‘You smilin’? You think this shit’s a joke?’

I shoved his ass, bounced that punk off the pump, an’ he righted himself, all Jersey-proud, glancin’ at the Sunoco sign off the road like he’s checkin’ gas prices. ‘Nah,’ he muttered, wipin’ the blood off his lip slow with his thumb. ‘But your girl? She’s hilarious. Real committed.’ He lifted his chin with a smirk. ‘Real wife material.’ 

That fuckin’ smile. That was it: switch flipped, tunnel vision.

‘You really gon’ talk about my fiancee like she’s some side-street slut?’

He holds up a hand, tryna stop me. ‘Yo, yo—hold up,’ he says, then flips his palm like he’s servin’ me somethin’. ‘You mean ex-fiancee, right?’

Bro. I lost it.

I didn’t even feel my arm move. Only the aftershock, the pop in my elbow. Harding’s head swung sideways, and his body followed, shoulder slammin’ the side mirror on pump six—mirror snappin’ clean off. Blood sprayed the pump red.

But this motherfucker? Didn’t even stagger, wipin’ his lip like I’d kissed him, givin’ me that same fuckin’ sideways grin that makes girls stupid and forget whole-ass fiances.

A cop car cruised past, but didn’t slow. Newark after dark—nobody gives a fuck.

I lit him up again. Hard. Fist to face. Cheekbone to Civic.

He slammed the taillight, glass shattering, metal crumpling, before his body hit the ground. Bro ain’t swing at me once, spittin’ mouthfulla blood off to the side, his smile painted blood-red as he stayed right there on the concrete, chillin’. Like he was dealin’ with a toddler screamin’ in aisle five. 

‘Feel better, bro?’ he asked, cocky as fuck, then gave me that smug-ass stare—brows up: ‘That do it for you?’

My fist was itchin’ to break every bone in his face, and I threw it into the side of his car, right by his ear. Metal popped and my knuckles stung. ‘Say her name, bitch.’ 

He ain’t say shit, so I fisted his hoodie at his chest, yanked him forward. ‘You remember it, right? Black Camry. Popeyes. Half-hour fuckin’ smoke break. You remember.’

His smile didn’t fade. Shit grew with a shrug. ‘Nah. Never got her name. Ate that juicy-ass pussy and called her sweetheart.’

Yo—I ain’t never been so mad I felt like cryin’ and killin’ someone at the same time like that in my whole fuckin’ life. Not once. Never felt heat in my face like that. Never shook from rage. When I say I almost caught a fuckin’ felony that night? That’s the truth. Two seconds from twenty-five to life.

I headbutted him right in the bridge of the nose, feelin’ the crunch before I heard it—like a stepped-on Coke can. His head snapped back and dented the metal of his car, blood waterfallin’ down his chest. ‘Say somethin’ else. I dare you. Say one more fuckin’ thing.’

But I ain’t even give him a chance, I just kept goin’, kept throwin’ until my fist went numb, not stoppin’ ‘til I tasted blood in my mouth and realized it wasn’t mine.

He fell limp in my fist, and I let go. His body dropped, then slid down the back of his fuckin’ Civic. Face lookin’ like the aftermath of a Bronx block party—broken, busted, and too fuckin’ loud.

Did I feel better? Nah. I ain’t feel shit.

Some lady was yellin’ two blocks down, some crackhead laughin’ to himself off to the side of the buildin’. World kept movin’. And I just stood there, busted hands twitchin’, waitin’ for God or Karma or the fuckin’ asphalt to split and eat this motherfucker whole.

But that never happened, so I crouched down to look him square in the eye.

‘Catch you all lovey-dovey with some bitch you care about? I swear on my fuckin’ life—I’ll take her, bro. Don’t give a fuck who she is, I’ll rip her outta your arms and fuck every hole right in front of you. You’ll never be able to kiss her or eat her pussy again without tastin’ my cock.’

I hawked one right in his face before I left him there, busted up, bloodied, a pile of bones—still fuckin’ breathin’, lookin’ more dead-body than man under that busted Sunoco light.

You wanna know the sickest part?

I swear to God, he ain’t even sorry.

That smirk told me one thing—he’d do it again.

And again. And again.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew Harding just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

Fireworks were still poppin’ off over the Hudson—cheap ones by this time. All the big finales were done. He was leaned back against the trunk of his Civic, arms crossed, eyes cut across the water. The sky didn’t look like a sky. Tonight, it was smoke and light pollution, blown out from leftover fireworks and the ferry dock floodlamps. 

Weehawken was sweatin’, street still steamin’ from sunburned pavement. 

Someone was blastin’ REO Speedwagon down the block, the bass thumpin’ like a slow-punch heartbeat under his feet. A few feet away, a cluster of drunk girls stood by the railing, red Solo cups in hand, heels off, giggling.

They’d been lookin’ over at him, whisperin’. 

One already did the elbow-tap thing, the kind that meant: go talk to him.

He was fast to look a way, not wantin’ to invite it. Which probably made him look like an asshole, but he just… didn’t have it in him tonight. He was tired in that full-body way. The kind that didn’t show on your face but lived in your fuckin’ joints. 

He wasn’t drunk, rarely ever was.

But he could feel the hum of it buzzin’ off everyone else, and he hated that fuckin’ feelin’. 

Mikey was still in the car, windows fogged, backseat rockin’, with some girl wearin’ pink acrylics and belted a laugh that was the sound of nails scrapin’ Andrew’s skull.

Jay and Nico already dipped—said somethin’ about hittin’ a rooftop spot in Jersey City, but Andrew didn’t wanna leave Mikey and his car behind, even if Mikey was too far gone to notice he was fuckin’ his brother’s ex. So he posted up, black T-shirt soaked and clingin’ to his back, sweat at his temples, a cigarette tucked behind his ear he wasn’t gonna light. Just stood there, tryin’ not to flinch each time a bottle rocket popped off. Tryin’ to breathe. Tryin’ to avoid eye contact. Tryin’ to survive the fuckin’ night without fallin’ asleep standin’ up.

Then headlights splashed across the pavement, tires crunchin’ on gravel as a gray Honda rolled up slow, windows halfway down with loud-ass reggaeton leakin’ out. 

"Let’s go!" the driver barked out, snappin’ the girls out of their laughter. He had a snapback turned backwards, neck covered in tattoos, an arrogant face for someone pushin’ a ’98 Taurus.

The guy scanned the girls, then glanced left, stare landin’ on Andrew.

And stayed.

Andrew felt that cold-heat in the glare. That feelin’ that tells you something’s not right but it hasn’t hit yet. 

"Yo," the guy said, tossin’ the words into the backseat, eyes still on Andrew. "Yo, hold up." He turned, sayin’ somethin’ to his boys. At once, the two in the back turned to look at him—one leanin’ forward between the front seats, and the other cockin’ his jaw, already annoyed. 

The engine cut out, the doors opened, and three sets of sneakers hit pavement—dirty white Uptempos, creased Timbs, and sliders with socks (real disrespectful). 

Andrew clocked their pace—too casual for three guys who didn’t know him. 

Behind ‘em, the girls kept gigglin’, fireworks kept poppin’ off, but Andrew wasn’t movin’, his pulse kickin’ in his ears. He stayed leaned against the trunk, ankles crossed, arms folded, one shoulder hiked just a little from the weight of actin’ like he wasn’t clockin’ every single one of them—watchin’ hands, reading body weight, trackin’ the angle of the one closest. 

They walked up to him, all three of ‘em spreadin’ out to box him in. Streetlights glowed behind their shoulders, faced-half-snatched by shadow, as if the universe was blurrin’ ‘em on purpose.

One of ‘em had his hood pulled over his eyes, his hands burried in his pockets. 

Another chuckled under his breath. ‘Ain’t this somethin.’

It was the guy on the left, in the Nikes—faded jawline, lip scar, South Jersey drawl tryin’ to sound tougher than it was. He cracked his knuckles loud. ‘You Harding? The pussy whisperer?’

The other two laughed. 

Andrew didn’t. He exhaled out sharp through his nose. 

He knew talkin’ only makes ‘em angrier. Guys like that don’t wanna hear reason, they wanna hear themselves. They want you humiliated, bleedin’ with your mouth shut. So he gave ‘em what they wanted—he always does.

They stopped about five feet from him.

That’s when Hoodie finally looked up.

He was younger than the other two with a baby face, but he had eyes as if aggression runs in his bloodline. ‘Yeah, that’s him.’

Then Nikes again: ‘Man’s got girls cryin’ mid-head. That what they said?’

"Cryin’, singin’, dreamin’, writin’ fuckin’ poetry," Hoodie mocked. "Say his mouth’s magic." He wiggled his fingers when he said it.

Andrew dragged a hand across his jaw. ‘Jesus Christ.’

The guy in the sliders tilted his head like a bird peckin’ at roadkill. ‘Funny, man. You don’t even look like all that. Just some pretty-faced fuckboy.’

Hoodie laughed. ‘Yeah, you just regular. Regular fuckin’ teeth, regular fuckin’ hair.’

Andrew uncrossed his ankles, slid off his glasses, folded ‘em up, set ‘em on the trunk so they didn’t get crushed, not takin’ the bait but preparin’ for what he knew was comin’, one breath at a time.

He’d seen real violence. This ain’t that. This? This was drunk Jersey boys tryna flex. 

Ain’t nothin’ about a busted lip or a cracked rib that scares him. 

You learn real quick: anybody can swing, but not everyone can scar.

Boots stepped closer. "They say you a legend, bro. Go down on girls like it’s your last fuckin’ meal."

"Problem is," Hoodie cut in, "we’re tired of fuckin’ hearin’ about it."

Sliders nodded. "Every girl we know? You been with."

"That what you were doin’ just now?" Hoodie gestured toward the girls waitin’ by the car. "Saw you posted up and starin’, bro. You on the hunt for more pussy tonight?"

Another firework went off behind them. Red this time, castin’ all three in blood light for a second—long enough for Andrew to see what was coming. He swallowed, staring at the space between them. 

Then the first hit came from his left. 

Knuckles cracked against Andrew’s jaw so hard it spun him halfway off his car. 

Since he didn’t hit the ground, another fist drove into his face, another wet crack poppin’ in Andrew’s ears as his teeth slammed together.

He felt somethin’ chip, blood poolin’ fast under his tongue—copper and spit fillin’ his mouth. He stumbled sideways into the taillight, shoulder grinding hard into the jagged broken glass, his jaw lit up hot. 

Against him, the car was still rockin’, Mikey still fuckin’ while Andrew was bleedin’ out of his mouth and nose.

He could’ve swung back, could’ve broken a nose or two, but that’d do nothin’ but feed the story, validatin’ whatever they thought he was—the sick fuck, the smug sonofabitch, the fantasy-turned-fuckboy. But if he just stood there? Took it? Maybe they’d see he ain’t all that. Just a guy. A tired, busted-up, barely-holdin’-on guy. 

Nothin’ mythical about a man who bleeds quiet. Maybe it’d shut ‘em up.

And maybe, deep down, some fucked-up part of him thought he deserved it.

The next fist blew into his stomach, takin’ him sideways. 

He tried to grab the edge of the trunk for balance, but missed, and he caught another punch from his right, spit and blood flyin’.

It was quiet after that. Just his blood like cotton in his ears.

Hands grabbed his shirt. Someone said, "Legend, huh?"

Then, "Break his fuckin’ mouth."

A fist barreled into his ribs, and pain carved through him like something hooked and cruel. Andrew folded forward, head dropping, one knee buckling beneath him.

He tried to plant a foot, couldn’t. Air wouldn’t come. The world shrunk. 

All he could hear was breathing—not his. Theirs. And girls screamin’.

Then one of ‘em slammed a boot into his back, sendin’ him into the pavement. 

His elbow caught asphalt, tearin’ up his skin. 

"Now your just a mouth we can shut the fuck up."

Another hit. 

His ear rang, and his lip split. 

Fireworks crackled behind him somewhere. He wasn’t sure which explosion came from the sky and which came from his skull.

He tried to stand. Got kicked again.

Andrew gritted down a groan, head turned toward the street. 

Cars passed slow, none stoppin’. Blood smeared his cheekbone hot and raw.

"Harding the fuckin’ Heartbreaker," one of ‘em muttered, hand tight on Andrew’s neck as he yanked his face up for the girls to see. All three of ‘em watched with cold stares and judgin’ eyes, as if they could smell the myth fadin’ off him. One shook her head, like she was disappointed in herself. 

"This the mouth y’all been braggin’ about? This limp motherfucker?" he spat. Another hot sock to the cheekbone, and somethin’ cracked. Might’ve been his name. 

He hoped it was. Never fuckin’ wanted it.

Then it just kept comin’—boot to ribs, knuckles to the already split brow, fist to temple. Andrew closed his eyes and thought about the water, about floatin’ face-down in the river behind him. How fuckin’ peaceful it would be to finally get some fuckin’ sleep.

By the time his spine hit concrete, he was gaspin’ and coughin’ up blood. 

Above, they circled, but he kept lookin’ past them.

At the stars. 

And fireworks over the Hudson. 

Blue. Then red.

Then nothin’.