Rust Never Sleeps
Chicago Moods-View from the Bottom
A rusty Chevy speeds down a dark Indiana freeway. There is blood on the fender and something banging in the trunk. The headlights shine for a moment on the bulk of an abandoned refinery. Something crouches at the top of its chimney, its cloak whips in the wind like a tattered flag.
Behind the cement and steel fortress, in the far distance across a wasteland of slag and industrial ruin is the gleam of the Windy City. It twinkles in the night like a cold beacon. Chicago- the frozen dream. In the the labyrinth of steel and glass the ancient dead stir from their nightmare sleep.
On the streets outside Gary the heat still lifts from the asphalt at night and the flies still circle the roadkill. Gangs of bikers and ghetto thugs crowd the cantinas and strip joints after the sun sets. In a flash of chrome and fang scores are settled over drugs or blood. Turf is carved up like cold flesh.
This is the street game; a look at the long night from the bottom. The First Estate weave their Danse Macabre from their castles high above the Loop. Down here, among the low born, the castoffs and caitiff run amuck. The nights are lean and hungry. The hunt for blood and shelter from the burning sun is deadly survival. But look in the right places and you’ll the survivors. Need blood? Protection? There is a gang that meets the last Saturday night of every month. Look for the signs sprayed under the overpass to find out where. They take all comers, no questions asked. And their ranks swell as the blood is passed on.
The Hounds scour our neighborhoods for the undeclared and hungry wolves prowl the Outlands- they will not take us. We have found strength in each other, purpose in this long night. We will resist them. We will not enslave ourselves to the blood of Princes nor bend our knee. The night is ours- taken by fang and claw. Dare to try and take it back? Care to see whose ashes scatter to the wind first, cousin?
Far above, high on wing, hungry owls circle and watch.