Hank and Alan Nowatski had been hustling the streets of Milwaukee for over 30 years. None of the lessons, in recent years, say ten or so, were new. As Hank imagined, the days felt very much like a stagnant layer of dust might feel on grandma's knick-knack pile: cracking and dry, gray, and smelling of grandma. Relentlessly trapped. Today smelled of grandma, and as far back as their intellect allowed them to recall, so did the previous days. Today they would head down to 30th and Burleigh, right in front of a large 2 story white-wash looking brick building with the windows boarded up. Times were rough down there. Wealthy whites living in the outer rims of the metro area said the lack of invigoration was commonly blamed on self-defeatists. They had never been there nor had they ever intended on actually investigating the problem. Hank and Alan, oblivious to the writing on the wall, used to run a twist hustle in that area until the violence was turned up to an unbearable and downright dangerous level. Teenagers using canes for legit protection had given way to roller skating punks driven insane by the lack of job opportunities. These cretins moved with their weapons of choice: usually brandishing high powered machetes and ball peen hammers sharpened to points. The more fierce breed carried crudely constructed hand grenades loaded with glass shards and bottle caps. They ignorantly used their weapons for pleasure.
Hank and Alan, sitting right ways on the rotting porch before heading out, watching a team of wreckless roaches chewing away the lean, slimy meat of a sewer rat, were considered their plan for the day. Neither of them applied the potential lessons of the rat being devoured to their own lives. The wind blew another acrid note through Alan's already damaged nasal passage onto his desensitized mucus membrane. His lip was cracked with dried blood, his face was unshaven, and his eye currently was covered with 2 day old gauze, dampened by the fluid from his most recent eye injury. This injury would last much longer, everyone knew that, because it was caused by a wound inflicted by the neighborhood cat, Regicules. The cat claimed to be magical and wanted badly to be called, "Regicules the great magical cat." Alan knew he was a damn bum cat, not much higher on the evolutionary totem than a rotten pole cat. And since he refused to acknowledge the cat's abilities, he paid a hefty price of a cornea scratch and the subsequent cat scratch fever set of symptoms and injuries: hot vomiting in the night. Alan vowed to kick the god damned thing across Center Street if he ever turned up again. Alan had a habit of undigested anger. And so it goes, he lived with brother Hank, whom he trusted with certain informations. "Goodnight Hank," Alan would say every night, feeling a little too comfortable. Hank, being in generally better shape both physically and mentally, but not spiritually, would sell Alan down the river in no less than one coked up heartbeat. He identified himself as a fatalist. He subconsciously felt like Alan was anchoring him at the bottom of the Milwaukee harbor in filthy and warm water, but his natural fatalism generally prevented him from breaking loose.
Well, these trivial details aside, they loped down to Burleigh eventually, after the rat feast was viewed. For them it was a pretty good show. They viewed, incorrectly in some absolute or ethical sense, as entertainment in a universe otherwise lacking entertainment value. They walked south down Teutonia and past several Walgreen stores. Hank wouldn't let Alan buy any 2 liter soda like he wished to do, and wouldn't let him stop to shit either, which caused quite a pressure in Alan's bowel. Once past Capitol, there was no other opportunities for relief, and only a giant cemetery was available for viewing. The stretch of street paralleling the length of the cemetery, if not for the thread of undead molestation, was the safest path to walk down in this area. There was no real relief from dangers in these times and in these places. But the alternatives were even more grim. One couldn't walk to the western suburbs. The area was inhospitable in its own ways. The streets lacked sidewalks as part of the plan, specifically dreamed up to keep the likes of Hank and Alan out. That, of course, seemed like more of a secondary safety measure, considering the distances in those areas, the expansiveness that could cause an overwhelming sense of isolation, and the usual scrutiny from cops and motorists as you walked down the narrow shoulder of roads was generally unbearable. Anybody seen walking without a golf hat and stroller (and soft, supple, reflective skin) was considered an outsider, and treated suspiciously and cruelly as such. Not that Hank and/or Alan wanted to go out there at all anyway. For starters, the journey was seemingly never-ending, even by way of motor. Secondly, they had no interest to go to a community where not even the residents liked to leave their homes and stir things up (positively or negatively) amongst each other. The deathlike feel of the area reached deep down into any soul and pummeled it to a familiar state, as required by law. This knowledge was subconsciously locked into Hank and Alan's minds and was added to their knowledge base about the city. Contrary to liberal promises, the city still lacked real mixed diversity. All clans had remotely developed and isolated themselves from one another. The only hope, as Alan and Hank knew nothing about, lie in those that had no means to relocate themselves into appropriate locales. As the shifting and subsequent segregation was taking place, fools (as viewed from the eyes of the segregator) such as these were unable to put the pieces together.
Knowledge stored as such, they marched along, feeling some diesel breezes blow through the area as they mingled with fried goods. Alan, meanwhile, saw the removed branch of a Maple tree that had grown over to look like the soft sphincter tissue ready to burst from an overload of oatmeal. Growing ever stronger in his lower tract, the pressure was intense. Refreshingly in the best way, they were now far south enough to reach the Locust Quik Mart, Alan was finally able to let his bowels loose, which he did, making good on his promise to himself to do so. Hank, in the meantime, was able to walk across the street to old Firehouse and get a hands on lesson from engine man James Poitress, who was infamous for letting children and adults touch the red fire engine without notifying them of Wardell (the overly aggressive dalmatian). Of course, Hank was aware of this, and was only at the engine house to receive a lesson on where emergency staff would be located on that day - if Hank and Alan had any logical and conscious precautionary plans, one of them was to know where the emergency staff would be staking that day. As they say, "whether you're stealing crack or taking an attack, it's best to know where emergency response personnel are located." While explaining this, and also where to not get sold a bag of pencil shavings and oregano, Poitress let a small child get viciously chased by Wardell. Everybody had a good laugh and the dog was fed two gummy worms, which were at this time very inexpensive.
Hank out of the Quik Mart they turned their collective mental energy to Black Market Sports. As with every day like this one, business of this variety had to start with marketing and strategical methods (always being developed and advanced). Black Market Sports smelled and tasted like the city it was in. Black Market Sports opted for a modern future years ago, but passed it up for keeping the scene alive, and kept it alive it has.
