Paint
Paint.
The name doesn’t really suit the place. Sure, the club has made a name for itself for being on “Neutral Ground” which basically means that it’s a free-for-all battleground between the three gangs. It’s constantly filled with Reds, Greens and Blues because even though countless fights rage there every night, the club somehow manages to stay intact and in business. It really should have been named Turf, because everyone wants their hands on the hot spot. Hardly anyone goes to Paint just to rage against the music anymore. You either want a piece of the fight, or just want to sit back and watch the sparks fly.
To help promote its theoretically peaceful point, the manager of Paint has added to the neon signs several posters around the block that have red, green and blue paint splattered against black, and the letters P-A-I-N-T scrawled in grudge handwriting. Whether he did this for publicity or because he’s a douche who likes to shake things up, I haven’t the faintest clue. The fucker’s not half as smart as he thinks he is, because those three colors make up the primary colors of light, but when it comes to pigment (aka paint) the primary colors are red, yellow, and blue. There’s a big different between light and paint.
‘Cause I don’t fucking spew green paint from my fingers, now do I?
But it’s a bit too late, I guess, to go and make the change, because the whole block and a few around it have been dubbed the Paint District. Tag artists have thrown up their different symbols and designs, coating entire walls with spray paint, green on red on blue. None of the individual pieces are distinguishable. But the paint speaks for itself as one chaotic organism, and it screams to me: baby, let’s start a war tonight!
I run my fingers over the jagged and steadily changing edges of the graffiti.
Bring on the fight, I reply.
The night throws the Paint District into new light, and everyone comes out to play and bask in it. Hustlers stand on street corners, flashing bikes and passerby a sneak-peak of skin and calling out promises of cheap sweet-nothings. Gangsters with their guns stuffed down their pants nod at con artists with pieces tucked under sleek suit jackets. Teens with rebellion on their minds walk the streets, clicking their lighters off and on while snapping their switchblades up and out. Rebels with revolution on their minds stand in doorways smoking their joints, talking, ever talking about their plans for the future while cats like me actually stand up and do something, make a change, burn down the city so that something new will grow from it.
And the Paint District is the perfect place to start the flame.
This street, right smack in the middle of the city, is the center for business. Anything you want you can find here, buy here. Anyone you want to find can be found here, bound here. Anything you want to know can be bought, as long as there’s enough booze to loosen the right tongue. And there’s always enough booze. And if you just want a chemical-free, chaos induced rush of adrenaline like me, well then you’re in the right place baby! A few words of advice: don’t get fucked over or up. It’s easy in this part of town, you got to learn to play the game, beat the system.
And I’m the card dealer on ‘shock.
And we’re playing House Rules.
Jokers, no Queens or Kings, Jacks beat all and Aces are wild.
Because I’m already half buzzed and ready to kill, and right now baby, I’m seeking the thrill.