Got my right foot dug into the soldier's thick neck when I finally figure out what's chafing me. Bells. That's what's wrong with this sonic picture.

Buried in the dense industrial drone of the Freedom Tower 3.0 re-rebuild, metallic and huge, cranes and bulldozer treads, the flocks of choppers, the loudspeakers wailing Mandarin like a call to prayer ... Within this cacophony I dig the bells, church bells, consonant clusters, occupying three distinct slots in the stereo field.

Somebody tolling them bells over at St. Paul's. Maybe St. Peter's. South too, probably at Trinity.

Soldier gargling, yank my full attention back to the throat I'm stepping on, the SEMPER FI tattoo and logo, attached to a compact middle-aged white man, here in this rinky-dink trailer/office on-site. Man gags and gulps.

That I can be distracted from this, the righteous killing of the cocksucker who snuffed my main man Dos Mac, this laboriously executed execution ... that a bell can catch my attention is revealing. In that this here event is such a forgone thing, cause I killed this fuck countless times in my head over the last year.

Doing whitey now in a Chinese trailer. When a brother like me told the foreman to scram, best believe he scrum. Now witness Chinaman's hastily abandoned breakfast, some manner of alien donut, herky-jerky bits of office debris, a greasy calendar, Chinese characters reading MISS G-9 BEIJING, a faded nymphet showing us a naked shoulder, winking at the viewer from a lost era, wrapped in that ubiquitous red flag.

To say that such disorder disgusts me would be a gross understatement. Does, however, make me wanna speed this nasty business up. "Getting prepped to merge with the infinite, sarge? Just so you dig, this is really happening and it's happening right now." Say it through the surgical mask, only slightly winded from our brief scuffle. Doubt if I'll need chrome today but I hold my HK45 loose and easy in my reconstructed hand.

Prosthetic metacarpal. As bits of me break off, the government is there with a spare. The perks of the insider. In this case, I had high-fived a moving helicopter. Sure, I got stories.

Gloves on, natch.

White man grimaces, a tooth hanging from his lower lip by a thread of blood.

Balancing my full weight on the man's throat, whip my other brogue clean and hard into dude's kidney. Man expelling air like a burst basketball.

"Find it curious you've yet to ask me why this is going down. Reckon you already know then."

Salt-and-pepper hair shorn military close, character for the Chinese "Infinity" etched into the side of his head per Cyna-corp chic. That older tattoo on the forearm, with that eagle, globe, and anchor ... not unlike my own tattoo, though blurred with age.

Vein in the man's forehead raised, engorged. Gargling suggests he might perhaps speak, I ease up the pressure on Sergeant Ferguson's airway.

Me saying: "Jimmy."

This not eliciting a response, I give him another foot to the gut. James heaves an empty, dry retch.

"Take it down memory lane, be sure you're crystal." Me saying: "Know me, bitch?"

Jimbo nuzzling his cheek against the rotten shitty wood of the trailer floor, nodding, nodding.

"So maybe you're doing that math. To assist. Hearken back, November last. Unarmed black man in Chinatown. Lots of computers, books. Took him out cold blood. You following, shitbird?"

His one visible eye swivels my way, attempting a connection I evade.

"That man was my brother. His name was Dos Mac."

Jim wagging his skull, yes massa, and I peep a sliver of something like hope in those Aryan scopes ... yes sir. Perhaps he can logic his way out to fight another day.

Plenty nuff talking for me.

Step hard, breaking the cartilage of his trachea.

* * *

Grind northbound, shaking it off, already got my Purell™ out on automatic, eyes strafing the black glass of the Millennium Hotel, WTC 1 V3.0 to my back vibing wrong, vibing too tall, past a low wall of sandbags, armored cars, white shuttle buses sporting Skanska logos, dodging a manhole erupting terra-cotta steam, surrounded by a dozen drones in lemon hazmat gear ...

Well, I ask you now, you think I cherish these sorry situations? This lopsided sadism? Think I get jiggy on the misfortune of my fellow travelers? Not so, y'all, not so.

Dip my hat at the Chinese boys flanking the gate, one of whom commences whistling a Christmas tune. See no evil, gents. I'll settle up with their boss later on, for the short-term rental. And associated cleanup costs.

But listen. Listen, friends. Fundamentally I am a man of peace, a retiring, scholarly gentleman. It's just that this brother also happens to be extensively and expensively schooled in kicking down doors and inflicting pain. So one does what one can, given one's CV. Especially round about these fucking times, where it's do or drown.

No shame in my game.

Full disclosure, to the degree possible with what I got in my skull: I used to be one of these private army heavies. Cyna-corp, though it went by a different name, was my team.

And I bailed. Broke rank. So you can imagine ... makes it complicated cause said crew essentially runs the island.

Yeah, apparently I used to wear those colors. This period of my life is poorly lit, a casualty of the tinkering that went on in my skull at the hands of the doctors at the National Institutes of Health. Allegedly. So as far as Cyna-corp is concerned, I am still AWOL.

Worse still: I allowed the Cyna-corp founder and guiding spirit to be slaughtered right in front of me. Knifed to death by US Senator Clarence Howard, no less. Sad story, y'all. Another time.

Dig, pausing now at the corner of godforsaken Barclay and Church to pull down the mask and flame up a Chinese Lucky Strike. Helps with the Stench.

Swap out used plastic gloves for fresh, squinting skyward at the helicopters, always with the helicopters, as I apply the necessary Purell™ ... suggestion of a light source through the heavy orange cloud cover would indicate approximately five in the p.m.

Trying to peep my driver. Need to get to Midtown. The senator has taken to leaving the office earlier and earlier.

This Ferguson thing, these were precious moments expended on personal business. More risk than I would generally allow for. But some matters cannot be left unattended. Jungle justice.

Suck three fast lungfuls, plop a blue pill on my tongue, and replace my mask; with the rapid deterioration of the air quality, that's about all my body can take. And with this I am one fine evening closer to death.

I call myself Dewey Decimal.