(A blurred camera lens focuses on Ned the wino staggering towards the middle of the street clutching his favorite bottle of Thunderbird
which is held tightly against his chest, and wrapped inside a brown paper bag. Ned’s eyes are squinted,
blinded by the helicopters light as he looks up into the sky. The scene is pathetic and chaotic)
In the Swamp, people who live in this part of the mud are regarded as being savages and often called by state authorities as animals, reptiles and subhuman.
This part of the city is considered to be Kill Zone 12, a police state, prepped for quarantine. Welcome to the “Killing Zone”.
Just another day and life while living deep in the mud of a dead city.
The sound of News & Police helicopters hovering can be heard from a distance. The ground shakes as the thrust of rotating
blades spin maintaining their overview position of the killing field below.
This is not a dream and it’s defiantly not the 4th of July. It’s the South Bronx, summer of 2020, in New York City.
A black cloud forms as the smell of jet fuel fills the contaminated air.
The aircraft’s residue from the afterburners spray toxic fumes over the below Kill Zone,
better known as the Swamp. 6 Navy’s elite, Blue Angels jet fighters streak across the grey skies in formation
followed by 3 F-19 stealth bombers following closely, imposing a threat in a one sided fight against war on drugs and crime upon its citizens.
Ambulance sirens ring out and speed to their locations as fire engines follow closely behind
heading towards their respected destination across rubble scattered across the mud filled city streets.
8 single maned Police cars race through the muddy swamp, splashing sewer water and debris, as they scramble in the opposite direction to answer 911’s dispatch.
Multiple machine gun shots sound off, fired by a Tec-9 in the direction of the police cars as they pass
only to hit an abandoned building as children play in a nearby desecrated playground.
(The camera pans left, moving from Ned the wino to zoom in on ex marine veteran, Swamp Man, a chain smoker of cigarettes and an avid heroin addict. Ned was discovered speaking softly about the current events as they unfold.
Located inside a blue garbage dumpster is a hiding Swamp Man squatting. He has been video recording the most recent events on a stolen prepaid cell phone.
He smelt awful, covered in an unhealthy, roach infestation where sewer rats and disgusting human waste run rampant).
“This is Swamp Man, reporting live from the mud, located deep in the gutter of Zone 12, where no-frills is a brand name
and the stench of stale urine, dry roach spray along with welfare country cornflakes can be smelt throughout the killing fields.
There hasn’t been any running water in three weeks, so please excuse my appearance along with my unpleasant body odor.
The air is thick and can be sliced with a machete. Take a look at these dope addict sparrows.
They don’t fly in Zone 12, they stumble across the muddy swamp in search of their next meal whenever they’re aren’t throwing up.
Dope fiends walk then stop in mid motion and fall asleep standings up.
That reminds me of my own sweet tooth.” Swamp Man puts down the phone while it’s still recording
and pulls out what he calls “Trusty Rusty”, a used heroin needle. Swamp Man looks at Trusty Rusty kisses it and says,
“Since the war, meeting you is the best thing that ever happened to me while stationed in Germany during Desert Storm.
You are my heaven and I’ve been chasing you ever since.” He kisses ole Rusty on the forehead, smiles and injects himself whispering,
“This is better than sex. Wow. Fly butterfly, fly.”
Swamp Man slowly drifts into a trance, posturing a mean staggering lean with a string of drool hanging from his mouth.
Somehow he managed to maintain a statue pose without falling dead on his face, head first.
(The many regrets of life. How a series of mistakes jeopardize an individuals future. The choices some people make to cope, to endure and to escape the pain of their reality)
Over the years living an precarious lifestyle and self medicating by abusing smack,
Swamp Man’s twisted way of coping would eventually catch up with him. His last attempt to escape by a fix was mixed with poison inducing a heart attack.
Swamp Man’s heart exploded inside his mouth and died right on the spot. He was rolled up in a ball inside the garbage dumpster, clutching a cell phone with Trusty Rusty still in his arm.
Savage thieves and laughing crack heads, sounding like wild hyenas go through Swamp Man’s pockets then head straight to the crack spot where they sell $3 yellow tops when the block is not hot.
Tee-Tee was talented in High School and graduated at the top of her class.
With one year of college studying Biology under her belt Tee-Tee had gotten pregnant and was forced to follow in her mother’s foot steps.
Tee, dropped out of school having to work to support her child.
With no man around to help make ends meet Tee picked up a crack pipe to drown her sorrows away. She started sharing her talents and gifts with the public
for $10 a pop giving head tricks in the basement of a abandoned brownstone located on 129th street.
People strangely referred to her as a pint size Smiget. Her ears were peculiar somewhat like an Elf ears to be exact.
Oddly enough, when she sat in a chair her feet didn’t touch the floor, they’d dangled in the air like a child sitting on a swing.
Some of the men on the block felt some type of way, sorta weird, and guilty at the same time after having sex with her.
Tee-Tee had this look in her eyes of hysteria suffering from extreme depression and later became emotionally unstable.
One of her male customers violated her causing unjustified trauma to her head while using extreme force.
The pressure from his fist, after his theft of her food stamp and intercourse made one of her eyes pop out of its socket.
If Tee-Tee is not careful, moving forward, she will be sucking meals through a straw for the rest of her life.
One thing about being on welfare the healthcare is first class.
Ever since Rallo could remember from the time the doctor smacked him on his butt he was hemming and hawing, moaning and groaning, bitching, lying and crying for attention.
Rallo was silver spoon child fed from a broken wooden spoon. His family didn’t have much but they had made the best with all they did have.
Rallo, a son of an adopted mother who didn’t know her own mother grew up without a father in his life.
This is the normal lifestyle expectancy of a single parent household in Zone 12.
Rallo’s grandparents, his Nana and Papa where the only resemblance of a stable family.
They were married for some 53+ years, until his grandma died from a head contusion after getting slammed against the back of a police car,
simply because she was hard of hearing and didn’t properly respond to the officer’s request.
To be continued…