meon

Bootlegging Meon
Coca Cola had nothing on the little green bottle, I had the stuff to make them keep coming back, and they did.
“God?” I gasped that one word out from the gaps in between my teeth, letting it fall through the darkness of my cell. My chest hurts, as though someone has placed a weight upon me and started to fill me to the rim with water, I was choking on myself.
“No son, I am only a messenger,” this voice so faint, is drowning me, I can’t tell where it’s coming from, “Tell me your name.” he asked me.
My name? My name is, wait… “My name is… My name is Jeremiah, Br-Brown. Sir. I can’t breathe, sir.”
My hand fell upon my breast pocket, as I began to choke. My suit seemed to become extremely uncomfortable, and I shifted in the single chair, who’s arms held me down.
“Tell me your name, once more,” the voice asked in a politely light voice.
“It’s, Jeremiah Brown, please help me.” I am shaking now.
“Now son… Jeremiah… breathe calmly. This is not a panic room. Is this your first confession?”

“Hey there,” the faint smell of crushed roses lingered upon white skin as full lips curved into a smirked, “I saw you looking at me from across the room.”
True my gaze did fall upon her dark brown hair that curled at just the right places, while it bounced and danced between her slender shoulder blades.
“I don’t come cheap,” This harlot seemed to glide closer, “Now, I know who you are.”
“Me?” I was astounded by this news, then again, I was Jeremiah Brown.
She just nodded her pretty little head as she brushed a hand down the sleeve of my suit, “I know everybody. Worth knowing that is, but to make things more formal, I’m Meon Stone.”
“I’m Jeremiah Brown,” I said proudly.
She just smiled, nodding her head once more, “it’s nice to meet you Mr. Brown.”
She kissed my cheek that night, giggling animatedly, dabbing an embroidered handkerchief at the red stain smudged across my jaw. I wanted to touch her, I can’t deny that fact, she seemed to become just as indicative as my poison. She slyly stuffed the thin cloth within my chest pocket, before cupping my face, and running a slender finger across my lips.
“I guess I’ll see you around tough guy,” I saw her gaze linger over me, before she turned slowly on her heel and walked out on me.

“Confession?”
“Yes, your confession to God, on the sins you have committed.”
“I have done nothing wrong!” it was an instinct to reply with this, and my hands trembled, so I stuffed them into my pockets, only to scrape a finger against a bottle cap.

Who am I to say what’s right or wrong in this type of industry, money is money, if you have to knock a few heads in, to get far, then it isn’t such a bad sacrifice. For others though, they just don’t have the stomach to fetch red lips from the broad next door. 1919, what’s there to say, if you didn’t know where to go, that is.
There was always a party going on, always a drink to be hidden, and bootlegging to be haggled. Now, not everyone could get rich like Al Capone, but you could get a reputation, that was just as good as gold. The names Jeremiah Brown, my territory was fifth and Brunswick, every convent store was another gate way.
So it starts with this door, I can’t say it was the pearly gates to heaven, even though some bastards thought of it that way, but it was a door hiding a pearl. A stone that wooed you into it arms, as soon as your lips hit the warm seeping substance of the liquor. Everyone wanted a taste of the little green leprechaun, but first, you need to know the past word.
“Hey Ricky,” I waved at the attendant behind the counter of my cover up.
Unfortunately, Ricky wasn’t really one for words so, he just nodded his head and grunted, lighting a cigarette, letting the trail of smoke dance off the red tip toward the ceiling that seemed to have yellowed. Wasting no time, I found the back door, leading to storage, past the shelves of empty boxes, there was the exit to the back alley, and across that was the door.
I wrapped my knuckles against the hard wood twice, and I saw the slide being pulled back from the top of the door, and a pair of dark rimmed eyes, peer through.












































I was a cool cat, walking down the street in a vintage suit, and a toothpick idolizing my teeth. I could feel those stares, envious of my position, my title. Each and every one of them would have loved to be in my shoes, or the shoes of my drug.



I remembered the first time, I was refused a drink.

The booze was being slowly poured into the mouths of the sewer monsters, my head ached for that temptation being thrown away like another useless worker. I could almost feel tears for that bossy poison. Those people didn’t know what they were giving away, and I felt sorry for them, each time I pocketed the green.


I was invited to this canal club, this snotty party, with snooty people, who have way too much money carrying them down. I was definitely out of place, they could smell the bootlegging right off the bottom of my shoes, but I held strong, as I pranced around the room, holding conversations that didn’t go anywhere, and sipping down glass after glass of water. Then as though the red sea itself had parted, there by the entrance to the pool room with this Brod, her curves chiseled out of the finest of ivory skin.




The flappers are a group of women, who disobey the rules in the slightest of things. But these women are so seductive with the power they possess, it’s scary and exhilarating. Every one knew their name, just as well as they knew mine.
And I fell in love with one, she was a scarlet of heaven, and as she walked down the street I could see the forming of “Harlot” surrounding everyone’s tongue and I couldn’t help but smirk at their naivety
She said she comes with a price tag, how many wanna have placed a number upon their bosom. I already knew women were just more of something to harass money for.
How can you describe something so perfect, so broken, how will you ever really recover once you know what happens beneath her sheets. It’s kind of like a car, to truly know the mechanics, you need a glimpse beneath the hood and ride around the block. No one wants a used broken down pick-up. We leave those as emergency booty calls and quickies.


“So your not such a bid tough girl after all.”
“You don’t know me,” she scoffed wrenching her arm away from him.
“Honny, everyone knows you. Meon you’re the town harlot, every man has touched, or if they aren’t lucky enough for that, they sure dream about the aspect of your sheets.”

“You’ve been stealing business away from me again, and I don’t like it. Freddy tape him.”
“I don’t like to share my property.”
“Who said you own me?”
“Oh honny, if it weren’t for me, you still would be eating out of trash cans and growing up in a abrothel.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” he glanced the length of her body.

“Hush Dolly Girl,” I ran gentle fingers along the top bead of feathers, adoring the white color of the Cacadu. The bird squawked once more, wings bristling, then folding, “sh…” I pulled a cracker from my pouches and held it steadily in front of the orange beak, “shhh…” I whispered, bringing the bird, so proudly perched on my arm, to my face so I could gaze into those forlorn eyes. The bird said nothing as it took the cracker.