[hider=The Artist][h1][/h1]
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[color=2e2c2c][b]𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙽𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚊[/b][/color][/h1][/sup][/center]
[color=dimgray][h3][table][row][cell][right][sup][sup]Title[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup]☞[/sup][/cell][cell][sup][sup]A half-Japanese rocker and drug dealer spirals through addiction while trying to solve a legacy that refuses to add up.
[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][row][cell][right][sup][sup]Age[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup]☞[/sup][/cell][cell][sup][sup]37[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][row][cell][right][sup][sup]Sex[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup]☞[/sup][/cell][cell][sup][sup]Male[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][row][cell][right][sup][sup]Business[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup]☞[/sup][/cell][cell][sup][sup]He’s the broken-hearted-can’t-land-a-gig-musician to some; the can’t-get-a-job-to-help-support-the-children-bum-of-an-ex-husband to others; the didn’t-make-it-to-my-birthday-party-again-this-year-deadbeat-dad to his children. And to most, the-chink-eyed-guy-with-the-decent-hookups-but-rarely-answers-his-door-drug-dealer[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][row][cell][right][sup][sup]Savvy[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup]☞[/sup][/cell][cell][sup][sup]“Hey, chink-eyes! I’ve got five fingers.” The big, red haired boy folded several of his fingers. “I takin’ away four, now how many d’yah see?” 
       The math was a no brainer. It always would be. His mind had the answer before the boy even finished his question.
       The same amounts the private part hiding in his pants. 
       The same amount of guns his father used to shoot his brains out on that day before school let out for the semester.
      The same amount of parents he still had alive.  
      If there were that many things he was good at in school — things that pushed him through the grades — it was math. He had to know his digits. Somebody in that house had to.
      And if his white mom knew anything, at least that same amount of it wasn’t math. 
      For people who ran the place, white people sure came up with the dumbest questions.[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][row][cell][right][sup][sup]Ruin[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup]☞[/sup][/cell][cell][sup][sup]His father was a No-No boy. Enough. No more needs to be said. It was a mess from the beginning. When Johnny came on scene, his father was like a dog with his tail between his legs. 
      And his low-on-the-totem-pole Greek wife might have had the same sense if she’d answered the way he did, when he got on one knee after knowing her for three days.
     Their marriage wasn’t even allowed in all of the states, and the slurs were never-ending. His height didn’t show until the bullying had taken its toll, and his father finally left without any last kiss or goodbye but a bag of regrets.
      All they had was some lady who was married to the man who was son of the woman his grandmother’s brother married. So, in other words, she worked in a Greek diner. And he wasn’t fucking Greek. 
      Chink eyed. Four eyed. Razor-straight haired. Ink-dark eyebrowed. Low-bridged nosed.
      Except his mom wasn’t aging like other Asians’ moms did. She didn’t talk like other Asians’ moms did. To matters worse, she took him to that God-awful Greek Church where everything was in some language no one spoke anymore.
      And the other Asians said he smelled like something from the Mediterranean. 
     The other Asians said his math didn’t add up. He wasn’t the same amount as them.
     But he could play the guitar. And damn, if Elvis Presley and Woody Guthrie didn’t send him in the right direction when he was in a funk. He met some other people who also liked rock n’roll. They liked playing instruments. They also liked taking drugs. And better, they didn’t give a slick about what amount of anything Johnny was, ‘cept that when he spoke numbers he was talkin’ marijuana cigarette's. 
      And well, you can do the math from here.
      Or maybe you can’t. It don’t matter. I’ll do it for you.
      There’s something about a man seeking stardom that makes a young and stupid white girl’s heart swoon. Yah know the kind. The one with blonde hair and blue eyes. She’ll probably stop at a nuclear family amount of children. And then do the man dirty when he can’t support her lifestyle. Her friends tell her she can do better.
      And now she does.
      Did you guess right? He’s got two additions that require a bill he pays to his ex-wife every month.
      Don’t help that he never sees them anymore.
      Nothing ever amounts to much. 
      But sometimes the deals do.
[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][row][cell][right][sup][sup]Cred[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup]☞[/sup][/cell][cell][sup][sup]Word on the street he’s got a new girl. Looks young enough to be his kid. With those Orientals, though, it’s hard to tell. Doesn’t matter. His stuff is clean. Guy can eye the weight without a scale. Just looks at it. Calls it. Dead on.
      Except when he doesn’t. He impresses you with his amount and then slowly starts chipping away. Got to watch him like a hawk. Who do you think turned him in last time? Might have been because of his anger. Gets it real bad sometimes.
     And then, there’s guitar.
     Those riffs get heavy.[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][row][cell][right][sup][sup]Ilk[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup]☞[/sup][/cell][cell][sup][sup][/sup][/sup][table][row][cell][right][sup][sup][i][b]COULD'A HAD CLASS[/b][/i] (or, [b][i]YOU THINK I'M FUNNY?[/i][/b])[/sup][/sup][/right][/cell][cell][sup][sup]You've been a loser for as long as you can remember. You know it, your old man knows it, the local parishioner knows it, but you'll suck a barrel before you let any random schmuck on the street know it, too. Extremely sensitive to being dismissed, underestimated, condescended, ball-busted, you've got something to prove, and stashed in your waistline or your ankle holster or your coat pocket is just the right tool for the task. In your perpetual quest to prove you're tough (valuable, respected, &c.), someone always, eventually, either puts you up to a challenge from which you cannot back down, or levels an insult you don't have it in you to ignore. You will escalate; you will go too far; and what could have been solved with some slick words and a few greased palms you will instead solve through disproportionate violence. You're the closer of doors, the burner of bridges, and the kicker-off of monstrous, deadly vendettas.[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][row][cell][right][i][b][sup][sup]A HARMLESS VICE[/sup][/sup][/b][/i][/right][/cell][cell][sup][sup]Whether it's a pill, a powder, or a needle, you're hopelessly and viciously hooked on one or another chemical. A chemical which doesn't sharpen you up anymore the way it used to. A chemical which makes you paranoid and antsy and irritable at the best of times. You're off the job for sure if the bosses find out. Maybe you'll O.D. before it gets to that, but likelier there will be others counting on you to hold steady, and instead you'll crack like a dinnerplate, sweating shaking panicking all the while.[/sup][/sup][/cell][/row][/table]

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