something i wrote before a meeting today.

They were chosen sinners. The man they call Johnny Cash sat outside the too expensive Best Western room balcony trying to light a damp cigarette. He was already dressed - black suit, black shoes, black skinny tie. The sawed off shotgun rested on his lap like a baby, perhaps his own, the one who grew older and spit in his face on Christmas. He let the spit run down his face, letting it burn into a scar the shape of lightning. That Christmas, he left his house for the last time with his son's mark on his face. He rubbed the wood from his gun on his lap and felt an attractive heat. The cigarette was stubborn, though. It refused to light for Johnny Cash. The other man, who had many names, was asleep in the too expensive Best Western room. He held no gun, rather he hugged his pillow like a lover. He rested his head in its feathery bosom and breathed out heavy. Sometimes, he would have visions that his father was watching him in his sleep and he would move violently to avoid his stare. He would mumble something inaudible and return to the arms of his pillow-turned-lover. When the alarm clock screamed, they were indeed chosen sinners. They closed and kissed the door on their individual worlds and jumped into form. Johnny Cash grabbed his gun for his lap and walked into the too expensive Best Western room from the balcony. The man with many names rejected the love of his pillow and jumped upright onto the floor. He grabbed his sawed off shotgun from under the bed like a mistress and slipped into his Easter pants.

"Where's my fuckin shirt, Cash"
"'cuse me"
"My fuckin shirt. Where's my fuckin shirt"
"Am I.. your..shirt's keeper?"

Johnny Cash was too cool. He spoke with many pauses as to give each word its necessary power.

"Nevermind. I got it."
"I.. need cigarettes"
"You what?"
"I can't do this...without some cigarettes"
"It's fuckin 5am, Cash. You have a serious fuckin problem, dude. You gonna get the cancer"
"I..need cigarettes. I can't..do this without my...cigarettes"
"Fuck"
"I..smoke too much. You...cuss too much. We both are..going to hell"

The man with too many names was now dressed in a mismatched suit. His black Easter pants, with a gray jacket, no tie.

"Let's get out of here."
"Are we gonna..find some cigs"
"Yes, Cash. We have to find a Duane Reade or some shit, then we have to go. We're on a schedule. You always fuckin do this, man"

Johnny Cash tried to light his damp cigarette once more. It sagged downward and it appeared completely dead.

The two white men left their key cards on the bed of their too expensive Best Western room and jumped into Johnny's Volvo.

They were indeed the chosen sinners.