The Unvarnished End

So here I am, sittin’ on this porch swing that creaks like an old man’s knees, lookin’ out at a sky that’s seen its share of sunsets and sunrises, just like me. The Unvarnished End, they called this chapter. Like there’s a varnished version of my life I’m supposed to be sellin’. Honey, the only varnish I ever dealt with was the stuff they slapped on coffins.

It’s funny, ain’t it? All those years, runnin’, duckin’, makin’ deals that’d make your hair curl, and now I’m here, talkin’ to you like we’re at Sunday dinner, minus the cannoli and the thinly veiled threats. They want the truth, the whole ugly, beautiful, messed-up truth. And who am I to deny ’em? I’ve already spilled more blood than a butcher shop on a Saturday night, what’s a few more words gonna hurt?

The mob. What a racket. It’s like a cult, but with better suits and more guns. They sell you a dream, see? A dream of respect, of power, of never having to worry about the rent again. And for a kid like me, growin’ up with nothin’ but lint in his pockets and dreams bigger than the Jersey Turnpike, it was a siren song. A sweet, deadly melody that pulled you in, bit by bit, until you were swimmin’ in the deep end, and the shore was a distant memory.