The Ballad of Dick Clancey
He darted through the street. The cops hard on his tail. This was it; tonight was the night. They’d finally catch him. His LA noire-esque, brown duster scraping against wet cement black-top. A spitting drizzle of rain above his head as he snaked his way through this deadbeat, bleak city. It was late; midnight too was closing in hard on him. His time was close to being up. He had done it this time. Not only were four-oh on him but the mafia. Big hitters.
They all wanted him dead in the nonexistent dirt of this cement town. But he clutched his zipper-gun tight in his pocket. No one would take Dick Clancey alive. No, not without a scrapped fight and a hot shower of riveted lead. He had a full stock in his tommy and he knew just how he was going to use it. He knew just how this would all go down. He marched through the windswept, rainy streets. The smell of deluged garbage fighting to make it through the air. This was the only life he could remember, the only life he knew.
And damn, did he get himself into trouble this time. He struck the nerve that was keeping this cold metropolis simultaneously half-dead and alive. That grand artery that connected crime and justice. He found the pulse in that vein and now he was the one applying pressure to it. Red and blue were both breathing down his neck as he squeezed tighter.
He found the truth.
And Dick Clancey was the type of man who knew just how to unleash the truth onto the world. He stomped his way through the muck and grime. His whole life had been leading up to this and he knew this was how he wanted to go out. He made his peace. Dick Clancey and peace? No they wouldn’t go together. He would shoot his way through the thick of the lies and the smog of corruption. That’s how Dick Clancey handled peace.
The documents. The exposay was drafted and in his hands. But now, every man and woman in big blue’s and Dirty lorenzo's pocketbook were onto him. He couldn’t chance a taxi ride, less he already planned to book a seat with the devil on his way down to hell. So he walked the walked, ducking and weaving between telephone polls, falafel carts and wide-eyed tourists. He had to make it to the Post in time. Get in touch with his contact. Plant this seed of truth in the barren minds of this desolate town.
Schmucks. All of them. They weren’t savvy to how big this was. How the story of their lives was inches away from their schmucky noses. This was big. Too big. He knew it; he didn’t know if he could handle this. So he stopped. Stopped at his favorite falafel cart on 47th street. Yes, a good falafel would ease his steel ridden nerves. He clutched his tommy close, while he grabbed a quick gnosh. This was city fuel, the grease would only power him forward through the slime.
That was it!
The sewerers. Big blue and Dirty Lorenzio would never think to use the swerers. That’s how he’d make his grand escape to the Post. That’s how he’d drop off the exposay in a hail fire of bullets. And if he was lucky, if he was only half swiss cheese, he’d try to book it to Mr. Mayor. No, no. If this was true, if all the pieces connected than Mr. Mayor would be in on this. Damn, beauracauts. Dick Clancey hated beauracauts. And astronauts. Dammed glory stealing astronauts. But that thought was for another day, he unpacked the tommy from his breast. Staring down at a man-hole before him. Yea, that’ll do: his ticket to freedom was about to be punched.
He cocked that tommy and BANNGGGG, BANNGGG, BANNGGG. The sewers were open for business, baby. And baby had just found the highway to his next stop: widespread corruption. He took a big gulp in. If up-town smelled like wet garbage than downtown was a sea of shit. But Dick Clancey was a 2 time heʻe ʻana surf champion and he and his tommy-board were ready to coast these friendly seas.
He dropped down into the deep. Took the plunge into the scrawling shit sea. This was bad, real bad. He forgot a light. But Dick Clancey was always one step ahead of the baddies and himself. He held up the dossier and it luminated the path. Little did Big Blue or Dirty Lorenzio realize -- Dick Clancey only pens his work in neon, glow-in-the-dark ink. The clever private eye having made this same exact mistake a dozen times before; the crafty old son of a bitch learning a trick or two in his time.
And now it was time for Dick to do what Dick did best, he dog paddled through the river of piss. His dark-black duster turning a hot yellow. Like superman changing into a new limited edition costume. Dick was now really ready for action. And action was in every single second of his life.
BAM! Were-o-dile.
A 20ft monosority of flesh, bone and teeth. Easily, able to bite any normal man in half. Too bad we don’t even need to mention that Dr. Clancey was anything but normal. Having served 5 years in southern Vietnam working covert medical-ops for the Hessians, he was trained in the art of hand to hand crocodylidae combat. In an instant he found the primary verbate of the croc and snapped it in twine. Not today, Dirty Lorenzio; he had heard the mafia mastermind had stocked the sewers with mystical, demonic crocodiles. All in order to suppress the grand truth.
Dick made it through the shit and piss, and found the escape ladder to up-town. Old tommy punching another ticket “hello”, as he made land. Crawling up from the pitch dark, to the fluorescent half-light. It smelt like hell down there but up-here it was ungodly. This was it. The bigtime was in-sight and clever Dick was preparing for this dance all night.
The exposay dossier was ready. The truth would see light. His tommy was close to empty. Too many tickets punched. He was low on city fuel to boot. He needed to rest. A quick moment to stay low and catch his breath before the final push forward. Just close his eyes.
This was the end of Dick Clancey’s story.
Awaking, he approached his doctor’s office. The dosser having spent the night on the streets rolling through piles of garbage, eating an actual falafel, staring at an open man-hole whilst fumbling with a lighter and finally taking a slumped nap on a bench before waking up. He now stumbed forwards towards reality. The truth that was in his hand was an expired, half-burnt dunkin donuts coupon. Lorenzio, the anodyne store manager, wouldn’t accept it. It had expired months ago. The police had to come to remove him from the store. They gingerly placed him on a sidewalk and left him to his journey from downtown to uptown. He had been off his medication for weeks. His zippo would flick helplessly in his hands, long having run out of fuel, as he climbed his way up the stairs to his state funded psychiatrist. He was allotted one visit a month, given a prescribed plan that was mostly subsidized and that he only occasionally was able to follow.
His “contact at the Post” was the kind receptionist who took some time out of her day to talk to an old, wounded war veteran. Richard Clansbee had indeed served in Vietnam. However, it was not for the Hessians but the United States of America. He had worked in a trauma ward as a physician's assistant. The trauma he worked his best to help cure ultimately leaving him permanently scarred. He was now in his early 80s. He had a state pension that was mostly robbed from him due to reasons, even if he was lucid, would not be able to understand. Most of his loved ones and family had passed away. He never married. Had no children. His local VA office closed down: a lack of public funding and private support. “Mr. Mayor”, his doctor, usually talked to him for the exact stated required 5 minutes before re-presubscribing his pills. He would always be sure to politely shake his hand and gently push him out of the door afterwards.
Richard Clansbee was promised a better life so when things were bad and he was down on his luck he dreamed of Dick Clancey.
Word Count: 1444 Genre: Americana, Noire, Dark Comedy
Closing Word: This over the top Americana Noire tale developed into a tragic comedy and commentary on Mental Health in America. Stylistically, I played with fragmented and choppy sentences alongside very short and train of thought framed paragraphs in effort to elicit a fast-paced and frantic story.