Secret Stranger

Living my life down by the dock, a secret stranger, hiding from the eyes of the ranger – dingy bars are my safe hold, staying away from all the rest, always heading downwind, I can’t hide – I can never rest. I knew the rules when I took the job, didn’t know it would be so hard, didn’t know it would last so long.

I have no name, I am no one and I am everyone, Walking away from the wind – away from my old life I turned into an ally and with a swish of my coat I was gone, now I’m just another Doe, just another John.

Nothing more heard from me, never a sound, you’ll be lucky if you can catch me in the corner of your eye by the time you turn around, you’ll think to yourself it was just your imagination – a random noise, a random sound, but you’ll see a rose and wonder. I’ll keep an eye out for you, but you can never see me again.

Moving from town to town, always on the run, I have a lookout, I can’t count on her as a friend, for it’s you watch my back, I watch yours – until a better deal I can procure, that is my blessing, that is my curse, I have only one friend in this universe – I can feel the holster of my colt, knowing that it’s the only thing that wont turn on me.

I go for women, I go for men – I’ll do whatever i can, I’ll do anything so long as my goal, my mission, is achieved, I need information with haste, I’m always hiding, I have precious little time to waste.

We can’t go to hospitals, we can’t go to shrinks, we’re lucky if we get a swig of whisky, and a clean bullet to bite between our teeth. We do our own surgery using a blade from our knife, and some string and a massive amount of heat – comfort is a luxury that none of us can afford.

Such is the life of the stranger, spy, hitman, lone gunman, doctor, priest, lover, father – I wear many hats – everytime I turn around I’m someone different, I don’t own an identity for long.

Always asleep with one eye open, one eye shut, gun under my pillow, knife strapped to my leg – friends can be close, enemies are always closer; to few fail to heed the advice given and follow the rules – it’s they we say presente for, because we know they’re through. Most likely they’re in the morgue, listed as “Doe, John.”

Walking in the rain, I drop my jacket and begin to run, down the ally, through the muck, heading for my next job, with very little luck. Hoping, praying that this one will be the last, I feel like sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill, I’m never through, never done, i can never sleep at night without having the feeling that I may be caught out. One day I’ll keep running and I’ll never stop, but today is not that day, and tomorrow isn’t looking good either.

Sweet, sweet misery.