“We have your family”
That was 23 hours ago.
22 hours since I stormed out the Polizia’s HQ.
15 hours since I capped a fucking snitch.
1 hour since I decided there was only one way this would end.
It might already be too late.
Found this burner shoved in my ticket pocket.
Ransom note wrapped round it.
Letters cut from back issues of Leon.
“Cooperate or we put them in RTW”
Those sick fucks.
Kidnapped.
By RL Stevenson Black Label.
Got my kin held down.
Got my fam tied up.
G’s trapped in triangles.
Fighting the Stockholm syndrome.
Hostages laced in H&M.
God forbid.
Less than an hour.
Running through Pitti.
On Dainites.
Protect these soles.
From my bloodshed.
A sea of red coral.
Great Barrier steelo.
Even at my most vulnerable.
My most desperate.
My most human.
Potential threats all around me.
I stay clowning.
Finding Timo Weiland.
So I can punch them the fuck out.
But I can’t get distracted.
Reading that note over.
And over.
At the cafe last night.
Searching for clues.
Inside my espresso.
It doesn’t make any sense.
“Call when you are at the drop off”
“Bring us 100 unmarked, untraceable #fashion tags.”
“Who is your tailor?”
“We want to feature you on our Tumblr.”
“How do you feel about street style?”
Two-bit steez traffickers.
If they only knew.
P is home.
And like Albert said.
There’s no such thing as half way crooks.
That was 23 hours ago.
22 hours since I stormed out the Polizia’s HQ.
15 hours since I capped a fucking snitch.
1 hour since I decided there was only one way this would end.
It might already be too late.
Found this burner shoved in my ticket pocket.
Ransom note wrapped round it.
Letters cut from back issues of Leon.
“Cooperate or we put them in RTW”
Those sick fucks.
Kidnapped.
By RL Stevenson Black Label.
Got my kin held down.
Got my fam tied up.
G’s trapped in triangles.
Fighting the Stockholm syndrome.
Hostages laced in H&M.
God forbid.
Less than an hour.
Running through Pitti.
On Dainites.
Protect these soles.
From my bloodshed.
A sea of red coral.
Great Barrier steelo.
Even at my most vulnerable.
My most desperate.
My most human.
Potential threats all around me.
I stay clowning.
Finding Timo Weiland.
So I can punch them the fuck out.
But I can’t get distracted.
Reading that note over.
And over.
At the cafe last night.
Searching for clues.
Inside my espresso.
It doesn’t make any sense.
“Call when you are at the drop off”
“Bring us 100 unmarked, untraceable #fashion tags.”
“Who is your tailor?”
“We want to feature you on our Tumblr.”
“How do you feel about street style?”
Two-bit steez traffickers.
If they only knew.
P is home.
And like Albert said.
There’s no such thing as half way crooks.
( Fuck Yea Menswear )
www.ChordsAZ.com