Jefferson Blinks

Blinks was a character lost to screenplay, walking down the boulevard with a penguin pimp's gait, his tempo suspending Sandman to wait. His chap-stick-slicked lips opened to let his tongue flick on a cherry candy stick while the cancer j-twig snoozed tucked behind his ear prick. His black-light-white pants were the only visible sign of movement in the second of darkness at that midpoint interlude of city street lights-you know, the place where neither of two adjacent cross-walk-bulbs reaches far enough to right of the left sides; where a semi-circular line of true night stretches, defying artificial city glow. Sometimes he liked to stand in that streak of vertigo, feigning escape from industry, looking all shady until the head-beams of a car would crash onto his chest and throw him back to his foot steps' dash. His vision spared by tinted Hendrix shades, he'd mellow boogie down to play the cool-cats' spades down at Chi-Town's 88.

He'd get there and rap-tap-tap at the door drum, flash a bright grin to contrast his dark skin, and follow the gate-keeper to the Death Poker Inn. Joker, Smoker, Toker, Smiley and Blinks gathered round the square table like all-that-jazz quintet of stinkers. The mean kinks in their brows got polished so quick, not even Big Brother could catch on to their slick game of crooked cash cards at frowning men's costs. Bluff, toke a puff, curve a blow and enjoy the show:

"Look, lady boy, you cough up the dough now or your pretzel's gon' get an extra twist, see?" Blinks reasoned. This stiffing the bee's nest business was past due season and Queen Bee was he and he wasn't busy buzzing blissfully. He jabbed a fist into the Unresponsive's gut and rolled his eyes. Unresponsive grunted from the gut and got his groggy speech re-plugged, "I ain't got pretzels or dough, you damn butcher! I know your ensemble here's playing a bent deck," upon which he walked his final steps. The bullet was swift, a dissonant tune through the forehead of that looney toon. Unresponsive was self-evident. The mess of his mass mount of brain matter was mopped in haste, the body disclaimed in a batch of town-market chicken waste.

Blinks did an about face, cruised to his proclaimed head chair at his high slab square, flipped the j-twig from index to thumb, lit to inhale a cool calm, hazed like a boss-cat on a meal of ratatat. The gang fell into step and treaded back and all resumed high throne and picked up their pack-but Smiley had capsized his Cheshire cat, circling his ground in fuming regret. The guys gaped and wondered, their guts tied to knots, if Smiley needed room next to dear deceased Mr. Shock. He had that same mad sparkle, the same nervous twitch that got the old boss in a 6 foot ditch.