Tales of the Naked City

The officer (Sloth)


Sloth, not ill-will, makes me unjust. —Mason Cooley 


Las Vegas, the city of strangers, the place where corruption is king. My family moved to the city when it was still a mob stronghold. The criminals had slick hair, silk suits, and lived by a code that kept the uninvolved citizens safe. My father was a police officer working long tireless hours combatting a department too mismanaged to effectively patrol and too connected to make arrests.  

He was an idealist. Believed in truth, and justice, and that good always prevails. It was a beautiful sentiment. One that kept us hungry, living paycheck to paycheck, and had us depending on the kindness of support groups when my mother got sick. Standing over the open hole in the ground watching them lower her casket, I knew, although my dad was a good man, he wasn't what I wanted it to be. 

I did join the force, somewhat followed in his footsteps. I got further in the department then my dad could have dreamed. It wasn't ambition that got me there. Oh no, it was calculation. Hard work only gets you so far. Who you have a beer with? Will get you further. 

In the Naked city I've raised a glass with pimps and prostitutes. Gave a toast to drug dealers and hit men. I've contemplated over a tumbler of whisky how to clean up the streets with soul savers. Hell, I've even knocked back a few with the mayor and let me tell you that man has great ideas. Not really viable, but damn does it sound good on paper.  

Plans always do.  

Everyone wants to make a change, but I've found life is just easier if you go with the flow. Some people can't be saved. Some areas of the city should never be open for tourism, and sometimes managing the devil you know is better than fighting the one you don't.  

So, while you rise and grind, working your fingers to the bone, trying to change my city into your quaint hometown while quietly indulging in the vices you met here, in the back alleyways, or between a pair of thighs that didn't belong in your bed. We see you, the real you. The one that likes to talk but never has the guts to act. I get it...I do. That's why you'll get no empathy from me when you're completely engulfed in the quick sands of hell, your laziness the only currency needed to secure your ticket. Remember...idle hands are nothing more than the devil's playground.   

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M. Jay Granberry

P.O. Box 1234

Las Vegas, NV 89131 USA 

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