Big Sugar

Suddenly, the door to the toilet where the two perverts had been engaging one another in an unclean act opened and they ran out of the stall and then the bathroom, even as one of the four crack-heads glared over at Wang, then suddenly jumped up and jumped on his back, pulling him down to the cold, hard tile floor of the bathroom, screaming for the others to help him. He was wrestling with Wang when another crack addict reached for Wang’s coat pocket and a stream of Wang’s urine smacked him in the face, streaming down into his nostrils and mouth.

“Ah-ehah, piss on me mahn, I’ll fuminin’ kill you—I’ll kill you!” The addict let go of Wang’s coat and began kicking him in the genitals and then the head. You could hear Wang’s screams a hundred yards away, if you were listening, which no one was, except for the crack-heads themselves now, and the one who had been the recipient of the stream of Wang’s now relieved bladder, pulled out a wicked looking, razor-sharp roofer’s knife and the glistening curved blade mirrored the face of the one about to lean downward and use it, the demon who had now taken complete control of the man with the knife in his hand, as well as his addict-compatriots.

#

Big Sugar was walking down the concourse when he spied Wheelchair Paul, who was up on the second floor trying to open the door to the men’s room. He frowned obliquely, wondering how Wheelchair Paul had gotten up to the second floor, as he knew how dangerous the bathrooms were because he had been attacked there himself, upon his arrival, thirteen weeks ago. He could still remember it; he had just come up from Bell Glade after having left a straw boss writhing on the ground in the cane-fields, after he had cheated Big Sugar out of over half of his pay, owed to him from a full season of cutting sugar-cane. Big Sugar knew the man was nothing more than a shill for the powerful sugar cartels but he still had lost his temper and had struck the man down, even though only in self-defense, but he still had had lingering regrets about hamstringing a man when he was down, even though this same man had partially chopped off two of Big Sugar’s fingers. He had confessed it in church and, in confession, the priest at St. Patrick’s—in New York—had reassured him, assuring him that God would forgive him.

It had been in the very same bathroom that Wheelchair Paul was now struggling to open that Big Sugar had been jumped by several crack addicts and had been forced to slice one of them in the arm, almost severing it, after he had pulled a gun on Big Sugar. The word quickly spread throughout the underground city of the Port and the huge ex-cane cutter was given a very wide berth. After experiencing the horrific conditions that the Port’s helpless and homeless were forced to live through daily, Big Sugar had become a troubled man. But, then he had had a dream, a vision in which a voice, a spirit, had appeared before him and told him that his days on earth, as everyone’s, were numbered and that he was at the Port Authority Bus Terminal because God had called him there and that no man indeed, had a higher calling than that man called to help the helpless and the homeless, the weak and the infirm, as Big Sugar had been called to do and so he had stayed, stayed and followed this calling, he had been there nearly three and a half months and the time went by so fast it seemed to Big Sugar only yesterday, instead of ninety-five days ago, that he had had his vision. He had eaten nothing, as he did many days, in almost twenty-four hours and, as he headed towards Wheelchair Paul, who had an I.Q. of well over two-hundred, in the genius range, and who lived on whatever he was given that day, Big Sugar wondered if he would get something somehow—that day—to eat.

Wheelchair Paul was just reaching for the bathroom door when it flew open and slammed  against his steel wheelchair—shoving him backwards against the tiled wall—as all pandemonium broke loose when his chair rolled backwards towards the entrance of the bathroom, partially blocking it, as four crack-heads all attempted to pile through the opening at once.

Big Sugar ran up the stairs and to Wheelchair Paul’s rescue just as the biggest of the crack addicts shoved his wheelchair backwards and came face to face with Big Sugar. A Rastafarian, from the same West Indies Island as Big Sugar, the crack-head knew him only by his street name and legendary unrivalled reputation for protecting the weak and helpless, even unto risking his own life and limb, he was known for being absolutely fearless, remarkably strong, and capable of superhuman feats of strength, that had cowed even the bravest and most reckless of thugs. The thief’s eyes magnified and he hissed, “Ah mahn—Big Sugar?”





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