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About Half Way Tree

I roll up to this spot, shady as fuck. Neon lights flickerin’, smellin’ like regret and cheap perfume. This chick, she struts out—heels clackin’, skirt shorter than a blunt wrap. I’m like, “Damn, girl, you workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” She grins, all sassy—reminds me of Monty’s crew, hustlin’ to survive. “This is my last night,” I mutter, quotin’ *25th Hour*, feelin’ deep. She don’t get it, but whatever, vibe’s still cool.

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After that, I finally get to work. We’re diggin’ up some old pavement on Fisherman’s Wharf. You know, the place where all the fish markets are? Smells like a seafood feast. But man, the pavement is tougher than my grandma’s meatloaf. I’m diggin’ and diggin’, and I’m gettin’ mad. Like, why can’t this just be easy?

Man shot dead after allegedly attacking police in Old Harbour