The Kingpin Saga: Kingpin, #1

By Leon

This collection of short stories tells the tale of heroin addiction, college romance, and gripping past realities of a single mother and her children and grandchildren, who must suffer through their own potentially-greater losses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leon
• Release date: Jun 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227931023

Leon

Leon is the pen name for an author who enjoys and takes pride in writing in several genres, but his favorites by far are fantasy and modern/urban fiction. He has known since childhood that writing is his ultimate dream, and desires for his work to touch the lives of people around the world. He was born in Ohio in the United States and currently lives in Indiana.

Book preview

Foreword

I’ll take a moment, if that’s alright, and call out the requiem before it begins.

Two years ago, I had realized that I was meant to be an author, and you know you’re meant to be something once, through thick and thin and obstacles galore, both mental and physical, you notice that the feeling doesn’t go away. It remains there, and you make everything work around it, no matter the effort involved.

The pen beckoned me, and I, the small boy I was two years ago, was actually very captivated by the snow. Winter to this day is my favorite season, but it was especially in that house. The scenes I’d write took me to an Arctic climate in the city before I even wrote them. My desk wasn’t against the front window but to the interior of the room, just right to give me a perfect view but also to make me feel warm inside.

It was also at this desk, a metal-legged wooden slab with a formaldehyde label on the underside, that I felt like I was, and possibly was, doing a service to humanity, or what I thought was.

What’s funny is that my world was really small as a kid, which I imagine is the case for a lot of people. It, of course, wasn’t quite as small that two years ago, but still as much as to give me a feeling of importance when I began my story.

I was in my mother’s custody from birth to six years old, at which age my dad took me because of her heroin addiction, among other things, I’m sure. After a few failed rehabilitation attempts, she was finally rehabilitated and transferred to an apartment in Cincinnati.

Drugs have a way of establishing and maintaining a tenacious grip onto body and will, and I wasn’t going to see my mom like that again. I wanted a way to tell her to never go back, to stay away for fear that, next time, she might not escape.

The pen said my name again.

It was around the time of her birthday just as well: January 16, the month of lore, of winter wonder. I stayed inside, and the pen repeated my name.

Something about it, at present, is saddening, and not so much as it is kind of pitiful.

I suppose all of this is a long-winded way of saying that what follows is years old, spawned the sequels after, and has been edited—only to remove trademarks and pressing grammar errors—since, so it is not the original. Importing the documents caused errors in indentation, the perfect complement. It also reflects my age-related ignorance and idealism at the time, and perhaps my trusty ability to use a thesaurus and the Words of the Days of online dictionaries.

I both celebrate and lament the death of my ways prior, and anticipate that whoever reads what’s ahead will most likely do the same. I can’t change the past. Trust me, I wish I could. I can at least share the story that was written in it, hoping it’s not entirely an enemy to the eyes.

Kingpin

The streets of Cincinnati were, indubitably, illuminated heavenly. Sometimes one would find a shattered lamp or demolished glass bottles, but ultimately that is to be expected; with every pro, a con is found. With every high is a low. With every up is a down.

The latter would most certainly apply to several, if not the vast majority of downtown’s denizens at gloaming and beyond. The departure of the sun catalyzed the arrival of some of the city’s most salient portents: zealous junkies and hyped agonists. Not that these were overly portentous in the first place; they had been around for what seemed like millennia, and the better half of the population, following their birth and rebirth into the beguilingly squalid conditions, had begun to traverse the path of numb acceptance.

This is not to saturate the countenance of Cincinnati with satire. Sure, there were good parts, as with any other city, of course. Amiability amongst the night pedestrians as hard drinks were consumed and mistakes were inevitably made afterwards. Beautifully lit businesses, highways, and neighborhoods viewed intuitively through the ultimate eye of the beholder. The clement or inclement (depending on who you ask) sharp bite of the cold, lonesome night wind. The earnest hum and roar of engines down the fluorescent roads. A traveler’s dream. A motorist’s nightmare. A commuter’s reality.

One woman’s destiny.

#

"You almost here?"

Yeah, yeah.... about 10 minutes.

Well, come the hell on. I don’t got all fuckin’ night.

I said 10 minutes.

Beep. Yogi Forester, Call Ended.

Examining this name made her laugh internally. She couldn’t think of anyone else she knew that put the last names of contacts in their phone. It was simply a wont, one that a lot of people think to be a perversion, clearly.

She pocketed it and continued along the beaten path, that is, the path of vociferous reveling, contained within walls, of course, and seemingly subarctic air. The beaten path, the poor beaten path. Yes, it was beaten, tired, enervated after years of enduring the saunter-cum-speedwalk of solid white stained shoes. Still remained steadfast and reliable, nonetheless.

Well, in all actuality, she got so sick of looking around during this time that she began to develop tunnel vision, a recipe for precariousness. To limn her narrow perception while walking would be too exigent for writing. This wasn’t to say she didn’t pay attention; it was just that she gradually became accustomed to walking the path through downtown, and a sort of overconfidence slowly but surely began to manifest in her viridescent eyes to the point of dangerous hubris and a rather domineering diction. But it was okay. That, as it turned out, was a requisite for dwelling after hours.

Some elements of the city were simply too merry to overlook; she impeccably passed a jazz club on the corner of Vine and McMicken, out of which young roisterers came and started singing and dancing to the rhythm of their blood alcohol concentration. Music escaped through the swinging doors, playing a familiar tune that made her stop in her tracks for a moment. She recognized it. Quartet of Dreams. She had heard it once before at an airport, near a main gate, when somebody played it through a speaker. The scintillating saxophone. The harmonizing horns. If that wasn’t jazz... nothing was.

Hey, lady.

She whirled around to face a young, colored man, mid 20s, probably, black rimmed glasses.

You know this song?

Her eyes narrowed slightly. I do, actually. Why?

Well, you’re kinda obstructing the exit.

She looked around. Same hum of the cars. Same valiant lights. Same distance from the doors.

We’re not even close to the door.

Yeah, I know.

She noticed a searing smirk on his face. Dumb bitch.

He turned on his heel and broke for the sidewalk, pushing past the other departing guests. Two more young men followed behind him, cackling like hyenas, eliciting stares and a few curses.

EXCUSE ME? she yelled, now eliciting the same stares in her direction. Just a few juvenile punks, looking to make a scene utilizing any tools possible, barring the inclusion of any logical sense.

She kept walking down the lit street and joined the after-club crowd.

Geez...

People always lookin’ for trouble, ain’t they?

Just about pulled out my damn gun on his ass. Can’t stand motherfuckin’ people anymore.

Well, what you expect outta few dumb niggers anyways?

Impudence and disrespect, that’s what the fuck what.

This led to a high five between the two men, both white, of course.

She opened her mouth to combat this, but closed it again in a huff. Somebody needed to teach them about respect, apparently. But, there was nothing to whinge about. This was the city. Prejudice was rife. Tensions skyrocketed. Especially in the vale of darkness.

Still, it nagged at her. Maybe the kid was just lonely and seeking attention, albeit in a most perverse manner. Something told her to speak up.

Sir?

The men were still conversing, oblivious to her presence. She rolled her eyes. How theatrical.

Sir? She tapped on his shoulder now. They stopped talking abruptly, but continued walking, only for the man to half turn his head around in a slightly sinister fashion. He had slovenly, burgundy hair,