They called him a wicked man, though not in the fairytale sense. His wickedness was stranger, more human, more absurd. I had known him since the seventies. Green was for the money, gold was for the honeys — that was his motto, his armor, his punchline. And the thing is, what you saw was what you got. He was not pretending. He was exactly like that, day in, day out.

He had this way of smoking too. Not through his mouth like anyone else, but through his nose. He would pull on a cigarette or a blunt until smoke curled out his nostrils like some ancient dragon. People whispered that it was wild. Some could not trust him after that. Some could not look away.

His speech carried its own rhythm: you know, you know, you know — like a broken record, a chant, a drinking game. One sip for every you know, and you would be drunk before he even finished his story. He was the kind of man who talked about long jeopardy instead of longevity, and somehow it fit. His life was not about living long, it was about stretching the game of chance, rolling dice until the last breath, daring fate to keep up.

To some he was wicked, to others just wild. But behind the gold chains and the smoke, behind the swagger and the misspoken words, there was a truth: he lived without disguise. He never played a role. That was his curse and his power. And that is what makes a man wicked — not evil, not cruel, but untamed.




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I couldn’t trust anyone

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