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ZERO - A Graffiti Artists Story -- Violence and Language.
i been working on this for a little now, but need some opinions.. tell me yer honest opinion please!! gets more intense as u read on.. Part 3 is the best part of what ive done so far, but the others are getting to know the character and settings an stuff,
Asshole. Ignorant. Slacker. Pathetic. Worthless. A few things i've been called throughout my life. But two words that stood out the most, was "fuck up". Maybe it's cause it's the words i heard the most. Maybe it's cause i think it's true. But from the first time my alcoholic, deadbeat dad called me a fuck up, i've lived up to it. Grade 6 was the first time i heard it, i was always a little shit, but getting caught shoplifting a chocolate bar made him realize i wouldn't become the son he always wanted, perfect. And he reminded me of it everyday, he still does, its been 12 years. From that day in grade 6 on, i got worse and worse. Fights everyday, stealing cars, skipping school and doin drugs, all before grade 8. And every morning i was reminded of how pathetic and fucked up i was, and every night he told me how much he regretted not pushing "that bitch" (my mother) down the stairs when she was pregnant, and says it's my fault that he is how he is, and that im the reason that my mother took off. Hearing that, everyday and every night, had affected me, and i needed a release, the fighting wasn't helping; the stealing, wasn't helping; the drugs, weren't helping. But in the summer before i went into grade 9, i found something that helped, and it was graffiti. And the name i chose, was ZERO. I became ZERO, and this, is the story of how it happened..
My name, is Marco Rizzo. Im currently 5'9" and 169 pounds. i have dirty blonde hair that's short in length but usually covered with a flat brimmed, 59fifty, New York yankees fitted hat. I'm white, but grew up in the Bronx. I've always worn baggy pants, baggy shirts, and some type of NY fitted hat. Im currently 18 years old, but I'm gonna take us back about 4 years, to the beginning of my graffiti life. I was 14, it was the end of grade school, grade 8 was finished. I remember walking home from school that day, taking my usual route through the grimey streets of the Bronx. I always enjoyed the walk home because of all the graffiti, but that time was different. As i cut through an alley two blocks away from my place, i saw someone painting a piece, a dope piece with vivid colors, more than 3/4 of the way finished. It was wild style, and at that point i was unable to read it. I remember walking up to this dude and saying "Wow man, that shit looks dope. But.. Uhh.. Whats it say?". The dude stops painting and turns around to look at me. He was probably 7 feet tall and built like a brick house, this was one huge black dude. "Joker... But yo, who da fuck is you?". Questioned this big black guy. "Well that's sick man, looks leigt, but anyways im Marco. I was jus walkin' home, was admiring your work." i explained. "Oh, you like that shit eh? Thanks lil man. You write?" Asked Joker. "What ya mean.. write?" I ask in confusion. "Write, tag, scribble, spray, paint.. You know, write graffiti.". explained Joker. "Oh.. Uhmm, no man, i don't." I reply. "Well shit son, get on that, can't ever have enough writers around here. Shits easy. All you gotta do is create a name. You can make yer name random and pointless, or something deep or that suits you. Think of your style, write it out and practice. Cause if u go out n paint wit no experience yer gon get dissed fer sure, prolly get painted over and called a toy!" Explained Joker. "You think u can remember that? Create a name, and practice!". As he finished his sentence a police cruiser blocks off the end of the alley and two cops start running at us. As i turn to run, an see what Jokers doing, theres three cops behind me and Jokers no where to be seen. "FREEZE". Screams one cop. "PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD.". Yells another. They cuffed me and took me to the station. Once we got there i was questioned about Joker. I said nothing. They searched my bag, and found nothing, so i was free to go. My dad came to get me in his shitty, rusty, old, shit green jeep cherokee. As soon as i got in the jeep he started. "Yer fuckin pathetic. What the fuck did u do this time kid? Im real sick of bailing yer ass out.". and blah, blah, blah. This time i didn't care, I didn't listen, cause i was too busy thinking about graffiti. What name i would write. The style. Everything! That was the day i caught the bug, the graffiti bug..
The moment i got home i went straight up to my room, ignoring my fathers comments. All i remember doing is sitting in my room for almost 4 weeks, trying to come up with an alias for myself, a new name. When i was attempting to create my name all i could think of was the words "fuck up". My dad had said it so much that it was engraved in my brain, but i didn't like how it looked on paper. My next method was to wrote out the alphabet in graffiti until i found letters i liked. After 4 weeks of alphabet writing i had chosen the letters A, E, M, O, R and Z as my favorite and best looking. Now all i had to do was make a word out of those letters, which was a lot easier than i thought it'd be. The word stood out instantly, Z-E-R-O, Zero, that would be my name. I practiced my tag for weeks, and months, until i felt confident with my style. I lost touch with reality for that whole summer, jus sitting in my room, writing Zero over, and over and over again. No friends, not that i had many anyways. No T.V. And barely any sleep. The best part was that my dad never bothered me, probably because i wasn't doing anything wrong, other than blazing a fatty every couple hours. I practiced all summer, my tag, my throwies, my pieces, all of it. I practiced can control on the walls of my bedroom. I learned the hierchy or graffiti, whos a toy and who isn't. I had completely secluded myself from the outside world, until August 21st, a week or so away from my grade 9 year. That's the day i hit the streets as Zero for the first time. All i had on me was a black Magnum Sharpie, two half full, gloss white tremclad cans, and a dark blue paint marker I found in my dads junk drawer one day. I went out at about 6:30pm that evening, sharpie out and ready before i even walked out the door. I tagged every single sign, garbage bin and mailbox i could, switching between my sharpie and paint marker for 10 blocks. I didn't care about people watching, or seeing, because i had a bandana over my face, a plain black toque on, and different shoes, i was no longer Marco Rizzo, I was now Zero, and i loved it. I loved the adrenaline rush, but what i didn't know was that this was just the beginning, this was jus small beans, petty graff, i was still just a toy, and i was oblivious. I was out all night, until about 12:30, then i decided to head home. I never liked being on the rough streets past 12 o'clock because that's when all the gangbangers and thugs come out and play. I've heard stories of things that happen at night, stories of stabbings and shootings, robberies and turf wars, crackheads and police brutality. At night, the streets weren't the safest place, but the streets at night is the best time for a graffiti artist to go out, and because the streets aren't safe i was paranoid. So i bought a gun the next day. It was a nice, small and simple 9mm pistol, a SIG Sauer 200. And it became my best friend, i had it on me everywhere i went, even my first day of grade 9.
For the next year and a half i tagged everynight, always carrying my pistol, but never having to use it, until one night. I had been writing non stop for that year and a half, i was getting good, and earning respect around my hood. People knew the name ZERO, but one night, February 16th was the day, i went out on a mission at around 1:30 in the morning. I found a nice spot in an alleyway, seemed nice and quiet to me. I pulled out my white montana can and started painting the outline of my Z. As soon as i started painting my E i get sucker punched in the side of my head from behind. I never even heard anyone coming. I stumble a little bit, then regain my balance, and as i look up i see this big, dark figure diving at me for a tackle. I attempted to move out of the way, but i get plowed to the ground by this monsterous guy. "Get the fuck off me.". I scream as i reach for my pistol. "Shut up bitch.". Yells the big guy ontop of me. He throws a huge right hook, and it connects with my nose, busting it wide open making blood start flowing down my face, dripping off my chin. "Gimme yo wallet, an ya wont get murdered!". Demands the man ontop of me. My hand is now behind my back, on my pistol. As i start pulling it out, the man ontop of me pulls out a blade an says "LAST CHANCE YO, GIMME YER WALLET AN YOU WON'T GET.." before he finished his sentence i had the pistol to his forehead and cocked the hammer. I remember thinking in my head "Don't do it Marco, just get up and walk away.". But i didn't, I pulled the trigger. The gun shot echoed through the alleyway. Blood splattered all over my face and clothes, the dead body slumped ontop of me. I pushed the dead body off of me and stood up, but when i stood up, i didn't run, i just stood there and looked at this man, dead on the ground. I watched the pool of blood expand by the second. So many thoughts running through my brain as i stare at my first, lifeless, bloody, victim, Then i snap out of it and realize i gotta go. So i picked up my bag and started running. I left 2 of my best cans because i was in such a hurry to leave. I just ran, and ran, and ran, mostly through alleys and backroads to try and avoid the police. After running for at least 45mins, i make it back to my house safe, and go straight to the bathroom to wash the blood off me. My dad was passed out, drunk, on the couch, nothing new there. As soon as i get to the bathroom i look in the mirror and see myself, myself in a way i've never seen before. Covered in another mans blood, yet, unafraid. I felt empowered. I think about what i've done and how powerful i feel as i stare at my blood covered face in the mirror. I got lost in my own eyes, i was in a trance. At that moment i got a sinking feeling in my stomach, i was no longer unafraid. I was now terrified, terrified of myself and of what else was to come. I turn around and sit on the toilet, pistol in my hand, starring down the barrel of it. Thinking to myself, I.. Am a murderer. I have become what i was originally afraid of, i have become the reason i bought this pistol. I drop the gun on the floor and stand up. I run the water for my shower, shaking uncontrollably and start getting undressed. But right before i get in the shower, i look in the mirror one last time, just to see the thing looking back at me.. its no longer me, no longer a person, but instead a monster, i had to see the blood covered monster one last time before i washed myself of this mans blood.. but i would never be free of the eternal guilt.
If people like what they read then i may continue, but need opinions.. so let me know plzzz!!
Last edited by Slacker; 04 Sep 2013 at 02:55 PM.