CHARLESTON MEAN STREETS? NOT MEAN STREETS PALSY -- cause the dead don't care and the killers don't feel but BUTCHERS BOULEVARD. No Jackson needs a cop to tell him where to find ripe Geeche ass or meth-laced Johns Island bud. No WELCOME WAGON here unless Joey the Bowler and Nigger Tom find you alone. WELCOME, breath easy before blood freezes yer lung. Or a bullet they're cold too. YER SWEATIN' LIKE A PERP, PALSY SO LIGHT THAT STRAIGHT, DRAG DEEP AND KEEP THE HANDS in front REAL CASUAL. DeLeon ain't grifting fools affirmative action. Yet options abound, the stories character rather than plot-centered and text littered with slippery words rather than paragraphs. Walk the streets gentle reader, but show respect for slippery cobblestones; tis a one-way street ...
Butchers Boulevard -- bloody slash on a black canvas has no beginning or end. Like Charleston itself any change gets swallowed by seething wet marl beneath the charming antiquarian surface. Old stuff down there doesn't even die, but lays sleeping --- waiting --- better take a double pull on that bourbon and ram home the bottom doorlock bolt. Set your 10-gauge coach-gun against the mantle, triggers cocked. Second shot's a shot late ; low country people don't live here for their health.