I get two or three of them every month, letters from Mike. Sometimes they come with a little Jesus cross made out of some thread from a sock, sometimes they come with a real nice pencil drawing of a woman in a sombrero with big boobs. One time there was even a little pair of shoes made out of cigarette foils. That was real nice, too. Mostly they just come with a couple pages of bum-outs. The hand writing is always real nice though. Real nice.
“I reject sentimentality. This is my sentence, Carnal. My tiempo. I’m gonna do it for better or worse and I don’t regret a thing. Penance is a life long endeavor at the very least, Froggy. I do not regret a thing. This is me now.”
Definitely not the same Mike I started out with. Suckers who didn’t know no better used to think his name meant he was into ballin’. That’s funny to me ’cause we called him Money Maker on account of he was an ass man. Mike don’t seem to have that much sense of humor now though. He went stone-cold the second he put on that Mac Miller shirt.
He ain’t even Money Maker Mike no more. When we first started out he might’ve been Money Maker Mike but when he went to the joint I guess he changed his name to Big Flaco. Prison can change a man so I don’t judge. He’s Mexican now, that’s his business. All I can do is make sure the pipeline stays up and keep an eye out for plausible tax shelters. All I can do is be his point man on the streets. All I can do is hope Mike can still have a normal life if he ever gets out.
I remember when James was the worst of our problems. The good old days.