Kiosk - Biters Among Kings (page 3)

Biters Among Kings
(conclusion)

When darkness came, he felt the nervous exhilaration of utter solitude as he gazed up at the blank stretch of city wall. Tonight, exactly one month after Saavedra's death, Fusco was going to pay tribute to his past crewmember through the art form that brought them together.

With five cans of Krylon spray paint in his backpack and a black bandana covering half his face, Fusco breathed in the still, crisp and chilly air. Then, from ground level, he began to climb the chaparral hill up toward his canvas.

Meanwhile, the streets glistened from the evening's rain and the reflection of lights from shops that lined Soto Street. Save for a handful of cars that whirred by only every once in a while , Fusco was alone. As the slope became steeper, he drilled his shoes even deeper into the dirt, balancing his body weight , refusing to use his hands to climb.

No flashlight. That would practically be inviting cops to see him. No spotters either. Fusco would usually have at least one other person with him to keep on the lookout, but tonight's project was personal, and he wanted to accomplish it on his own.

He had a mental blueprint of what to do even before he hit the platform overlooking Soto Street. Any experienced graffiti artist knows better than to have a golden, cop-less opportunity without having a plan of what to do with it. He had experimented with color schemes, length, width and style weeks before this night, etching out ideas for the piece while sitting up in bed into the early morning hours. Producing a graff was like getting a tattoo—you'd want to think it through beforehand, so that when the image is at last imprinted, you wouldn't have a tinge of regret.

Fusco took one sweeping look around, making sure that no one else was there. He unzipped his backpack, then worked quickly, systematically. The piece's outline was established first in rich, velvet black. Each letter was then carefully filled in with vivid hues of green and blue.

Those were his favorite colors, Fusco reminded himself.

About half an hour later, Fusco finished. He carefully wrapped each Ironlak bottle in an old t-shirt to avoid making unnecessary noise and returned them to his backpack. Taking yet another panoramic view of the area, Fusco scurried down through the chaparral and took two seconds to survey his work from the sidewalk. Two seconds was all he could really afford.

Fusco walked briskly down three blocks to his car—he didn't want to park too close to the location. He was also careful not to run or look suspicious in any way as he made it to his Toyota, tears welling up in his eyes.

Overlooking the city streets now was a thirteen-foot piece that said "Brother." This graff was for Saavedra, on the street where he and Fusco used to smoke pot and tag and watch out for one another. This graff would preserve those memories and Saavedra's spirit. This graff will be something every single passing person and car will see, but will only know half the story of.

"Rest in peace, brother. This graff was for you," Fusco said to himself quietly as he drove down the dark and empty street, unafraid now to accelerate and let his engine roar.