Gangs of New York: Under the Dragon’s Wings

By Sharma Wild. First published on 2004.

I saw him swaggering down Murderers’ Alley on his way to Paradise Square, lean and mean like them knives he carries. Dressed in a top hat and finery, as if he was a fancy gentleman instead of a common crook like the rest of us. Him and his boys.
I walk with ’em now. Walk tall by the Butcher’s side, as posh as the rest of ’em. I show the Natives’ colours proudly, keeping his pace. For all the world knows, I’m walking to the beat of his drum.

Bill Cutting. Bill the Butcher.

He has taken me under his wings. He pats my shoulder and calls me ‘son’.

And every time I set eyes on him I see you laying on your back in the mud with your life’s blood seepin’ out of you.

Are you proud of me for avenging you, Pa? For havin’ sand enough to woo the dragon? And I’m close, oh so close…

“I trust you”, he says, and let me watch over him while he chases the dragon or flies on the wings of the green fairy. I sit and I watch as his body relaxes and his eyes get heavy lidded. Always dark his eyes are; dark with hate, dark with rage, with desire.

Aye, desire.

I see it in ’em when he is high on opium and absinthe. When he watches me.

“Come ‘ere”, he says, his voice smooth from sweet smoke and bitter wine. “Come closer so I can look at your pretty face.”

Takes my hand.

“Touch me here, and here.” And his eyes flutters close and he moans.

And I feel it too.


The fine education I got at the ‘formatory serves me well. I can please a man with tongue and mouth just as good as any of the whores that walk the streets ’round the Browery.

But the Butcher wants more than that.


Drunk on absinthe, he takes my left hand, slides it down his chest, over his stomach, flat and taut, and into his pants where he’s already hard and wanton. In my right hand he presses a knife.

“Do it”, he says, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Cut me.”

So I place the blade over his heart, and I slit it diagonally across his chest hard enough to break the skin, to make blood pour forth. Hard enough to make him gasp and moan. Another slash and he cries out, them dark eyes of his rolls back so only the whites shows.

He trembles under my fingers, and I feel myself grow hard as desire wells up inside of me. I want more of his cries, his moans. More of his blood.

He his drunk on the green fairy, and I am drunk on the crimson wine that flows in his veins.

“On your knees”, he orders.

I obey. I pull down his pants. I take ‘im in my mouth.

As he is thrusting, encompassed by my liquid heat, teased by teeth and tongue, a drop of blood falls from the cuts to land on my forehead, and another and another. And I tremble, and I ache. And my finger sneaks inside my own pants, encircling my rigid flesh and I move in time with the drippin’.

Move and move as the Butcher’s blood runs down my face, and when he pulls out of me completely the way that he does to postpone his ecstasy, a drop of his blood hits my lips. And the taste of it together with the delicious friction off my own hand sends me over the edge. And I shudder, falling to my hands and knees. And he takes me from behind. And I don’t care, still lost in ecstasy, high on his blood.

And I could kill him right then and there. He wouldn’t even notice, lost as he was in a cloud of opium and pleasure. But I don’t. You kill a king in front of his court so everyone can see. You thought me that, Pa. So I stay still. I let my body relax in sleep.

Safe under the dragon’s wings.

The End.