BLAAT BLAAT! Gunfire erupted suddenly, disturbing the peace of my small suburban neighbourhood for the third night straight.
I fought my covers off and reluctantly sat up uncomfortably on the edge of my small single bed. Any less sleep and I’d be considered an insomniac because I’d had little more than a couple hours sleep over the last few days. My body ached, complaining that it wasn’t ready to go another 16 hour day without some more rest, yet the persistent echo of uzi rounds shredding the surrounding environment removed any hope of that. I reached out and retrieved my alarm clock from a pile of nearby washing that lay discarded little more than a metre from my bed. I rotated it in my hand so I could read the small L.E.D. display. 01.02am. I’d been asleep for just under half an hour.
I struggled to gather the energy to pull myself to my feet, but just about managed. I convinced my body I was capable of walking and staggered to the curtain concealed window. I flung back the curtains and thrust the window wide. BLAAT! The continual sound of rapid-fire gunshots reverberated through my street, amplified now due to the absence of a barrier between me and the source. I slammed the window back shut annoyed that I couldn’t even sleep in my own house. I swaggered across to the doorway while rubbing my eyes in an attempt to improve visibility, but it didn’t benefit me much.
Under the blanket of darkness I fell into the bathroom, exhausted and in dire need of a cure for dry mouth. I reached down to the sink and turned on the rust corroded tap. Water emerged in infrequent spattered bursts but provided enough to wet my face and waken me better than all else. I stumbled back into my room and grabbed specific items of clothing from my variety deprived wardrobe, slipping them on instantaneously.
In a matter of seconds I was completely clothed in my bullet-proof vest, khaki’s, and do-rag, plus I was already beginning to feel more alive. I reached across to a small imitation pine bedside cabinet and picked up a half empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s, swigging it routinely. I breathed deeply feeling it’s effects at once, that fiery explosive fusion inside your stomach and chest.
I groped my way across to the light switch and pressed it gently. A small click and a blinding arc of light signalled that it was working fine. I recoiled, arm across my face, shielding my eyes from it’s harsh intensity, as I ducked back into the obscurity of the shadow shrouded hallway. I stood there momentarily gazing back into the room, noting the stark contrast between light and dark, and paused until my eye’s had adapted to the new lighting conditions, before re-entering.
Now with the availability of light and with my ability to see what I was doing restored, I set about getting prepared to go out into the merciless streets of my 'hood. I slid open a drawer and shifted a few items of clothing aside to unveil my berretta. I lifted it from it’s slumber and slipped it into it’s holster positioned beneath my right arm- under my jacket of course. Then I selected a hunting knife and slipped that into a sheath attached to my durable leather belt, and also picked up my 'dusters sliding them over my hand, before pulling on my Nike gloves. Wallet in my pocket, ice on lock and car keys in hand signalled I was ready to ball.
I pulled the door shut silently behind me and stepped down the couple of steps into my front yard. There was a chill in the air and I clutched my throwback tightly against my chest as I proceeded to creep down my road. Plain grey concrete buildings cornered me, intimidating me slightly, but not enough to make me turn back. I’d had enough of the self proclaimed gangsta’s popping off rounds, 'disturbing tha peace'.
My timbo’s squeaked slightly as I continued into the grey mass of my neighbourhood, passing the entryway to the back fields and onto the alley up to the garages. It was evident that’s where the shots were coming from. Gun smoke lingered fresh in the air and the still persistent gunshots echoed defiantly. I remember thinking that the cocky fools were about get a surprise when I emerged, spraying clips in all directions. I un-holstered my berretta and turned the corner onto the garages, concealed in the shadows. I crept across toward the sound of gunfire, poised ready to cap someone.
There in the centre of the garages were two youths blasting at each other, while three other bodies lay discarded in an ever increasing pool of blood. One youth was crouched behind a small wooden crate, while the other was retreating behind the cover of a metal oil barrel. Gunfire was exchanged simultaneously. I continued to advance towards them both, prepped up to blaze them. I raised my berretta and aimed it at the youth closest, the one behind the crate, as he ducked and dodged with his back to me. With one minor squeeze, the barrel of my gun erupted and the youth slammed to the ground clutching at the gunshot wound I’d just blown in the back of his kneecap. The other youth turned to run as he realised that someone had just blazed his target only to present his vulnerable side, as I proceeded to empty slug after slug into his back. He stumbled forward, as blood erupted from the dot to dot on his back, spraying in the air as he fell head first into the concrete with a sickening crunch. I slinked out of the shadows and edged toward the youths ready to jack their funds… Next thing I know there’s flashing blue lights and a voice demanding that I discard my weapon and get down on my stomach, hands on the back of my head. Yeah. That was likely.
Instead I ducked into the shadows, busting off shots and leapt over the nearest garden fence, landing heavily on a patio. I could hear the police re-grouping and prepping up to pursue me, so I clambered back to my weary legs and jogged down the side of the house into the front yard.
The police were already emerging out of the entryway popping off gunfire at me as I ran across into the fields opposite. With the heat behind me I darted between the trees and made for the bridge. If I made it there, I was away. I knew many ways through those fields and I assumed them cops didn’t.
As the bridge approached, I stumbled amongst the undergrowth, growing ever-increasingly out of breath. A searing pain shredded through my right shoulder and I felt blood spatter up the side of my face and spray onto my neck. I clasped the wound tightly and continued to advance towards the bridge while bullets whipped through the air all around me. I prayed as hard as I could that their aim was similar to that in every film I’d ever seen, you know what I mean, when they fail to shoot the target at point blank. However my prayers fell on deaf ears as I felt another bullet graze my thigh. I limped forward, soldiering on, but I knew it was pointless- I was incapable of evading capture.
So I made a pivotal decision. I decided to go down blazing. I spun around dropping to the floor and began firing randomly at the blur of oncoming feds. But it was hopeless because my aim was impaired by my spinning head, light headedness consumed me as blood continued to spill from my shoulder. It was then that I went down. I lay there unconscious as the 5.0 cuffed me and dragged me to the riot van…
It’s never that simple though is it? It never goes to plan or runs that smoothly in a story when a catastrophic incident occurs on the second page that could see the main lead behind bars for 25 years, does it? So naturally you would assume something would happen to shake up the plot a little… let’s see what we can find to work with…
As the riot van slalomed it’s way between parked vehicles, sirens screaming into the silent darkness, a small, seemingly insignificant hobo stumbled along an alleyway. He was dressed in dirt laden rags and grasped a stereotypical brown paper bag, swigging sips of his choice of poison frequently whilst babbling to an invisible companion inanely. Any other day of the week, he would be an extra, just another member of the community; the kind of person who is thrown into a movie scene at the last minute, simply to add that realism. But not tonight. Tonight he was playing the role of an influential character, the type who was necessary for the story to progress.
As he stumbled dizzy and anaesthetised across a typical back street, a familiar riot van cornered the bend sharply. Like a deer caught in headlights, the tramp froze in the middle of the road, squinting at the oncoming vehicle. The riot van, determined not to be responsible for yet another fatality, slammed on it’s brakes. Just like in all the police chases in any film you’ve seen, ever, the rear end of the van slid out excessively and clipped a parked car at the side of the road. This was all the force the van required to career out of control back across the road, send the dazed hobo sprawling across the floor and plough insanely through a small brick wall and into the garden of one of the residents properties. As it mounted the elevated lawn, the sudden rise in height caused the underside of the riot van to scrape noisily, grinding against the rough, coarse concrete paving that lined the fresh grass. As the back of the van jerked upright suddenly, the leverage on the pivot resulted in the van snapping like a twig under the weight of the counter-balance. Splintering steel sheared ruggedly sending fragments of razor edged metal showering like confetti over the conventional English garden, as a pretty damn huge split emerged in the side of the riot van.
I clambered to my feet, squinting in the darkness, grimacing from the pain exploding through my beaten and bruised body. I staggered incapacitated, vision impaired greatly and fought my way through the wreckage that remained of the back of the truck. Hands still cuffed uncomfortably behind my back, I fell out of the crack in the side of my now immobile transport, into a small heap on the lawn. Clambering clumsily to my shaky feet, I glanced toward the cab of the riot van to see the driver and passenger slumped unconscious against the dashboard and steering wheel respectively. With a sigh of relief I limped over to the driver door and twisted my spine to an unnatural position to allow me to release the handle. With a short heavy protest, the door whined open. I leant in over the officer and located the keys to my cuffs. Blindly, with my back to them, I edged up the step and arched across the officers lap, groping wishfully. Within a few moments I was falling headlong out of the truck with the keys in my hand.
After wrestling with the handcuffs for a couple of minutes, I rose to my feet, free again. I turned, spluttering as the cold air hit the back of my throat, and made my way back to the cab. I threaded the handcuffs through the steering wheel and linked the drivers right wrist, with the accompanying officers left wrist, before reclaiming my berretta and hunting knife, along with the other selection of my belongings that had been confiscated. Then with a slightly arrogant feeling of justice I proceeded to jog off down the entryway beside the local rundown School.
I don’t know how long I was jogging for but it wasn’t long before I saw the sun breaking over the horizon line, silhouetting all the houses against a vast pink and orange blended sky, and that’s when I knew, my life would never be the same again…
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