mother still up on the corner, or she done for the night?” I ask the lead hood, still walking, one heavy leg after another, hands out of my pockets now, gloves off.
“Oh damn,” one of them says, laughing, the ringleader now up close, shoving me in the back, but I hardly move.
“Watchoo say, Frankenstein?” he yells.
I hear the click of a knife coming out, and I don’t wait for the stab. Instead I lurch to my left, the boy sliding past me, tripping on his own feet, sprawling out on the sidewalk.
“Let it be,” I say. “You don’t want any of this.”
The two behind me stop, bouncing on their toes, eager. The one closest stands up quick, ready to charge.
“Oh, I want some of that, homie, I want all of it. In little bite-sized pieces,” he says.
“So this is the day?” I ask him. “Today?”
“Today what?”
“The day that you die, my friend.”
He hesitates, eyes on his buddies, his friends creeping closer, three-on-one certainly odds that they like.
“Fuck that. Grab this piece of shit,” the boy says, holding his blade out.
I hold my arms wide and let them grab hold, a grin easing across my face.
“Come at me, bro,” I say, and he does.
When he’s almost to me, I grab hold of their shoulders, these punks on either side of me, and lift up into the air, using them for support, kicking up and out, into his jaw. His head snaps up, the knife flying into the air as he stumbles backward.
I slam the other two kids together after my feet hit the ground, bringing my arms in tight like clashing cymbals, and they slam heads and fall to the ground. The one with the knife is flying in fast—the blade picked up off the sidewalk, the metal glinting in the streetlights, the boy hot and angry, stepping over his buddies, cursing
motherfucker
under his breath. A right cross and I knock him back, sending him tripping over the feet of the others and falling to the ground, a handgun clattering out onto the sidewalk.
That makes it interesting.
I grab him by the front of his coat and lift him up, my fist in his face before he can get the knife back up,
bam bam bam,
his head snapping back, blood oozing from his nose, his body going limp, so I toss him to the side. The other two are up now, one grabbing for the gun, the other coming at me. He swings low as I lean back out of range, clapping my hands together on both sides of his head, rupturing his eardrums, sending him to the concrete below, writhing in pain.
The last man standing holds the gun, his hands shaking up and down, out of breath, and I know he wants to say something, but I smell urine, and it might be his. I know he’s just a kid, but all I see is a film of red, and there’s nothing I can do to stop now.
He pulls the trigger and it misses to the right of me, just past my shoulder, and then I’m on him, a second click erupting past me as I grab his arm and bring it down on my knee, snapping it. He screams out, and I look up and down the street—nothing. One downward punch and he’s flat on the ground, face-first.
I pick them up one at a time and push them up against the metal fence, hooking belt loops or coats onto the metal tips, holding them upright, or hanging, for just a moment. A moment is all I need.
Back to the sidewalk, the gun in hand, I turn and raise the weapon up. The nine-millimeter is about what I expected, the most common pistol in Chicago. Couple of shots fired, not sure how many are left in the clip, so I open fire on the kids, one after another. Chest, gut, chest, one after another until the gun stops firing and sweat runs down into my eyes. I take a few steps into the street and find a grate leading down into the sewer. I wipe the gun clean and toss it in.
Back to the boys, I pull them off the fence and fling them one at a time onto the sidewalk. They’re somebody’s children, no doubt—but not mine. Maybe it’ll look like a drive-by shooting, maybe not. Sirens in the distance, I wipe my hands off in the grass,
“Oh damn,” one of them says, laughing, the ringleader now up close, shoving me in the back, but I hardly move.
“Watchoo say, Frankenstein?” he yells.
I hear the click of a knife coming out, and I don’t wait for the stab. Instead I lurch to my left, the boy sliding past me, tripping on his own feet, sprawling out on the sidewalk.
“Let it be,” I say. “You don’t want any of this.”
The two behind me stop, bouncing on their toes, eager. The one closest stands up quick, ready to charge.
“Oh, I want some of that, homie, I want all of it. In little bite-sized pieces,” he says.
“So this is the day?” I ask him. “Today?”
“Today what?”
“The day that you die, my friend.”
He hesitates, eyes on his buddies, his friends creeping closer, three-on-one certainly odds that they like.
“Fuck that. Grab this piece of shit,” the boy says, holding his blade out.
I hold my arms wide and let them grab hold, a grin easing across my face.
“Come at me, bro,” I say, and he does.
When he’s almost to me, I grab hold of their shoulders, these punks on either side of me, and lift up into the air, using them for support, kicking up and out, into his jaw. His head snaps up, the knife flying into the air as he stumbles backward.
I slam the other two kids together after my feet hit the ground, bringing my arms in tight like clashing cymbals, and they slam heads and fall to the ground. The one with the knife is flying in fast—the blade picked up off the sidewalk, the metal glinting in the streetlights, the boy hot and angry, stepping over his buddies, cursing
motherfucker
under his breath. A right cross and I knock him back, sending him tripping over the feet of the others and falling to the ground, a handgun clattering out onto the sidewalk.
That makes it interesting.
I grab him by the front of his coat and lift him up, my fist in his face before he can get the knife back up,
bam bam bam,
his head snapping back, blood oozing from his nose, his body going limp, so I toss him to the side. The other two are up now, one grabbing for the gun, the other coming at me. He swings low as I lean back out of range, clapping my hands together on both sides of his head, rupturing his eardrums, sending him to the concrete below, writhing in pain.
The last man standing holds the gun, his hands shaking up and down, out of breath, and I know he wants to say something, but I smell urine, and it might be his. I know he’s just a kid, but all I see is a film of red, and there’s nothing I can do to stop now.
He pulls the trigger and it misses to the right of me, just past my shoulder, and then I’m on him, a second click erupting past me as I grab his arm and bring it down on my knee, snapping it. He screams out, and I look up and down the street—nothing. One downward punch and he’s flat on the ground, face-first.
I pick them up one at a time and push them up against the metal fence, hooking belt loops or coats onto the metal tips, holding them upright, or hanging, for just a moment. A moment is all I need.
Back to the sidewalk, the gun in hand, I turn and raise the weapon up. The nine-millimeter is about what I expected, the most common pistol in Chicago. Couple of shots fired, not sure how many are left in the clip, so I open fire on the kids, one after another. Chest, gut, chest, one after another until the gun stops firing and sweat runs down into my eyes. I take a few steps into the street and find a grate leading down into the sewer. I wipe the gun clean and toss it in.
Back to the boys, I pull them off the fence and fling them one at a time onto the sidewalk. They’re somebody’s children, no doubt—but not mine. Maybe it’ll look like a drive-by shooting, maybe not. Sirens in the distance, I wipe my hands off in the grass,
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