I always knew I'd die like this. On the concrete, in the dark, a man with a gun standing over me.
He doesn't finish me off... Does he want to watch me bleed to death? What is he doing anyway? I'm too busy playing dead to get my bleeding ass up and ask him. I can't believe this guy shot me. I'm in shock. I've been shot before, but this guy really was a surprise.
There aren't words for pain like this. He definitely hit something important. The wound feels hot in the cold night and I'm sweating because of it. I try to imagine what it looks like. I'm seriously losing blood. If I could get to a hospital. If I could make peace with god. If I could take back all the bad shit I did. None of that is going to happen. I'm going to bleed to death, gut shot by a petrified moron. There's rules tot hese kinds of engagements. Do not pull a gun unless you are going to use it, well he obviously knew that one. But the other one is don't ever use it unless your going to go the whole way.
Fuck. This guy shot at me like he was trying to get away from a bee.
I hear a car pull up. I hear my man get in. I turn my head and I see a yellow car. stolen probably. I can't see who's driving, but I get a good long look at my man while he's talking to the driver. The driver looks over at me on the ground and I see him mouth the magic words.
In slow motion the moron gets out of the stolen yellow car and walks over to me. I've bled a considerable amount by now, a neat pool starting to form underneath me, soaking into my $200 jeans.
He walk back to me looking like he doesn't want to put two in my head even though he knows thats what he's got to do. I know it. The driver knows it.
He's being slow. Stalling.
I draw a .45 left handed and put three in his chest at 30 feet. He never reached in his jacket, lost in contemplation. Too bad.
The yellow car peeled off and I just started shooting and walking after the car. I thought I was aiming at the driver's seat. But I apparently hit a little high and I saw the drivers head go all watermelon all over the cab as the car thunked into a building about 60 yards out from where I was.
I doubled over in pain and reached in my front pocket and brought out my phone. Sticky and greasy with blood. I called Chapman.
He answered, "What is it Fag?"
I screamed in to the phone, "FUCK! 59 and Westpark, come pick me up ASS! I'm bleeding to death!
He seemed hesitant...I continued to scream at him. There was no one around except for my two dead buddies and a whole bunch of empty warehouses.
I was still screaming at the phone when CHap pulled up in his Caddie. I hung up.