BEAUTIFUL DAYS CHAPTER TWO
run·ning: 1 a : to go faster than a walk; specifically : to go steadily by springing steps so that both feet leave the ground for an instant in each step b of a horse : to move at a fast gallop c : FLEE, RETREAT, ESCAPE d : to utilize a running play on offense -- used of a football team
2 a : to go without restraint : move freely about at will.
That's according to webster...here's my take on the word...
run·ning: The part of the job I fuckin' hate!
BEAUTIFUL DAYS
CHAPTER 2
BULLETPROOF POW WOW
"What the hell took you guys so long?"
The question that the injured hoodlum who goes by "Patch" asks his colleagues who snatched him up off the street and saved him from jail time.
Page is the driver, bald, bad teeth. Drunk off his ass but he drives better that way. Toby the gunman rides shotgun...no pun intended, rounding
out the trio of saviors is Cotton, the southern born, inbred, hillbilly fuck of an individual. The four gentlemen in the car believe in one thing, chaos!
"Jesus Christ dude, your shot!, says Cotton.
"No fuckin' shit! That southern education at work!", Patch replies.
"We gotta get you to the man, then., Page adds.
What man is he refering to...?
As the car barrels through it's seventh stop light, Page looks to the back seat at his injured comrade and asks...
"Who the fuck shot you?"
Patch looks up, as if dazed. Towards the windsheild of the vehicle. His friends look towards him for an answer. He raises his finger and points to what
he sees right in front of the moving vehicle and says...
"He did!"
As they quickly turn thier attention back to the road ahead of them they find themselves greeted by yours truly, guns drawn, headed straight towards
them on foot. Guns aimed at the moving vehicle ready to shoot, they swerve off the road and into the 1800 building on the corner of Main and Usher.
It was bingo night. As soon as the number was called...
"B-19!"
...the car went crashing through the bingo hall. I never saw old people move that fuckin' fast! Don't let the grey hair fool ya those fuckers can run.
The car finally tears through the stage and makes it's stop. I stand in the street for a bit. Looking on at the carnage. Old folks haulin' ass outta
harm's way. The car partially burried in debris. Steaming. I approach with guns drawn. Clutching my .45's upside down like I do...pinkys' on the
triggers. I come to the passenger side of the vehicle. Page is slumped outcold over the steering wheel. The other three...nowhere to be found,
but couldn't be far. I begin to survey the area. Chasing whatever old farts still lingering around away. Telling them to seek safety...i make my way
deeper inside. To the staircase. Now the 1800 building is an apartment mostly for the elderly. Which explains the fuckin' bingo. The upstairs were
the apartments themselves. I notice a broken trail of blood on the steps on the way up. It is apparent to me that they thought their driver friend to
be dead and abandoned him. Making a mad dash up the steps carrying thier wounded friend. But i could tell that the driver wasn't dead, just knocked
out. It would appear that the driver has asthma or some type of breathing disorder from the way he inhaled/exhaled while being in his unconsious state.
Long story short...i saw that the piece of shit was still breathing. I make my way upstairs.
Step
by Step
by Step
the thunder rumbles...
I hear the hammer cock. I dive back down the stairs. Toby opens fire. Desert Eagle .50. Son of a bitch. That used to be my favorite gun up until some-
body just tried to fuckin kill me with it. Toby was hanging over the banister on the next level. He fired two shots...missed and duck back in for cover. I'm
at a point at the bottom of the stairs where he can't hit me. But I knew i had to make my way up there. He fires again. I see what's going on. The plan is
to hold me off as they get thier wounded friend to safety. But there were old folks up there. Probably scared out of thier minds. In grave danger. And
i realize something i should have realized two blocks back...
I dropped my cigarettes.
He's peeking down. He hears no movement out of me. He's got the Eagle aimed at the staircase. Waiting on me to slip and make a move. So i give him
what he wants. He sees my coat and fidora make it's way to the steps. He opens fire. Dam'n. Perfectly good coat. Two Desert Eagle bullet holes burned
in it. Right in the back. I hear him run down the stairs. He picks up the fidora...the figure in my coat...not me. His friend who was slumped over the steering wheel. I had dragged him out and dressed him in my coat and hat. And shoved him into the line of fire. Now i know what you are thinking...what kind of sick
son of a bitch takes an unconsious man and shoves him into gunplay. Well, remember that breathing problem? Crushed windpipe from the crash. He died
at some point during me hiding from getting my ass shot off from that Eagle. By the time he realizes it's his buddy...im at the end of the stairs...
BANG BANG!
Took out the genius' kneecaps. He's on the ground cryin' like a bitch. Screamin'. Dropped his Eagle. I grab him by the collar...
"Where they at, shit for brains?"
He points upstairs. I make my way up easy. Guns drawn. I'm now on the fourth floor. I pass by the rooms of the old folks. I see the fear on thier faces.
Some hide...Some look on noseily. A trail of blood. Leads to the last room on the floor. The door is partialy open. I walk in. I find Cotton with a hostage.
A younger Native American male. And the wounded, Patch with a hostage of his own. An elderly Native American male. There was a father/son hostage
situation going on. I was stuck...
"You can't save em both, asshole!", says Patch.
"Heh heh, Yea!", adds Cotton with that dumb ass hillbilly accent!
They are at opposite ends of the room. I got a gun on each of em. But i won't reveal that one of these guns is outta bullets. So I bluff...
" You see these beams? Right at your fuckin' foreheads. I can plug you both, no problem!"
Patch chimes in...
"Bullshit, cop! One of them guns is empty!!!
So much for that...
"Look, cop!", says Patch.
"I ain't got time to play fuckin' games here. My shoulder, it hurts. I'm gonna go
get it taken care of, and you're gonna let me walk outta here.
Or you will have this old fuckin' Indian's blood on ya hands, bitch!"
Only one thing to say to that...
"So fuckin' what...shoot em' !" , I say.
The four of them look baffled...
and in unison, the four let out thier reaction to this by dropping one word...
"WHAT?!"
So i go on...
"Shoot em'! Who the fuck cares. They're nobodies.
Hell if you want, I'll drop em' myself.
I place my focus on the gun in my left hand. I aim right for the elderly Native American hostage. My pinky on the trigger. All eyes are now on this gun.
Each man in the room anticipating the shot from the gun aimed right for the face of the old man. At that instant, the second gun is dead locked on
Cotton's forehead...
BLAM!
I get off one shot. Cotton drops to the floor. While everyone is stunned at the trick i pulled, I toss my empty .45 at Patch's kneecap knocking him to
the floor. I yell for the younger of the two native americans to toss me the dead Cotton's gun. He does. Patch aims, I fire. That shoulder i grazed...
I got it this time. He's yelling in pain. And the hostages are free. I hear the sirens roll in. Backup is here. I toss that piece of shit, Patch down the stairs
He's their problem now. The other officers begin thier questioning. The meat wagon shows up. And me, I find myself upstairs still, in the company of
the Native American father/son duo. The younger one approches me...
My father wants to give you something, he says.
"Well I don't smoke that shit you guys smoke out on the reservation.
At least not on duty.", I reply.
"The soul of warrior is what you posess, my friend." , says the young man.
The older one begins to speak in a language i don't understand, but the younger one translates the phrase as...
"Let me offer you this gift. From one warrior to another.
A gift beyond life and war. Beyond all that binds us.
A gift that will help your souls journey.
A gift that will be used as a great weapon of man,
Against the evil of man.
For it is coming!"
The older Native American man walks over to me. He places his hands to my face. Thumbs covering my eyes.
The lighting crashes...
I feel an overwhelming sense of calm. The light. It feels as if im floating yet standing in one place. Then I see an image of her face. The brown eyes.
At that instance I snap back to reality. The old man removes his hands from my face. He speaks but i don't under stand. His son translates...
"Now you are ready, young warrior!"
I stand there baffled. What the fuck just happened. As the duo left the room I ask in confusion...
I'm ready?
The old man comes back into the room alone and speaks to me in perfect fuckin' english...
"Well not quite!"
He tosses me somethin'. I don't recognize it at first. Until it finally reaches my hand. I look in my hand and say out loud...
"Son of a bitch, MY CIGARETTES!"
HUGE SMILE...:D
END CHAPTER 2
