THE PREACHER, THE PIMP & THE PRINCE

THE PREACHER, THE PIMP & THE PRINCE

Ok. Time to remember everything.

It was a knee.

Then it was a knee to the neck.

Once upon a time...

The kid felt the rage rise up in his abdomen and the burning in his palms as his own fingernails pierced his skin.

'You're killing him.'

'He can't breathe...'

'You should be ashamed!'

The street sang protest in many colors as the cop slowly killed the man in black and white.

The street was alive with chaos. People on both sides of the street were making their modern genuflections: camera phones raised to eye level in worshipful prayer. People's memories may have been shortened in the 21st century, but the internet never forgets.

Two of the cops were holding Georgie's legs and torso down while Sergeant Chauvin dug his knee deeper into Georgie's windpipe. One more cop was standing between them and the crowd of cameraphoners. That was Vincente.

Georgie  shuddered. He stopped wheezing, gasping and wretching. He was dying for sure. There wre four cops, only three of who were acting like killers, while dozens, maybe over 100 citizens witnessed them employing a most excessive violence to pacify a non-violent offender who never once showed any sign of resisting arrest. Witnessing and recording were the only weapons they had the courage to employ.

Cowards.

Bloodless, treacherous cowards. Posing as people with conscience, when really they were just taking their own stab at five minutes of second hand celebrity.

The kid put down his phone.

He took off his backpack and put it inside. (No point losing it, even if he got killed.) He adjusted his mask, a homemade mask of an old t-shirt with a Nike symbol as a crest. He knelt reverently and tied a shoelace. He pulled his hoodie over his head. Then he broke into a run, straight for the one officer who wasn't busy killing Georgie. He jumped, launching himself into the air and lifted a boot. Just one single boot. It smacked the officer in the chin.

The people around broke into cheers and their cameras turned to worship him.

Some of the tough guys on the sidewalk, not wanting to be left out, jumped over the police car and descended on Georgie's assassins with mighty and furious violence. The officer who was kicked in the face, sat up, stood up, drew his gun and headed the kid's way.

The kid spun on his heels and sped off in the opposite direction as the cop fired multiple rounds into the air and those killing Georgie found themselves suddenly on the defensive trying to reach for weapons as they got crowded.

'Freeze, motherfucker!'

But the kid knew that the only sure way to survive this day was to not get caught by killer cops. The cop gave chase, matching the boy's speed as he cut through increasingly shadowy corners, alleys and cracks of the ghetto.

'Don't make me kill you! I don't want to kill you!' Vincente shouted, firing off another round.

A bullet tore through the top left corner of the backpack at an angle. The kid felt the momentum drag him to the left and he skidded haltingly on the sidewalk before making a sudden right turn. Vincente raced around the corner and ran, face first, into a length of lead pipe. A red mist, as Vincente spun slowly. The cop stumbled around like a headless chicken, in slow motion, his gun still pointing, somewhat impotently, from his right hand, at nothing in particular. He fired a shot at the nothing.

So the kid hit him again. And again.

It felt good to be the instrument of vengeance.

He stood over the bleeding body, the lead pipe dripping and suddenly, the air was filled with little silver sparks. The air around the silver sparks turned black and then the blackness consumed everything until all that was left were the silver sparks surrendering to the darkness, the giant stain spreading over his mind. His heart pumped faster, but his knees buckled as he realized what had happened to him. The sticky wet warmth spreading over his left shoulder and breast was spreading down his arm. He couldn't see it, but he knew what it was.

He had assaulted an officer. He had resisted arrest. He had run from the law. He had attacked and attempted to murder an officer, wounding him so severely that he might have to go on disability. And now...

Now he was bleeding out in an alley, with the evidence of his crime bleeding its way from an assault and battery charge to a full on murder charge. From jail to death row. And he couldn't run. He couldn't even help his victim to stay alive so that he could take a lesser charge than homicide.

In a few minutes, he might not even have to worry about murder one. Dozens of cops were already answering the call for back up. When they found him, they would probably beat him within an inch of his life. If he was lucky. Maybe they would just cross the line. If he was really lucky, some maniacs would just fill his head with lead before the beatings even started. If he was really, really lucky, he would die before his executioners even got here.

IDIOTS IN COSTUME PLAYING REVOLUTIONARY

THE INTRODUCTION OF JACKAL & SPARROWHAWK

'I don't like this, Martin. I don't like this at all.'

Malcolm Xavier had just come out of his office in the bar when his friend and rival, Martin Bones came briskly through the chaos toward him. Malcolm was holding a shotgun in one hand, keeping it pointed at the ground and keeping his finger off the trigger.

'Damned stupid thugs. Illiterate gangsters.'

Martin had no sympathy for foolishness and even less for idiots in costume playing revolutionary.

'Burning down everything but the goddamned precinct and the goddamned banks. Damned fools don't even know who their enemy is. A man dies and to them, it's just a shot of getting a free TV from Target.'

Martin's right hand was on the grip pf a holstered pistol. Unlike Malcolm, he didn't use firearms for show. Martin would never threaten anyone with a gun. Like his daddy used to say, 'You're either going to use your gun or you're not. You show a man your gun, you best kill him.'