Charlie woke up to his head throbbing and the noises of Ms. Wong banging pots and pans. He let out an enormous sigh, and then he started to pick the pieces of dried blood from his straight black hair.
"You fall Charlie?" Ms. Wong asked.
"Yeah, I fell onto a curb last night. I'm okay now though. How are you?" Charlie said.
"Good Good. You get to work okay?" she said.
"Alright. I got it," he said.
Charlie busted his ass all day making ungodly amounts of Sesame Chicken and Stir-Fried rice. When he was on his break, he stepped outside to have a cigarette. As he happily puffed away on his cancer stick he noticed a strange black van drive past twice in a row. Charlie would have been more alarmed but these days nothing really seemed normal. He couldn't stop thinking about his mom, why did all these weird things keep happening to him?
His head hurt now. He felt light headed, and stumbled to the nearest corner store to buy a forty. Liquor could usually make the pain go away, and if that couldn't help, there was always some weed. He chugged the crisp Colt 45 down in three big gulps. He felt better now and walked back into work.
When he finished cleaning up the store, he gathered up his cash that he kept in that old coffee can and stepped out. It started to sleet, but Charlie welcomed the harsh weather cause it kept the god damn police busy. He needed about 30 spray paint cans to complete the job, but first he needed to check out the warehouse to see where he could throw up the art.
As soon as Charlie got to the warehouse he knew where he would do it. There was an entire wall untouched by the small time artists, and he knew what colors he wanted. The sunlight would hit the wall just right at dusk, and the red and white roses would look very choice against the bland brown the warehouse was painted. Charlie quickly sketched out the plans for his masterpiece and was surprised when his sketch book started to get wet. He soon realized that he was crying because of his mother, and he let the tears flow.
Then he rose to his feet, and started walking towards the hardware store in the next town over to get his paint. He felt a strange quiver come over him as he passed a young lady sitting on a bench. It was none other than Snazzy Filazy, a sweet girl that frequented the Chinese place. But when he looked into her face, her eyes were crying blood. Streams of hot, red blood streamed down her face, and she looked deep into his eyes.
"Your mother misses you Charlie, make haste, don't forget your mission," she said.
"Holy fucking shit!" Charlie screamed, and before Snazzy could react Charlie was three blocks away.
"Well gosh, what was his problem?" Snazzy said. She, of course, was not crying blood.
Charlie stopped running and leaned against a building while he caught his breath. He knew these images wouldn't stop until he completed the mission. He straightened up, brushed off his clothes, and got back on the road to the hardware store.
The sun was setting now, and Charlie couldn't help but notice the sky's blood red color. Like the whole world was bleeding. He knew what he had to do.
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The Car That Almost Finished Him
Jefferson's string of Robin Hood-like robberies had been successful up until that night. He had amassed a small collection of riches hidden under his floorboards that he had purloined from undeserving drug lords, which he intended to distribute to the poor somehow. But he made a mistake; he had to have the car. It was a beautiful yellow Lamborghini Miura he had found in one particularly well-off drug dealer's garage. The Lambo was pristine and collecting dust, proof its owner didn't use it. Jefferson didn't know how he would return it to the community; he just knew that its current owner didn't deserve it in the least. So Jefferson stole it. The theft wasn't difficult; cars that old didn't have that much of a security system. The garage, on the other hand, did.
As soon as Jefferson started up that glorious engine, three thugs with machine guns ran out of the dealer's crib. Jefferson gunned the Miura in reverse and broke through the garage's wooden wall. He slung the car around and flew down the street. The thugs peeled out of the garage in two black Cadillacs. The Miura was much faster than the Cadillacs, but the thugs had machine guns, and he couldn't outrun a bullet. The thugs fired at him; his car was riddled with bullets, and his rear window shattered. Jefferson swerved left and narrowly missed hitting a minivan. The Cadillacs followed easily. Jefferson weaved through traffic wildly, but the thugs still kept up. Then he saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror - three police cars had not surprisingly taken notice of their activities. Two of them rammed the Cadillacs and forced them off the road. The third followed Jefferson. Jefferson floored it. The police car could barely keep up, and Jefferson almost got away. Then it began to sleet.
The sleet made a sound similar to the bullets as they hit his car. Jefferson could barely see. A truck pulled out in front of him and he swerved into the left lane, then back into the right as another car almost hit him head on. Jefferson spun out of control, but regained it and sped down an adjacent street. The police car was still hot on his tail. Jefferson slowed down; the Miura's speed was no use to him if he couldn't see. The hail grew heavier. Jefferson looked in his mirrors. More cars had joined the chase. This would have to end soon. The lights of Washington Heights stood out in the darkness. He would have to ditch the car; he knew this now. At least it wouldn't be in the hands of a drug dealer. Suddenly, a black van pulled out in front of Jefferson. He swerved right. He didn't see the small coupe until it was too late.
The coupe backed out of the garage. The Miura's headlights illuminated it suddenly. Jefferson didn't have time to think. He slammed the brakes. It was useless. The Miura slammed head on into the coupe's trunk. The trunk was obliterated. The Miura lost contact with the ground. It flipped over several times. It landed in an abandoned storefront. Everything stopped.
Jefferson came to. The hail had stopped. He was lying upside down in an upside down Miura in the front of an abandoned building. Everything hurt; something was bleeding. Cars that old didn't have much of a safety system. Jefferson laboriously pulled himself out of the wreck. He knew he didn't have much time before the police got there. He peeked out of the gaping hole in the front of the building. The coupe was sitting in the middle of the street, its rear end completely smashed in. A trail of glass and metal lay between it and the Miura. The coupe's owner was climbing out of his car. Jefferson recognized him as Ryan Ford, one of the tenants of Washington Heights. He looked shaken but mostly uninjured. Then Jefferson saw the police cars zoom around the corner; they must have been stopped by the black van. Jefferson stumbled out the back of the abandoned building and into the street.
He was able to evade the police as he limped back to his apartment. He walked behind the Chinese restaurant near Washington Heights so that he could get in through the back entrance. He saw the kid who worked there speed away on his bike. He hoped the kid didn't see him. Jefferson snuck in through rear entrance of his building and into the elevator. He pressed the button to his floor. He felt terrible. His mind raced and he couldn't think straight. He pulled a shard of yellow metal out of his bulletproof vest and dropped it on the elevator floor. The doors opened and he walked awkwardly into the hall. He stumbled to his room, opened his door, and fell straight onto his bed. He felt terrible. Sirens sounded throughout the night.
The Great Escape
Marcus Manuel knew it was time to wrap up the party when the bullet nicked his earlobe and drew a bead of blood. Shit was going crazy. The unmarked black van actually busted through the garage door and four FBI agents jumped out of the still moving van, guns firing. Manuel, Machelli, and Alcazar ducked under the table and started running to the door, crouched, with bullets whizzing and whirring around them. Of course Manuel had came strapped with a 9 under his belt buckle, but putting it there that morning he knew that it would be virtually useless if there was a situation. Well this was a hell of a situation. Manuel didn't even have time to think about how the agents found out about this. Manuel looked back to see Alcazar trip on the steps leading up to his shop from the garage, and his head hit the floor hard. Manuel, true to his cowardice nature continued to run until he felt a large force pulling him back. "HE DIES YOU DIE." Machelli's voice roared into his ear. Manuel couldn't believe what he was proposing. They had to go back to get Alcazar? Now? But Manuel knew better than to test Machelli. Machelli and Manuel ran back and picked up the morbidly obese individual up and dipped to the door. It was a big loading deck and garage but the agents were gaining fast. The two men and the unconscious man they were carrying ran into the doorway and slammed it behind them. "START THE CAR." Machelli's voice still boomed even among the chaos. Manuel, scared shitless, sprinted to the Escalade and jumbled and fumbled at his keys. Finally, mercifully, Manuel found the key he was looking for, opened the car, and started it. He screeched over to the front of the store, and saw an image that would stay with him for the rest of his life. In fact, it would be the last thing he would see in his mind as the executioner strapped him to Maryland's electric chair and put the black bag over his head four years later. Machelli was miraculously holding up Alcazar in his arms and effortlessly, he jumped in, Alcazar and all. Police sirens were screaming everywhere, but the men had Mother Nature to thank. Hail was raining down, making it impossible for any sort of police helicopter to track them. It was turning dark, but Manuel didn't even bother to turn on the headlights. The car screeched off. They narrowly missed hitting some kid coming out of a Chinese restaurant, but Manuel could have cared less who they hit.
"Man I need a girl in my life. I don't know how much longer I can take this crazy shit."
The tune of his song still sang in her head,
As Snazy sat down on a bench painted red.
But noises soon crowded her thoughts of the guy,
As a siren broke loose beneath the sleet-laden sky.
She looked out across the blank building blocks,
The streets half way-paved, filled with unsteady rocks.
She studied the cracked chunks of asphalt that broke,
Beneath a large black van, until someone spoke.
He muttered some words that she never did use,
With tears wiped away, he seemed lost and confused.
Like he saw something horrid from within her eyes,
He took a step back as pain bled from his sighs.
She reached out a hand, to guid him away,
From the misery scarring his heart everyday.
But he sharply turned back out towards the town,
Passing the black van that still drove around.
She wondered what he had seen with that stare,
Why couldn't she help him, life never seemed fair.
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