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Carlos ran a zig zag course through the streets,
bent over so low each panting breath
blew little puffs of dust in the air.
As a target he felt almost elephantine.
The shots of the Westside gang
splattered the ground all around him.
As he ran he tried to tuck in his rear end,
with his luck it would take the first hit.
There was a tenseness in the muscles
of his neck and back, expecting any moment
for a shot to home in on it's flesh and blood target.
 One of their shots ticked the top of his left ear,
that was to close for comfort.
He slammed himself away from it's impact,
hit the ground rolled around the corner
and bounced back up on pain wracked legs.
Every muscle fiber in his body
Screaming for mercy.
Each breath came with gasping wretching sounds
and with each, raw burning pain
knifed violently through his chest.
He forced himself to go on,
staggering now from sheer exhaustion.
His eyes in their sockets darted quickly back and forth,
searching frantically for a means of escape,
a place of cover, a place to re-load.
Shooting wildly at the start of the fight
was a fatal mistake. Saving a shot or two
would have been a lot smarter.
He felt so naked and defenseless now,
with the empty pistol dangling
uselessly from his bone weary grasp.
It was no use, it was impossible to go on.
He stumbled haltingly to a stop, slowly
he slumped to the ground in a crumpled pile
of agonized mistreated flesh.
Their pursuing footsteps echoed and re-echoed
off of the surrounding walls, ever closer.
He covered his head with his arms
and waited for the final shots to slam in.
One grazed the side of his head,
he could feel the flow from the hit
trickling down his face and neck.
He heard a bone chilling maniacal laugh.
He was completely helpless,
there was nothing he could do.
He should have packed a spare.
A spare water pistol.

12/31/2001

Posted on 12/31/2001
Copyright © 2025 Charles E Minshall