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Flashback

2004-01-23_xx_4:36 p.m.


1995, for me, at least two, maybe more lifetimes ago. I've changed circles of friends several times, mostly to remove myself from environments I had been lost in, simply so that I did not become another statistic splashed in news print.

I can't even remember why we stopped at the local Circle K; it was late and we needed something that required us to be at this particular spot at 2AM on a weeknight. The streets were empty and we didn't even glance twice at the only other car in the parking spaces. Three of us inside and the other three stayed out. Joking as late teens do, we fell out of the quickie mart and immediately could tell something was not right.

There were two very large hispanic males standing on either side of the trio that were left outside, sensing a rumble my boyz at my back and I started to rush towards them. I didn't see the third man until he stepped out of the shadows. He was dressed in dark clothing and the only distinguishing features I could recall was the stark white bulldog from his Georgia Starters pullover. The barrel of the berretta he clutched tightly in one fist smashed into my right temple and halted my progress instantly. My friends several steps behind me paused only when they heard the hammer click back in the firing position. No one moved or spoke for what seemed like an eternity, reality dictated that it wasn't more than a handful of heartbeats. Glancing to the right, I saw his yellow teeth appear out of the dark spot where his face was, and as they twisted in a sickly grin he used the gun as a prod and spoke but one word, "move", that left no room for disagreement.

We stood against my freinds truck, just out of sight of the clerk only a few feet away as he swept up inside. One of the large hispanics brandish a hunting knife and had us empty our pockets, while his other comopanion collected whatever money, pagers and jewellery they deemed worthy of taking. With the exception of the cracked out brother, they were not rough, nor did they try to hard to intimidate us; they even tossed back our wallets after removing all the cash.

As they went about their business, the skinny yellow teethed "G", walked from my right to stand directly in front of me, the gun ripping my skin ever so slightly as he never removed the barrel or pressure from my skull. The second he left my peripheral vision we locked eyes and even as the point of the gun slid between my eyes I never looked away. He even went as far as to twist his wrists from side to side to drive the cold metal ever so deeper.

They eventually and methodically finshed there job; the knife weilder starting the car and the third companion coming to stand next to the gunman.

I heard one of my friends whimpering and choking back sobs and another I heard collapse to his hands and knees and vomit violently. The hispanic was whispering something to the gunman, both of them still locked on to my face and shared a chuckle. Stepping to the side of the gunman, he leaned in close enough for me to smell the cheap beer on his ragged breath and still my eyes never wavered. With a cluck of his tongue he muttered to me, "damn homey, you got the eyes of a fucking killer man...you're fuckin crazy eh."

The sickly grin dissapeared as quickly as it had came, his body tensed and he leaned in pressing his weight against mine. Gritting my teeth I leaned back, the gun barrel caused pain to explode between my eyes as he threatened to drive the weapon staright through me.

It was over in a flash; I heard the trigger depress with a mind-numbing 'click' and felt the rush of air against my forehead as the hammer came down on an empty chamber.

Taking a step back, 'yellow teeth' shook his head and stated matter of factly, "naw man you ain't crazy, you're just plain stupid." With that parting comment he kicked me in the nuts the hardest I've ever been kicked in my entire life and drove away.

My friends lauded my 'hardcore' efforts and credited me with saving everyones life and even recanted tales of the 'skinniest dude around' standing up to armed assailants.

The truth if far from glorious. The instant the gun wielding thug swung the firearm between my eyes I could see the magazine was not in the weapon.

I knew the gun wasn't loaded, but was too scared to do anything about it.

If I were to play hero everytime someone branished a firearm on me, I would have been dead long, long ago. Hereo's die young and glorious deaths and I, dearest of diaries, am a lot of things and a hero isn't definetly not one of them.

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