No one else around.
Mist and the streetlamp make a halo around the man’s head towering above me.
The gun waves inches from my face. Stale beer, fresh piss.
Now, motherfucker! Hurry up. I’ll shoot your beaner ass off, swear to God.
Thirty eight dollars. Replceable cards, a Timex long past its service life. Hardly worth defending.
After this morning’s visit to the oncologist, my options are a lot less clear.
Quick. Drop straight down, all my weight behind my right foot, drive it through the man’s patella.
The shot bounces off the pavement behind me.