It's a pretty fucking sticky situation, a'ight. Worse than WWII, for heaven's sakes.
The whole entire shitty force of the FBI (which stands for Fucking Bitches Incorporation) and SWAT (which stands for Shit Wipes Ass Too) is 'round the street corner, where the pretty fuckin' unlucky guy is hiding behind.
He has a hockey bag filled with dough – and one pistol – and his hair's slicked back with sheer sweat, hidden under the cop hat. Oh, and his machine gun's out – only a few bullets remain. Most of the bullets are lodged in cars, cops, buildings, and the occasional damned innocent.
His name is Jem. Really, it's James, but who fucking cares? His teachers said he was a real 'gem' – or Jem – and so he stuck with that. What was wrong with it?
Jem is panting like he had just run all the way to China, but it was because he has a fucking bullet inside his leg. He is leaning against the newspaper thing – he'd only been in school for a few years before droppin' out, so he couldn't possibly what everything was – and is silently listening to the FBI bastard yell at him to surrender and that he's "fuckin' surrounded".
He opens his mouth, and yells, "Fuck you," before letting out a silent groan.
He's thirsty.
After yelling something, he had just realized how thirsty he was.
He hadn't noticed it because his head was fucking whirling – he didn't know what to do, for once – and because of the damn bullet in his leg. He wished Doug was here – he always knew what to do in situations like this. That was why he was the fuckin' ringleader of their lil' circus troupe, of course.
Him, Doug, Dez, and Gloansy. The fucking circus troupe. Runnin' 'round Charlestown and robbin' banks.
Jem's breath is more shallow now, as he can feel the blood pouring continuously from his leg. He bites his lip, and for the first time in a long time he feels like crying.
He had heard Doug say that when his Ma ditched them, Pop had cried like there was no fucking tomorrow.
Jem decides that if he ever gets out of this alive, he'll cry like there's no fucking tomorrow.
Dez and Gloansy are both done – Dez was so fuckin' stupid in his death that Jem wanted to be angry at him – oh, and Gloansy deserved all the damn money in that hockey bag. But he's jolted out of his reverie when the FBI bastard shouts at him to surrender again.
Jem watches his vision blur – he is so damn tired and his leg was ripping his determination to live apart.
His throat starts getting dry again – he then remembers that he's extremely thirsty. His vision clears a bit to see a plastic cup with a straw – the type you see in McDonalds – filled with a drink. He doesn't know what it is, but he is fucking parched, so he grabs it and gulps it eagerly.
Jem's eyes slide closed, as he savors the taste. The liquid cools his raging mouth. It's damn good. He remembers and knows what it is. Someone probably bought it from a convenience store and dumped it to the side when they didn't want it.
Stupid people. But at least it was damn lucky for him.
It was grape soda. Jem remembers the day he had first drank grape soda.
"Two grape sodas, please."
The cashier looks positively terrified at the two muscled and intimidating white men standing in front of the counter.
Jem glares daggers at Doug. "I don't want no fuckin' grape soda… Just get me a Sprite or somethin', a'ight?"
Doug shrugs. "Nuh-uh. You gotta try the grape soda," he replies, and turns to the cashier expectantly with a five-dollar bill in his hand.
The poor girl jumps and squeaks, "S-so, two grape sodas?" Doug nods, and Jem looks a bit irritated.
While she gets the drinks, Doug turns back to face Jem.
"Chill. Grape sodas are good."
Jem crosses his arms. "Grape sodas are shitty."
"You didn't even try it yet," Doug answers, as if Jem has asked a question.
The frightened cashier pushes the grape sodas on the counter, and mumbles, "O-one fifty."
Doug has to ask her what the price was again because she hadn't heard it the first time. Jem twitches again, obviously annoyed. Doug whacks him back before handing the girl the bill he had and he takes the drinks.
"Keep the change," he says, trying to warp his voice into something kind. Jem rolls his eyes at the attempt – it was a fucking failure.
The cashier scurries out of sight – probably into the back – and Doug hands Jem one of the cups.
As they leave the shop, Doug sighs, "You should learn how to control your temper, man."
Jem mutters something intelligible, and takes out his keys to open his door – they had arrived at his excuse of a house before saying aloud, "The cashier bitch was being irritatin'. Nothin's scary about us, innit?"
Doug ignores him, enters the house, and slurps at his grape soda instead. "Try it," he says, nudging Jem.
Jem follows Doug in and reluctantly gives his drink a tentative sip. He blinks at the delicious taste.
"A'ight, a'ight, you win," he says grumpily before Doug can say anything bitchy. He takes in another gulp of the grape soda. Marveling at it, he adds, "It's fuckin' good."
Doug smirks and opens his mouth to laugh at him.
Jem foresees it and punches Doug in the shoulder, but Doug seems to also have predicted that, and ducks away, laughing.
"Fuck you," Jem says, unable to contain a smile, before setting down the grape soda on the table and lunging towards him. Doug side-steps him and dashes off the other way while laughing loudly – to the bedroom.
Jem runs after him, their footsteps and raucous laughter rattling the house's windows and doorframes.
Trapped, Doug fakes to his right and attempts to escape around Jem, but the shorter man tackles him onto the bed.
"I told you grape soda is 'fuckin' good'!" Doug exclaims, breathing loudly – he has gotten the wind knocked out of him when Jem had tackled him. Jem slaps him, barely holding in peals of upbeat laughter.
Doug rolls over and pushes Jem off, but as Jem falls, he pulls Doug's t-shirt with him, and they both tumble off of the mattress on top of each other. Doug's grape soda finally tips off the night table and splatters on both of them, making them swear loudly.
"Fuck, man, why did you put the grape soda there?" says Jem, who is tangled underneath Doug.
"We were arguin' about grape sodas," Doug replies cheerfully, and then grins at Jem, before swatting at his cheek. "You know that grape soda's all over your face, righ'?"
Jem looks dryly at him and answers, "No, Duggy, I was just wonderin' what this shitty and sticky liquid all over my face was."
Doug laughs again but he is quiet for a few moments, before he wipes off the grape soda from his face, and opens his mouth to comment on how sarcastic Jem was. Jem pulls Doug's t-shirt and kisses him, eyes closed.
Surprised, Doug pulls back, and says, "What the fuck, Jem?" However, his heart is racing and his breath short; he felt his hands sneaking up Jem's arms.
Jem is equally as shocked, and snaps, "I dunno! My brain felt like it!"
Jem sighs and finishes off the grape soda, before throwing the cup to the side.
That fucking flashback made him miss Doug more than ever.
He had felt jealousy of his sister when he saw her kissing Doug before. That is so fucking wrong.
He then decides that he cares quite a lot for Doug.
Twisting around, Jem forces himself up, and stumbles out of his hiding place – if you'd call that a hiding place. Pfft, right.
"Look, I surrender!" he shouts in an air of finality.
He has his machine gun with him, and shoots one or two damned rounds before the Fucking Bitches Incorporation and Shit Wipes Ass Too shoot him – two times, really. One in the fucking cheek, and the other in the fucking temple.
Jem's life is snuffed out in a matter of a millisecond, and he drops to the ground, blood running down the pole that is behind him.
Doug then stops for a few moments, seemingly considering something.
He finally holds Jem's arms, and kisses him back, both eyes closed.
Pulling away, he smiles, and says, "I taste grape soda."