BLIND AS A BULLET 2
"As blind as a bullet, a son of a gun, A man was shot at the rise of the sun. I'll see you in heaven, you'll see me in hell, If life never started I wouldn't have fell."
It was a cold day. Cloudy, but not rainy.
A black man lay down on the side of a building, his back covering up some graphiti. Gold teeth and a mug were his only belongings. He had two mugs, really: his coffee mug and the sly smirk on his face.
He extended his arm to its full extent. Little did he know he almost punched a man who had also killed. That passerby dropped a quarter in his mug. It made the blind man happy.
He was blind. He did drugs on the street. He did drugs on at home. Begging for money was his way of getting sympathy. If he said he was a drug user he wouldn't get money, he'd get arrested. So he purposely made himself blind.
But why did he do it to himself? There is no correct answer. Drugs will do that to you. The mafia will do that to you. Life will do that to you. Women will do that to you.. but he did that to himself. He punished himself as no else could.
He had helped the mafia kill. He helped a faceless, wordless freak kill. He helped everyone kill. He wasn't proud. All he wanted was crack, or heroin, or whatever drug was the best at the moment.
He preyed for drugs. He didn't prey for change, though. He preyed for drugs. He was a sadistic freak. He killed, he worked with bombs, he made himself blind, and he was addicted. His drugs were his work. His work was illegal.
His past was obviously dark. His skin was dark. He hated whites, but he told no one. He worked with people who called him racist names, and all he could do was nod along. All he could do was be sad. All he could do was hate from afar.
He didn't feel like he needed redemption: People hating him negated his own dirt deeds, or so he thought.
He felt a clump of change drop in to his mug. It made him happy, tricking the fools in Liberty. He figured it must've been a white man, the fools. That or a cop.
The blind black man didn't know what god was about to do to him. or what the people were about to do for god.
In the distance he could hear rat-a-tat-tat. It wasn't the plum-plump you would expect from raining. Soon thereafter, he could hear a lord BOOM-ish counter it. It got louder. and louder. and louder.
BOOM.
A stray bullet hit him. A blind bullet, at that.
"As blind as a bullet, a son of a gun, A man was shot at the rise of the sun. I'll see you in heaven, you'll see me in hell, If life never started I wouldn't have fell."
It was a cold day. Cloudy, but not rainy.
A black man lay down on the side of a building, his back covering up some graphiti. Gold teeth and a mug were his only belongings. He had two mugs, really: his coffee mug and the sly smirk on his face.
He extended his arm to its full extent. Little did he know he almost punched a man who had also killed. That passerby dropped a quarter in his mug. It made the blind man happy.
He was blind. He did drugs on the street. He did drugs on at home. Begging for money was his way of getting sympathy. If he said he was a drug user he wouldn't get money, he'd get arrested. So he purposely made himself blind.
But why did he do it to himself? There is no correct answer. Drugs will do that to you. The mafia will do that to you. Life will do that to you. Women will do that to you.. but he did that to himself. He punished himself as no else could.
He had helped the mafia kill. He helped a faceless, wordless freak kill. He helped everyone kill. He wasn't proud. All he wanted was crack, or heroin, or whatever drug was the best at the moment.
He preyed for drugs. He didn't prey for change, though. He preyed for drugs. He was a sadistic freak. He killed, he worked with bombs, he made himself blind, and he was addicted. His drugs were his work. His work was illegal.
His past was obviously dark. His skin was dark. He hated whites, but he told no one. He worked with people who called him racist names, and all he could do was nod along. All he could do was be sad. All he could do was hate from afar.
He didn't feel like he needed redemption: People hating him negated his own dirt deeds, or so he thought.
He felt a clump of change drop in to his mug. It made him happy, tricking the fools in Liberty. He figured it must've been a white man, the fools. That or a cop.
The blind black man didn't know what god was about to do to him. or what the people were about to do for god.
In the distance he could hear rat-a-tat-tat. It wasn't the plum-plump you would expect from raining. Soon thereafter, he could hear a lord BOOM-ish counter it. It got louder. and louder. and louder.
BOOM.
A stray bullet hit him. A blind bullet, at that.