Sid hopped into the old Ford pickup truck that he happened to have around if he didn't want to steal something off the street. He pulled out of his reserved parking spot and then out of the parking lot itself into the street. He soon got up to the speed limit of 35 MPH and then thought for a minute as he drove down the near empty street. "Goddamnit!" Sid yelled all of the sudden to himself. Then after a brief pause, "What the hell I am I doing? I could be off writing code or listening to Gray Matter or skating or playing PS2 or even jacking off but here I am on my second day as a gangster getting all stressed out and fucked up." After a few more blocks Sid pulled into a parking lot and parked in an empty space. As he sat there he once again started thinking. "Fuckin' hell, man!" Sid screamed out the open widow at the closest possible human. The man walking stopped and flipped Sid off. Sid, being pissed off as he was, flipped the birdie right back. As man started to swagger confidently over to the truck, Sid noticed that he wasn't just some guy, but one of the homies from the Cartel. "You wanna start shit, essay?" the homie said as he approached the truck. Before Sid could respond, the opposing gangster yanked the door open and grabbed Sid by the left bicep, throwing him to the ground. Sid awareness was good enough for him jump up off the asphalt just avoiding the foot of his enemy but not good enough to avoid the next attack which was the homie's right fist. The force of his enemy's knuckles of his chin was enough to cause Sid to stumble back a few feet. Sid shook off the blow and started to unconsciously lunge at his opponent but fell to the ground after a mighty kick to the stomach. "Stupid punk pussy, fuck you! If I had my gun you'd be fuckin' dead, essay. I'm letting off but if you wanna start shit again you'll get really fucked up!" said the homie. He gave Sid one more kick to the side and then ran off. After laying on the ground for a minute, Sid finally climbed back up into the truck. He drove slowly out of the parking lot. He didn't think about his crappy life. He didn't look for the homie that beat him up. He just drove in the direction of O'Malley's. At one point Sid turned on the radio. "Damned christian pop-punk," he mumbled as he switched to the next station. "I fuckin' hate rap," was his next curse at the radio. After a couple minutes of surfing the stations, Sid found the pistol that had been on the floor of his truck during the fight and shot a round into radio. He drove the rest of the way to O'Malley's without a single profanity.