Prologue
Small-time. That's all he had ever wanted to be. As Chris dashed out of the bank he knew his hopes weren't true anymore. The cashier had pressed the alarm once his girl Catalina had gotten out of the back door; with the suitcase full of the police department's retirement funds. He smelled her sweet perfume when he passed a small camera. He leveled his shotgun to the camera, his breath becoming extremely hot under his mask. The shot rang out like rolling thunder in the alleyway. He then sprinted down the alleyway and turned left. As he rounded the corner, he saw two barrels pointed at him. Looking past, he saw Catalina's sadistic trademark snare.
"Sorry, babe. I'm a busy girl, and you.... you're just small time." She fired, and she fired right at the heart. Chris dropped, his vision blurring, and finally descending into darkness.
* * *
When he came to a few minutes later, he saw the tail lights of the Banshee convertible he had bought her a few weeks fading. He could see that there were in fact, two people in the vehicle. Catalina, her hair flowing in the wind, enjoying her ride in the convertible. The other person in the car had shorter hair, but before Chris could see anything else, they fishtailed around the corner. Chris, using his shotgun nearly like a cane, picked himself up. Unzipping the front of his leather jacket, he examined his vest. Had it not been for his suspicions of Catalina, he would have been a dead man.
Blinding lights blocked Chris's vision. Shielding his eyes, he heard, faintly, as if someone was screaming in his ear from a mile away, a voice calling.
"Put your hands up! Lie flat on the ground! Throw the weapon away!" the voice said, and Chris complied. Using all his strength he chucked the shotty behind him, stuck his hands up, and fell to the ground. Even though he was not offering any resistance, the police still handled him roughly. Shoving him into the back of a paddy wagon. Wandering in the outskirts of consciousness, he was taken to the police station.
Chapter 1
Give Me Liberty
Nora Chandler was ready for the biggest story she had done yet. She had to explain the successful bank robbery, that had gone off with few repercussions for the culprits. They had left one behind, and it was suspected that the person who shot him was his accomplice. The stranded culprit was identified as Chris Graves. Graves had been caught a few times, for minor robberies and a few other misdemeanors. Your average punk kid. Nora figured someone had hired him for this one; he couldn't have planned it with just him and his accomplices. She went over the information she had gathered, all condensed onto a note card:
Suspect 1: Chris Graves
31 years old
5 former charges 2mr's, 3md's
Orphan, homeless till age of five
Senior year drop out
Abusive father; Charles D. Stockhausen Died in car accident when suspect was 13
Foster Father/ Mother died of natural causes when he was 19
" Poor kid. Never had much of a chance in life. Maybe he's not just a punk kid." She said, her opinion changing as a tear came to her eye.
***
The mess hall was crowded, and did shafts of light penetrated the barred windows of the jailhouse. Sifting through a mass of convicts, Chris finally found a seat. Sitting next to him was a mustached, baldheaded, young black man.
"Yo, my man! What you in for?" he said, rubbing the hairs of his mustache. Chris looked at him, a silent malevolence in his eyes.
" Tried to knock off a bank. My girl.... that stupid bitch Catalina tried to get rid of me in the worst kind of way." he shook his head.
"Alright, you bunch of inbred twinkle-toe pieces of shit, back to your cells!" Shouted one of the prison guards.
When Chris got back to his cell, he sat down on his bed, then threw himself backwards, landing hard on the not so soft mattress.
"So then, who's this Catalina ho?" The black man's voice drifted over. Leaning up, Chris saw, the man was in the cell across from him.
"The hell's it to you?" Chris glared.
" There's a lot else to do, ain't there?" he replied sarcastically.
" What's your name?" Chris asked, less tense.
" Dequan, but you can call me 8ball, brother. I'm in for pursuing the American dream. My biatch girl busted me on two counts of Grand Theft Auto. A lot of money for a little work it was. It was. Then she told the heat."
"Really? Catalina... Catalina was rich growing up. She was orphaned, I think. Some rich Mexican family came and picked her up. When her father was taken from her in a deal gone wrong, her brother inherited the Cartel. She came up here to Liberty to make a name for herself and earn his respect. I guess that job was what she needed.... and not me."
Small-time. That's all he had ever wanted to be. As Chris dashed out of the bank he knew his hopes weren't true anymore. The cashier had pressed the alarm once his girl Catalina had gotten out of the back door; with the suitcase full of the police department's retirement funds. He smelled her sweet perfume when he passed a small camera. He leveled his shotgun to the camera, his breath becoming extremely hot under his mask. The shot rang out like rolling thunder in the alleyway. He then sprinted down the alleyway and turned left. As he rounded the corner, he saw two barrels pointed at him. Looking past, he saw Catalina's sadistic trademark snare.
"Sorry, babe. I'm a busy girl, and you.... you're just small time." She fired, and she fired right at the heart. Chris dropped, his vision blurring, and finally descending into darkness.
* * *
When he came to a few minutes later, he saw the tail lights of the Banshee convertible he had bought her a few weeks fading. He could see that there were in fact, two people in the vehicle. Catalina, her hair flowing in the wind, enjoying her ride in the convertible. The other person in the car had shorter hair, but before Chris could see anything else, they fishtailed around the corner. Chris, using his shotgun nearly like a cane, picked himself up. Unzipping the front of his leather jacket, he examined his vest. Had it not been for his suspicions of Catalina, he would have been a dead man.
Blinding lights blocked Chris's vision. Shielding his eyes, he heard, faintly, as if someone was screaming in his ear from a mile away, a voice calling.
"Put your hands up! Lie flat on the ground! Throw the weapon away!" the voice said, and Chris complied. Using all his strength he chucked the shotty behind him, stuck his hands up, and fell to the ground. Even though he was not offering any resistance, the police still handled him roughly. Shoving him into the back of a paddy wagon. Wandering in the outskirts of consciousness, he was taken to the police station.
Chapter 1
Give Me Liberty
Nora Chandler was ready for the biggest story she had done yet. She had to explain the successful bank robbery, that had gone off with few repercussions for the culprits. They had left one behind, and it was suspected that the person who shot him was his accomplice. The stranded culprit was identified as Chris Graves. Graves had been caught a few times, for minor robberies and a few other misdemeanors. Your average punk kid. Nora figured someone had hired him for this one; he couldn't have planned it with just him and his accomplices. She went over the information she had gathered, all condensed onto a note card:
Suspect 1: Chris Graves
31 years old
5 former charges 2mr's, 3md's
Orphan, homeless till age of five
Senior year drop out
Abusive father; Charles D. Stockhausen Died in car accident when suspect was 13
Foster Father/ Mother died of natural causes when he was 19
" Poor kid. Never had much of a chance in life. Maybe he's not just a punk kid." She said, her opinion changing as a tear came to her eye.
***
The mess hall was crowded, and did shafts of light penetrated the barred windows of the jailhouse. Sifting through a mass of convicts, Chris finally found a seat. Sitting next to him was a mustached, baldheaded, young black man.
"Yo, my man! What you in for?" he said, rubbing the hairs of his mustache. Chris looked at him, a silent malevolence in his eyes.
" Tried to knock off a bank. My girl.... that stupid bitch Catalina tried to get rid of me in the worst kind of way." he shook his head.
"Alright, you bunch of inbred twinkle-toe pieces of shit, back to your cells!" Shouted one of the prison guards.
When Chris got back to his cell, he sat down on his bed, then threw himself backwards, landing hard on the not so soft mattress.
"So then, who's this Catalina ho?" The black man's voice drifted over. Leaning up, Chris saw, the man was in the cell across from him.
"The hell's it to you?" Chris glared.
" There's a lot else to do, ain't there?" he replied sarcastically.
" What's your name?" Chris asked, less tense.
" Dequan, but you can call me 8ball, brother. I'm in for pursuing the American dream. My biatch girl busted me on two counts of Grand Theft Auto. A lot of money for a little work it was. It was. Then she told the heat."
"Really? Catalina... Catalina was rich growing up. She was orphaned, I think. Some rich Mexican family came and picked her up. When her father was taken from her in a deal gone wrong, her brother inherited the Cartel. She came up here to Liberty to make a name for herself and earn his respect. I guess that job was what she needed.... and not me."
