Chapter 3

Punk'd

Chris heard the sirens howling out into the night, which was quickly becoming one hell of a bad one. 8ball and Chris leaped off a low portion of the bridge, falling about five feet before landing softly in a small grassy patch of land. Looking up, Chris saw Greasy Joe's Diner a stone's throw away. He remembered going there back in the eighties with the rest of his family. He wasn't used to thoughts of hospitality anymore. Forcing himself to look away, he turned to 8ball.

"Okay, we're a lot closer than I thought. We gotta lotta turf to cover still, so lets make sure we know what the hell we doing. If I remember it right, we gotta go through some triad territory and then through the diablos' territory. Let's find ourselves a ride." 8ball examined the Diner's parking lot.

"Right there, that Kuruma's unlocked. Let's jack it." The sirens grew louder and louder, and the growing din drowned out most of 8ball's attempts to talk, so 8ball simply motioned to the Kuruma.

" Chris man, I'd drive but my hands are all messed up, so you got to." 8ball looked at his hands. They had been scarred in the landing after the bomb. He'd get it looked at later.

" Where the hell are we headed anyway?" Chris asked, opening the car door and sitting down inside, getting accustomed to the leather interior.

" Well first, let's get the hell outta this lot. Then turn right and head down the street till I tell you when to turn another right." 8ball sat down, trying to keep his hands from touching anything.

Chris sped out onto the street, fishtailing right. He accelerated, and the car glided beautifully. It was a great ride, for a sedan at least. The engine screamed, and streetlights blurred by. Chris had hit 80 mph in a 25, weaving in and out of traffic and still maintaining his speed.

"Holy shit! Right man, right!" 8ball screamed.

Chris smiled as the car ripped right, into an alleyway, and it rolled slowly into an opening. Chris stopped the car and stepped out.

"A'ight man, this is my part time crib. Lets head on in. I get the bed, you get the rollout." 8ball stepped out of the car just after Chris.

Chris stepped opened the door which creaked as it opened. Looking inside, he saw a group of teens around a small T.V. set. They were all white, wearing baggy pants, stocking caps and Ludacris tees. 8ball laughed as he stepped.

The kids turned and one stepped up to look at 8ball.

"Aw hell no. Hell no!" 8ball said.

"Man, what you doin' in our crib? Get the fuck out!" The kid said.

"Your crib, this is your crib? Last I checked it was under my name, Biatch. What you gotta say about it now?" 8ball shot back.

"Man, you wanna take this outside? I don't wanna mess up my house." The kid looked at the rest of his friends and laughed.

"You're gonna take on a guy with hands as fucked up as mine? You almost as fucked as they are." 8ball said.

"Then what about your boyfriend? He gonna take all....," the kid turned around and counted his friends," five of us on?"

"Yeah, and if you win, you get to keep 8ball's crib and keep faking the funk." Chris said.

"Alright then, it's on. No nines, no bats, just these," the kid said, raising his fists, " for the crib."

* * *

Chris stepped outside. There was about five feet between him and the five punks. Each one beside the leader's face drained of blood. They all advanced, except the tallest one, who Chris had guessed was their leader once he had ordered the others around. Chris leaped into the air and jump-kicked the first one to arrive, who in turn knocked down another. The third one drew a shotty on Chris. Chris kicked the gun out of the punk's hands whose hands were too fumbling to fire. The shotgun hit Chris's hand with force. Twirling around, he blew five seperate large, bloody holes throught the stomach of the punk, who was dead before he hit the pavement. Chris swiftly made dead the two on the ground. The last two dropped to the ground, threw forth the nines. While Chris, looked at them, the leader drew his own gun. A gunshot rang out. Chris looked up in time to see a body fall to the pavement. The leader's head was bleeding profusely. In the corner 8ball's smoking gun blended with the smoke of his recently lit cigarette. The two on the ground each got two bullets throught the head from Chris's unforgiving shotgun.