The cold silence of isolation gripped me with all of its might. I was alone, left behind by the men I thought were my comrades. As if superimposed over my eyes, images of my 67' tour in Vietnam were swimming around against the pale concrete.
I grabbed my ears, in futile attempt to drown out the screams of my personal demons. Amidst all the turmoil I could distinguish the sound of footsteps, running, coming closer.
: He's over here.
: Man, I ain't goin' near that shit. That cracka's trippin'!
I... must've hit my head on the way down.
The next few minutes after that were like a blur. Johnson took the lead, guns blazing.
Brown wasn't far after him, wildly swinging his '32 and screaming.
:
WHITE DEVILS GONNA DIE!
: Die motherfucker!
The two thugs were trying to stop our escape. Running up, Johnson took the 12-gauge in the chest without even farting, and emptied his gun into the thug's gut. Looking back toward Brown's general direction, I could sense there was something wrong. It didn't take long to find out how wrong.
The sight of blood was enough to make Brown go ballistic. He lunged at the remaining meat-head, smothering him with his body-fat and foul odor while swinging his piece around like a medieval mace, all in an appalling display of negroid violence.
: What the fuck do you fuckers want, huh?
: Gimme my pants, bitch!
: :cough: You assholes are shit out of luck. The shipment should be halfway to Poisonville by now.
: Fuck playa', makin' me freeze my dick off 'cross the state line. Still, beats where you're going, motherfucker. :stomp:
: :squish:
: :chirp:
: Now, how about we get the fuck out of here?
The agents were suspending their investigation until we reached Poisonville. Luckily Johnson knew a fence, operating out of Skid Row. Maybe we could score some train tickets.
: It's Johnson, FBI. Open the fuck up.
: Aw, shit. Is that black maniac with you?
:
Hey! Hey, motherfucker, I heard that shit!
: Train tickets, bitch!
: Man, ain't no trains runnin' the Skid Row route no more. These days you're lucky if you can find a working toilet.
: Well, unless you want me to take a giant shit on you and flush, you better tell me the quickest way to Poisonville.
: Wh.. What the fuck do you want to go there for? Shit, I guess you could take a short-cut through the sewers and hitch a ride from the Super, maybe take a train from there. But, the sewer is the Rats' turf, and you'll be crossing plenty of angry motherfuckers from there on.
: :glare:
: ...
The local booty could smell the danger on us, as we pressed towards the back alley where the notorious sewer gang, the Rats, had their hide-out.
As we approached, a badly bloodied figure emerged out of the shadows, dragging the carcass of another unlucky soul behind him.
: Hey, shitheads. Where d'ya think you're going?
: Police business.
:
Get the fuck out of the way, cracka'!
:
Wait! You're gonna get yourselves killed!
: I ain't gonna die til' I get my pants on!
With the first blitzkrieg-like assault, Johnson easily managed to disperse the gang. The Rats were soon scurrying all into different directions, hiding behind dumpsters or climbing over walls to get out of there.
: Get back here you little shits!
Brown helped in rounding them up.
On the sewer approach, we could hear another crackhead breathing heavily in the next room. As we opened the door, he ran out, shooting wildly in panic and screaming at the top of his lungs.
His cry was answered by that of the three loaded shotguns that were waiting for him on the other side.
We halted at the entrance to the sewers, the way you would at the edge of a cliff, catching our breath. The fall was imminent, but Johnson did his best to ensure a soft landing.
: Alright you shits, let's take this one nice and easy. I don't want to see any heroics in there and...
:
Fuck this shit! I'm gonna be shitting ice-cubes any minute. I don't have all day.
My own pants did little to comfort me, as we plunged deeper, into the abyss that is...
