Structured Chaos

I turn to look back at the speeding prowler. Blake slams the breaks and flips his Jimmie, trying to make the turn onto Airport. Gravity and thrust smashes us against the asphalt. I'm thrown over to the driver's side. The windows shatter. We screech to a halt, and I hear this dry scratching sound. The street’s ridded Blake’s face of skin, and his cheekbone’s chiseling off. The cops hang back because they don't give a shit if we're hurt. They don't know if we're going to come out shooting, and they recognize the Jimmie from the Leo Road job, just as Iroc predicted. At 11:43 p.m. Blake released his last breath. But it was more like the last bit of air seeped from his head. At 11:44, I came out shooting. The two cops had flanked the Jimmie, so I just jumped straight through my window. Tapping the trigger with all the familiarity of scratching my nutsack, I tag two headshots. The pigs drop with gravity’s vengeance, leaving only the blood clouds behind them to mist into the crimson evening. Neither had their guns drawn.