BALLS II: DEATH OF BALLS

A Story by alan khan

the end

Those four little b*****s that followed me in the car layed bloody and cold on the harsh pavement. My breath fast and harsh, i put a cigarette on the edge of my lips, bruised when one of there fake brass knuckles scraped my face. I whacked him good. I light the fire and kneel down next to the smallest one.

"He sent you huh." He doesnt answer, his hands cluthings his ribs. F*****g b***h. i shoved my blood soaked knuckles against his jelly sides.

He screams out, "Yes! f**k he sent me!"

"So now he sends balless kids."

I stand up and walk out the alley way. Head home and fall asleep next to the darkness seated on my couch.

In the morning when i wake, the rain and cold, pain and swell the wounds from a fight the night before. As always my feet pain and do not bend, and i sit there for an hour willin gmy self to stand. My chest harsh and caved finally breathes air and i stand. Readying myself a warm cup of coffee.

Steping outside the sun now begins to peak through the gray clouds. The white glare of it hiding behind the clouds, pains my eyes.

Walking through the gym dirty looks and mean stares wfrom the young kids. Slight quick knods with my friends, so they may get back to work. I change in the dimly lit locker room. The roaches scrrying over the bags hanging on the rack. Flies meeting around the dieing light bulb as from teh corner shadow behind me. A bruised mother f****r dressed in white steps out toward me, a chrome flashing in his hand.

"Even your f*****g gun is all flash."

"You gon see a flash mother f****r."

I dive over to him as he raises the gun, but too late. His plump finger squeezes the trigger as the rattle carries his arm back. Bullet fins its way to my knee cap. Falling to teh piss steined ground, clutching my blood. He stands over me, things dim now, his clothes and gun shining.

"No room for you mother f****r." He says to me.

"No s**t." I smile.