From Jersey, With Love

Gun fire. Splintered wood shot through the air. The sound was deafening and echoed in his ears.

That was close, he thought. He checked himself over to make sure he hadn’t been hit.

There was a bullet hole in the shoulder of his Armani suit. The bullet had grazed him as it exploded into the shipping container behind him.

“This is my favorite jacket, you son of a bitch!” he screamed as he brought his pistol up to reload. He jammed the clip in and poised his forefinger on the trigger. He pressed his back against the container, gun held in front of his face. He quickly poked his head around the corner to check to see if the coast was clear.

All clear.

He darted out from behind the container, crouched low and running quickly to take better cover. More gun shots rang and he can hear the bullets ricocheting off the cement floor of the warehouse. How many of these bastards are there? These shots are coming from all directions, his mind raced at whom to take out first. He caught a glimpse of a giant mook wearing a cheap, ill-fitting grey suit, sweat glistening off his Neanderthal forehead and he winced as a drop of sweat landed in his eyes. Perfect distraction, and our hero took aim at the caveman, pulled the trigger and fired a shot into the man’s meaty thigh, causing him to drop to the ground, clutching at this leg and squealing like a stuck pig.

One down, four more to go.

He assessed where the others were at and calculated in his head who was next. The tall guy with greasy blonde hair that just ducked behind the steel support beam in the center of the warehouse. He’s vulnerable and what a stupid hiding spot.

Our hero darted out from his spot to get closer. Greasy Man popped out from behind the beam and started shooting wildly at him. Our hero stopped, kneeled down on one knee took careful aim and pulled off one shot, which hit the man square in the left shoulder, causing him to flinch back and scream in agony, his gun flying through the air as he lost grip on it. Blood squirted out in great jets and pooled around the man’s feet, causing him to slip, fall, and land on his back, his head making a sickening thud as it hit the concrete floor. More blood spurted out, this time from the massive gash on the back of the man’s head. He lay motionless in a growing puddle of his own red blood cells.

Two down, two to go.

This pair was proving more elusive than their cohorts, and had concealed themselves well, firing with alarming accuracy and skill at our hero as he tried to find cover again. Another bullet grazed his suit jacket.

“JAMES!”

Damn! They are mocking him now! These bastards are going to pay!

“JAMES!!”

His blood boiled with anger, his eyes wild with a fire that burned within…

“JAMES, GODDAMN IT, TURN THAT FUCKING THING OFF AND COME UPSTAIRS AND TAKE OUT THE TRASH!!”

Wait…what?

Our hero was stunned and confused. Did they just ask him to take out the garbage?

“JAMES, YOU HAVE TO THE COUNT OF FIVE TO GET YOUR LAZY, NO-GOOD ASS UP THESE STAIRS AND TAKE OUT THE TRASH, OR I’M GOING TO KICK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!!”

Our hero slowly became aware of what was happening…and came out of his daydream to find he wasn’t in a warehouse being shot at by goons in bad suits, but sitting in his mother’s basement in New Jersey, the controller to his xBox 360 in his hands, the thick, acrid smell of pot hung in the air. He looked at the coffee table in front of him and saw the smoldering glass water pipe, lazy trails of smoke winding from the mouthpiece and the shit brown-colored water in the bowl.

He sat for a second longer on the faded floral couch and realized he high and had dozed off while playing Grand Theft Auto. He started giggling when he looked at the piece on the table again.

“They call me Bong. James Bong.”

 

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