One dark night, Jacquie Bloom thought he was being followed by three figures. They were keeping their distance but there were three sets of footsteps behind him. He heard the steps but not the voices.
They were walking but not talking. He walked on.
He picked up the pace a little. He hoped
over puddles. They walked through them. He crossed the street. They stayed on
the same side. He turned a corner. They pursued. They didn't seem to be too
interested in closing the gap between them and him.
Fuck
this,
he said to himself. He picked up the pace to a run. They didn't run at first.
But he really put his soles into it.
They started to run.
Jacquie ran faster.
They ran faster.
Jacquie quickly took a turn.
He nearly fell on his ass.
They ran faster, harder.
They made the turn with ease.
Now they were pursuing.
He knocked over some
trashcans.
He hit some cars, which
sounded alarms.
They didn't notice any of it.
He turned a corner and stopped.
He pulled out his newly restored Berretta 93r.
He waited.
The running steps got
louder.
He turned out from the corner, and fired
a series of shots in rapid succession.
The pursuer on the left got all the shots.
The victim danced
as the bullets invaded his body.
The other two, flew.
Jacquie watched.
Then he ran.
He looked up every once and awhile.
Nothing was above him.
He circled back around.
There was no
body.
Jacquie ran home.
