Kelly Had Some Nice Shoes Back in the Day (ending)

Chapter 6 – Bare Beach Stompers –
    Steven doesn’t usually have the ability to take afternoon naps, and he strangely awakes on the beach to the sensation of sand being kicked in his face. There’s a heavy set African American woman who’s kicking the sand at him and starts to scream as he sits up “It’s you who killed my baby Ebony Alabaster Jones, and that little stripper whore didn’t deserve goin’ out like that!” Steven responds in an urgent yawn while standing to his feet “Look lady I don’t know what the Hell you’re talking about. Is that the girl that worked with Kelly who got stabbed to death over a month ago?” (Steven’s perception of time had been rapidly changing since Kelly died) The woman lunges at Steven while shouting obscenities “You mother fuckin’ cracker ass bitch bag dick face (She lands in the soft sand) I’m gonna kill you, you mother fucker!” Steven Burns is astounded at the woman’s ignorance and rage, and so he shouts “Look woman I’ve never murdered anyone in my life especially a female; lady if you keep trying to assault me I’m going to have to smack you maybe, so just let me grab my board and I’ll be gone.”
    The short somewhat rotund older black lady pulls out a folding knife and opens it, and while wildly swinging the blade at Steven she screams “I know it was you, Ebony told me some surfer named Burns was the best fuck of her life, and everybody said that’s you!” Jumping, running, and hopping away from the woman Steven franticly attempts to quell her confusion “Why must it be me if I obviously treated her well and have been said to please her; did she say that in an argument or something?” The little heavy set woman begins to weep, throws the blade aside and drops to her knees panting sorrowful moans “That’s all we ever did was fight about her being a whore in a strip club, and how much I hate Snoopy and white people.” The woman finally realized that Steven has picked up his surfboard as she was exhausted in the sand on her hands and knees, and as Steven is walking away quietly attempting to escape the woman takes a three point football stance and hollers “Blue 33! Red 42! Hutt! Mother fucker hutt!”
    The five foot three inches one hundred and sixty one pound African American woman maddened with grief is all of a sudden charging down the beach toward Steven, in what seems to be slow motion with her double D breasts bouncing high and low. Steven throws his surfboard to the side in a swinging motion causing it to flip and spin more than seven hundred and twenty degrees landing nearly eight feet away. The woman comes so close to Steven he can feel the beach start to tremble while he smoothly side steps the oncoming lamenting wimp to his right and smacks her on the cheek with his left back hand. The usually practical yet now bereaved mother falls with another concussive whoosh onto the soft sand with her arms out to the side, Steven yells to the on lookers standing near where the scuffle originally started “Where’s that lady’s knife, I don’t see it?” the small crowd shouts back “It’s down ‘Get the Hell’ here you idiot ‘out of here!’ just get the Hell out of here, she must’ve been fighting with her black son or something!”
    Burns picks up his surfboard and begins to walk away from the chaos on the beach thinking brothers and sisters don’t always share the same skin tone, especially brothers in arms. The drift of value for and in human beings isn’t ever weighed the same by two different people. Wishing for a world to be at peace isn’t always the same dream by definition of peaceful happenings in beings or moments. Could Farcington ever clean up its act with all the passing sorrow caused by thugs and crooked cops? Was that girl Devonia’s name really Ebony, and when did she die exactly? As Steven walked towards the wooden ramp to leave the beach over the dunes he sees a strange hippie looking man wearing a leather biker jacket, and the man sitting in the dunes inquires “That’s a nice red Rx-7 Stevie, how’s she handle?” Steven responds with a piercing crooked squinting gaze “Like a Florida Panther.” and simply heads towards his car.
    As Steven stuffs his surfboard into the passenger side of his compact sports car he realizes that he’d better go back to skateboarding, and stay away from the beach for a while.

Chapter 7 – Brand New Vans –
    The Bonona Invitational skateboarding competition has an opening for three local skateboarders of Farcington city to compete in three out of five areas of competition. Steven had not so recently heard about the skate park opening the event to locals from Kelly, and it was her idea that he could enter, but he said no way. Steven put his name on the list for the qualification trials of Street, Freestyle and Vert Ramp on the last day that the entry fee was being accepted. Steven thought if he’d train for a week and a half, he could at least have a chance at medaling on the Vert Ramp.
    Steven decided as he strapped his pads on for the first time in what seemed to be forever (but had only been just over two months) that he would change his name to Stevie Mr. Blazes. He sees the menacing gigantic blood red ramp in the near distance and begins to salivate thinking that the good people at Bonona Skate Park should name that ramp Purpley Death. Steven then yells as he often does “To the moon bitches!” then takes off on a tear over every obstacle in the park even shredding down the slalom course spinning into what seems to be oblivion. A kid with an afro yells “Hey Mr. Burns why don’t you hit the half pipe like you always do all day long?” Steven kicks the skateboard into the air with a ricochet and catches it yelling “All right back to the future!” Not realizing that all of the eyes in the park are on him Steven hears a roar of applause and tons of encouraging shouts questioning about the competition “What the hey go Hell come on have you for it signed up register man for in the competition the invitational man!” “Don’t worry everybody, I just signed up today, for the qualifiers I mean.” Steven shouts as he climbs the narrow little stairs to the top of the 15 foot high Vert Ramp.
   “You can just get ready to be beat in that comp. man for real, I’m gonna win it all.” says a strange looking kid with half a Mohawk. “Well, you know you can only win three out of five medals little dude, and if you make it in, you will be skating against pros?” Steven tosses as a jabbing query, and the kid responds with his own “Why’d you even enter then asshole?” “For the memory of Kelly Schulster, that’s why.” Steven simply answers hanging his head. “That whore was a disgusting loser all right ‘Hey you fuckin’ asshole my money’s on Steven anyways, even without some holey spiritual journey or some shit’ (another skater interrupts) whatever man I’m gonna win just watch.”
    Steven glares at the half Mohawk that sits atop the skater punks head and says “If you’re so sure, then  just listen to this, my name here is no longer Mr. Burns, it’s Stevie Mr. Blazes.” and Mr. Blazes drops into the half pipe to overtures of awe-inspired oohs and ahs. It seems to the on lookers that he hasn’t skipped a beat surfing over dry land with wheels attached to his board, but he himself doesn’t quite feel ready.
    After a week and a half of running and skating flies by Steven easily qualifies at the top of the local amateur pack, and is told by the owner of the skate park “Look mister I don’t care how good you think you are, but this is a joke having you and any locals at all in this competition. Do you know who’s going to be in this? Tony flippin’ Gawk!” “I don’t care you fuckin’ ass bag! It’s for the memory of dead whores everywhere that I will blow that corporate nut sucker away, just you watch and see!” Steven responds with insults of his own.
    On the day of the competition Stevie Mr. Blazes is on fire winning gold in both the Street and Freestyle stages of the competition; heading to the final event he’s all nerves, and trembles thinking of nothing but falling. “Do it Mr. Burns!” Steven hears from the top of the blood red Vert Ramp, and he inhales thinking of nothing but Kelly and their time together at the end of her life. He hears an air horn signal that he’s allowed to begin his run, and he drops into the ramp rolling, then flipping, turning, grinding side to side, and catching more air than most of the present pros had ever dreamed was possible.
    The television announcer shouts “Just what the Hell was that? We’re awaiting a score now, and I can’t imagine that any of the pros here will be able to touch this local amateur! That’s right folks, if you heard me say local amateur, well that’s what this Steven Burns is! Let’s go down to the ground level to see if we can get a comment.” “My name isn’t just Steven Burns, you can just call me Mr. Blazes. Ups to Kelly!” Steven says throwing a peace sign to the camera. “And it’s a perfect 10 across the board folks! You’ve heard it here first, an amateur local just took home the gold in three out of five events of the Bonona Invitational. What is the world coming to?”

Chapter 8 – Air Magnum Force High Tops–
    The next day after the skateboarding competition Steven wakes up in his car down the street from his favorite surf and skate shop out at the beach. He walks into the shop in hopes to be offered a sponsorship of some kind in skateboarding, and three workers greet him with cheers of “Where what the what’s Hell it up have you is been man?!” Mr. Blazes answers in astonishment “Didn’t you guys here? I’ve been skateboarding, yah out of touch ignoids.” “No shit weirdo!” the entire shop shouts back in unison, and Steven inquires “Well hey, do you guys think you’d like to sponsor me in a competitive tour or something?” The owner walks from behind the counter and tries to smack Steven, but Stevie sees it coming and dodges. “Don’t you know you’ll probably have your choice of sponsors now besides Rusty, since you were so willing to kick the crap out of that guy?” asks the owner of Sockie Beast. “I don’t wanna surf or skate for Rusty anyways.” answers Steven.
   One of the surfers who works at the surf and skate shop that knows Steven as an acquaintance says “Hey man we should party tonight in celebration; so come out to the bar down the street, we’ll make it worth your while.” Steven responds in negative anticipation “I don’t know guys I’d love to, but I’ve got a bad feeling that these biker gang dudes want to have it out with me to my own very doom and shit.” “You weirdo no body’s going to mess with you now, not after what you just did, you’re a frickin’ legend.” the clerk retorts with glee. “All right, I’m in! Anyways, I could use some type of drunken booty fest after all that work. As long as it’s not at a strip bar, I hate those places and always will.” says Steven simply, and everyone cheers “Party!”
    After a day of donuts, potato chips, and sub-marine sandwiches Steven shows up to a little whole in the wall bar called the Spackler, and everyone on the inside yells a mixed hooray “Yay get woohoo bad ass mother my man fucker drinks on a that me shit bitches!” Everyone regales each other with stories of Steven’s crazy adventures; back, forth, up, down, all throughout town both in and out of thug life, school, and organized sports. All the while Steven simply responds “Yeah, I suppose it’s not bad for me to be alive at 27 I guess.”
    At barely past midnight hearing a roar of motorcycles coming into the parking lot of the whole in the wall bar had a sloppy drunk Steven’s eyes wide open in fear. “Guys I um, I gotta bad feeling.” says Steven, and the store clerk who set up the party says “Don’t worry Steve man, if these guys are here to mess with you, nobody here will let that happen. No way!” The off duty store clerk walks to the door of the bar pushing it open, and yells out into the parking lot “If you guys are here to mess with Mr. Burns, you can just go to Hell we’ll take on the lot of you!” Steven tries to scream “Get the fuck inside here man!” but it’s too late, and his words ring out over the echo of a gunshot; so the store clerk’s brains are all over the once glittery entry way of the bar.
    “All we want is the surfer, outside, right now!” a voice from outside yells into the bar. Everyone is looking around at each other, and a drunken Latino surfer shouts “Which surfer are they talking about man, it’s not me is it?” Walking towards the door as sober as the day he was born all of a sudden, Steven replies “No Hector of course it’s not you, everybody stay cool and I’m sure they’ll go away after I’m dead.” As soon as Steven walks out of the bar he’s hit in the back of the head with the butt of a pistol (so softly) and he’s down but not out. “Beat this man to death!” screams the supposed writer named Rider, and a large number of bikers begin to kick Steven in the ribs and head while he’s on the asphalt deck. “All right get him up on his feet, I want him to see it coming!” Rider orders and a few of the Fly Tiers grab the barely conscious Steven by the arms, pick him up, and pin him against the wall. Suddenly the door to the Spackler springs open, and Hector comes sprinting out followed by over half a dozen other surfers kicking and flailing in Kindergarten Kung Fu form. The Fly Tiers go down two by two by three, and Rider who retreated to the corner of the parking lot hears police sirens off in the distance; so him and just a few of the other members of the ridiculous gang escape by the skin of their teeth. The surfers lose control, and a bloody mess of future graves is left before they flee.
    Coughing from the floor of the parking lot Steven spits out words through blood “What did you guys take a wrong turn at Albuquerque?” The cops show up not a second too soon, and Steven is sitting against the wall of the bar barely able to keep his eyes open. Blood is running down Steven’s face, and he’s surrounded by a bunch of half dead bikers including two that are all the way beaten to death. Luckily the owner of the bar along with two girls stayed behind to tell the story, but Steven refused to leave; neither could he since his car was blocked in by over turned motorcycles.
    The cops let Steven go without a trip to the Hospital for some reason, but not before telling him “Listen loser you need to straighten up and fly right, or else you’re going to end up precisely where these other losers are going tonight. Now you can get your little pansy car out of here after you sober up.” Steven was more than shocked that the cops let him go, and after he finally dropped one of the girls off at her house he headed towards an old friend’s place.
    Walking up the pathway to a very strange underground bomb shelter/bunker, Steven could do nothing but hope that his friend was home alone. After banging on the cracked air tight door Steven became a little nervous, and as he started turning around to leave he heard the door begin to open. The door opened up completely and there stood a stark naked athletic woman, who seemed to be in her forties “What the fuck do you want?” the naked woman asked without seeming to care at all. “Is Allen home, I mean does a guy named Allen even live here at all anymore?” Steven asked in confusion, and what seemed to be five minutes went by with the woman just staring at him “Shut the fuck up and stay right there, oh and you look like shit by the way. (The naked woman turned around and yelled) Allen, there’s some bloody idiot at your door!” Steven almost whistled at the firm ass of the woman as she walked away from him, and finally saw his friend coming down the corridor to the entrance of the large bomb shelter. The somewhat large young man named Allen greets Steven wearing a Mohawk saying “Man you look like shit. So, what do you want anyways?” Steven coldly responds in a low tone “Five hundred dollars worth of guns and ammunition.” Allen simply smiles and says “Come on in you bloody son of a bitch.”

Chapter 9 – Designer Socks –
    No sleep just driving day and night, after a heavy purchase of future ash for not giving a damn about no tomorrow.
    “Don’t be comin’ up in here askin’ for help with any kind of homicidal missions!” Steven’s close friend Jahmal shouts from his own front porch. “I just want you to drive my car and keep the engine running while I get into it with these people who are responsible for Kelly’s death, and they were the ones who jumped me last night.” Steven tells his friend who’s refusing to lend aid to his half suicidal revenge plot of gangster tom foolery.
    “Will you come inside? I want to talk at you about somethin’.” Jahmal says to Steven as they both walk into the upscale ghetto home “Now you Steven must’ve lost your damn mind or at least be half Asian in your heart right now. You just got the chance to blow up on the competitive skateboarding scene, and you’re goin’ to throw it all away to get back at some greasy glue sniffahs! Revenge is for shame Mr. Burns for shame!”
    “Will you stop yelling at me? I’ve got a head ache, and it’s not just for revenge. You were right to call me half Chinese hearted or some shit at this moment or whatever, because this does have something to do with kill or be killed now. Maybe I should get back up with Davy and the Bloods like when I was a kid.” Steven hangs his head in grief and denial. “You dumb ass don’t be callin’ on them niggaz, niggah you’s about to get caught up again fo’ su’e, and if you want Hank’s numbah, you can just dial one nine hundred kiss my ass, eat a dick, and suck on a fart!” Jahmal yells on in the response of Steven’s laughter “And to answer the questions in your eyes, no, no and no to trades for herbs, Cracker Jacks, and hoes!” Jahmal scowls at Steven with his right hand on his left elbow and his left hand on his chin while anticipating any further plea.
    “I wasn’t going try to trade you any crack rocks. I stopped sellin’ that stuff before I turned fifteen, and you know that” Steven defends his self with a crooked startled look on his face, and Jahmal yells again with a thundering judgment “See that shit, I know it look at yo’self now though, and who the hell sells crack rocks before they’re even really a teenager? Yo’ ass is filthy nasty yah half clean totally stankity mother fucker!” Steven doesn’t retort with an insult yet he simply replies “All right damn, you know I’ve been clean since before I went to college, but do you at least have that vest I gave you a little while ago? I could at least use that shit.” Jahmal begins to nervously pace around his living room scratching the back of his head and neck, and speaks out “I’s got the thing man, (He flattens his hands, and half sticks his arms out in a halting gesture) but it is a little messed up from me and our friends tryin’ to prove it works.”
     “Come back here to my room and I’ll show it to you.” Jahmal says as a leading gesture while he walks down the hallway which is covered with pictures of either infants or elderly people, to the back of his uncle’s house “Just sit right there in the king’s chair and let me find it.” Steven sighs and says as he’s sitting “Oh you’re gonna give me the forbidden chair of ownership, well this thing must be really fucked up.” Jahmal responds quietly with a half whisper “What are you going to do uhm, if it is?” “Nothin’ man we’re friends, brothers really in fact you’re one of my best friends, at least you’re not all stone cold crazy.” Steven gladly dubs Jahmal with the oddly fickle title, and Jahmal smiles saying “I’m glad you said that. Not just because I consider you the same thing, but I actually know exactly where the vest is. The thing’s not really bullet proof at all anymore I don’t think. (Jahmal yanks the vest out from underneath his mattress with the utmost showmanship and jests) Tah Dah!” “What the fuck is that, it’s been fucked up all to be damned man, what’d you do to it?” Steven inquires after seeing the ripped up and holey once bullet proof vest.
    “Well first Hank shot that mother fucker while it was hangin’ on a tree, and I told him not to do it the second through twenty seventh time, but it was bullet proof at least for a while. After it got those two holes in it, I just tried to cut that shit up, and kind of make it fly or some shit. (Jahmal puts the vest on) See check it out, that shit looks nice don’t it? It’s kinda like one of those Avant Garde New York fashion things. (Jahmal takes the vest off and throws it on Steven’s head) There you go, I dub thee the owner of a newly fucked up jacket that used to be a brand new bullet proof vest.” After jokingly giving Steven the vest back Jahmal just stands still and glares at him.
    “Well at least this thing might give me some mojo in my mind, but it sure as Hell won’t be affective for anything else on this which I suppose will be a solo fucking suicide mission.” Steven says in low tone grunts as if there’s no turning back, and Jahmal responds with a goodbye “You see me frownin’ atchyou, been givin’ you my scowl since you came up in here. So, oh well my niggah, I can see there’s no talkin’ you out of this shit, good luck not bein’ locked up or gettin’ yo’self killed. Now get the fuck out of my house!” as Steven’s walking towards the front door he can hear Jahmal’s Uncle yelling from upstairs “This ain’t yo’ house muthah fuckah, so you can get yo’ ass the Hell out too, if you can’t shut yo’ black ass the Hell up!” Jahmal slowly shuts the front door and whispers to his friend Steven past his pointer finger going up “Shhh, one love niggah.”

Chapter 10 – Expensive Runners –
    Waking up the next morning Steven does not feel a new, but he’s glad that Jahmal wasn’t willing to hear his request of driving his car with him as he looks for the Fly Tiers. There’s just one Fly Tier in particular that he plans to look for tonight, the old leader who he figures is the one responsible for their movements. He knows it’s a good chance that today will be his last day alive as a human on Earth. He doesn’t want to surf or skate, but he does want to pass the time until death o clock.
    All Steven can think of all day is changing his life if he survives the night ahead, and how he’ll never rest easy without taking care of these bikers who have to be responsible for Kelly’s death. He wonders if it was actually the eldest of the crew that killed her himself, or could it have been someone else while the Fly Tiers stood by and watched. Either way none the less, emphatically Steven feels no choice but to strive head long into no compromise what so ever. “It must be them or me.” Steven thought out loud to his self as the sun began seemingly flipping him off to say goodbye.
    The sunset is beautiful this early evening to some people; even to men with over fed wives in their high-rise over priced condominiums, but to Steven the darker the night’s sky gets the more it burns blood red. Stevie Mr. Blazes as he’s called to some now starts his car at eight forty nine P.M., and begins to drive around looking for the Harley driven by the head honcho of the Fly Tiers.
    Passing strip club by strip club one by one, Steven feels unlucky hardly seeing any motorcycles at all; so he stops at a donut chain to pick up a cup of coffee. While walking towards the door of the donut shop Steven sees a pack of what seems to be twenty choppers and crotch rockets slowly whomp by. Conveniently to Steven they turn into a strip club barely a block away and across the street, but the oldest leader isn’t to be seen. Mr. Burns decides to wait inside while slowly sipping on his coffee and just surveying the street, and three more bikes drive by hauling ass with the suspected leader on top of one of them. “One of them at least is sure to see my car.” Steven blurted out in a whisper.
    Maybe all the bikers are waiting for “the writer” (Which Rider has airbrushed on his banged up ’84 Harley) and the other two members of the gang to go inside Steven thinks, but a lone biker pulls up with a guitar strapped to his back, takes off his helmet, and throws on a cowboy hat. Steven wonders if his mother is doing well, and then half chokes on his coffee while thinking about her forcing sex on him.
    “I don’t hear any music coming from inside there!” Rider shouts at the lone rider as he pulls back around into the parking lot to an ovation of “Yeah no you shit better mother ass get fuck fucker goin’ this you guy YEAH!” “Just give me two shakes of a hair’s whiskers mister with it sir, and I’ll be right on stage.” says the baggy pants wearing man with his cowboy hat, guitar, and all of who knows what. The door to the Stanky Pickle Grabber Saloon and Show Bar swings in then out and back in again, and before it rocks completely shut you can hear a guitar wailing from the parking lot. “Yeah!” the entire hazardous Fly Tiers gang yells after Rider shouts the same thing himself, and they all funnel into the bar.
    Steven walks one purposeful step after the next out of the donut shop, gets into his car, and drives across the street just a block. He puts on the ripped up and holey bullet proof vest, and straps his holsters to his under arms holding the two nine millimeters that he bought from his friend Allen. As Steven gets out of his car he flips the switch for his trunk forgetting it’s broken and whispers to himself “Damn it.” then he walks around to open his trunk, but in the adrenaline of the moment he forgets the keys are in the car. The door to the disgusting strip club springs open, and Steven quickly ducks behind his car, but it’s only two business men leaving in drunken outrage “Can you believe those bikers man? Those guys are fucking horrible! ‘Awe come on man, can’t you hear that guitarist? The guys incredible we should stay!’ (The other businessman pleas) Look at this you idiot they pissed on my back, this is a new coat!” and the dry businessman laughs.
    Steven retrieves the keys from the ignition of Kelly’s old car with a sigh of relief, and grabs his brand new used shotgun with a belt holding a ton of ammunition. Steven jogs loaded down with three lessening guns and two glazed eyes glairing, and gently kicks open the door to the den of filth. Steven takes two steps into the blaring loud strip club, and fires his shotgun at the ceiling, while he loads another round with the slider into the chamber the guitar playing stops (Yet the drugged up strippers keep dancing). “Anybody wants to have a few words with Stevie Blazes?! I’ll be right outside!” Steven barks and states with a hallowed questioning conviction as he backs out of the same door he went in.
    “Let’s kill that mother fucker!” Rider yells, and guns begin to come out of holsters and from inside the bar’s office. The Fly Tiers usually only ride with a few guns no matter what size the group; it makes the underlings easier to control for the couple of bosses that they have, but with all the recruitment and robbing they’ve been doing recently they’ve been behaving recklessly. The first man out through the front door is Big Viggie carrying a fully automatic machine gun. He barely takes two steps and gets a shotgun blast to the face, blowing his head off yet he doesn’t go down immediately. The dead man sprays bullets all over the parking lot, across the street shooting the clerk in the donut shop in the shoulder (Making her drop and break a full pot of coffee burning an elderly black fellow), finally a bullet skims the left side of Steven’s neck tearing it deeply. Mr. Blazes tried to duck behind a car, but the gun worked to fast.
    Steven falls to the side on his right knee dropping his shot gun (which fires into the outer wall of the bar upon hitting the ground), and for some reason the next four drug crazed bikers miss seeing him. “Where’d he go?!’  an overweight Fly Tier asks in exclamation, and Steven pulls out both of his nine millimeters from left to right firing eight shots not missing one of the now dying gangsters. More bikers shoot out of through the front door into the streets, and Steven fires back while sprinting across from the opening of the bar to lean with his back against the bricks on the wall in front of the building.
     Blood starts to poor out of the front door, and Steven hears a familiar voice “Not very smart mister surfer, you’d better watch that back door! Hey look a 45.” Steven believes it must be the man from the beach that he denied thinking it was as he rode up to the scum ridden bar alone. Suddenly as Steven turns his head to his left with guns pointing both directions two shots fire, and one bullet hits Steven in the shoulder while the other hits the man who shot him in the mid section.  
    Steven drops to his left knee and rolls onto his back trying to guard himself with the only gun hand he has left low on bullets. The wounded young surfer hears a yell from around the corner “He’s down, let’s just go inside and let him die out here!” then the voice of “the writer” comes from inside the bar “How many of us are left out there? I don’t know what happened, but we’re all cut to Hell and back in hergggugsjlkgsuvhkl;ikuerbhough.” Jimi Glide has cut Rider’s throat wide open and yells “I told you mother fuckers I’d get your asses for this bull shit gang shit and shit! Mr. Surfer I’m comin’ out (Steven leans sideways, and half sits up with his pistol), and like I told you I move faster without a gun!” The guitarist runs out of the strip joint that he had just happened to be playing in that night carrying nothing but a razor sharp Bouie knife.
    Bikers started to filter from around the side of the bar shooting wildly at Steven, and what seemed to be each other. While Steven picked off a few here and there, the psychedelic country rebel with his red ass face cut the rest to ribbons. Jimi Glide was running around so fast hacking off limbs, running men through, and slitting throats, he didn’t see what was coming directly towards Steven who was out of bullets; it was Rider gushing blood and mucus from the gaping wound in his throat that ran ear to ear. As Rider forces his way through the swinging door he lifts his gun, aims, and fires four times, but only one bullet goes through the torn up vest as Steven’s nailed three times in the chest.
    Jimi Glide quickly picks up the shot gun that lays on the parking lot floor, jogs over to Rider, and says “Damn, talk about point blank range.” then blows the leader of the Fly Tiers’ (Rider’s) head completely off. “That’s for shootin’ my hat you son of a bitch.” Jimi Glide takes three steps in order to stand over Steven and says “You know with a donut shop right there, you’d think the cops’d be here by now. This must really be a bad neighborhood. That was a valiant effort I suppose mister surfer, but it was I who killed most of these men here tonight,  and I did it for dumb ass artists like you not smart ass rockers like myself. Oh yeah also, I blame you for this hole in my hat because he wasn’t  at me, but I’ll go call the amb’lance” and Jimi Glide disappears into the night air leaving the motorcycle he rode up on behind.
    Steven burns awakes the next morning in a Hospital room with Kelly’s parents of all people sitting beside him, and Kelly’s mother sternly questions him “Just what the Hell is your problem Mr. Steven Burns or Mr. Blazes whatever you’re calling yourself now? Don’t you know that no one is worth this much trouble, especially after they’re dead? Is it you that went after these gangsters, or did they come after you? Do you know if you were dead right now after hearing what I just heard, I would just fart on your grave? So what do you think about that? Well, what’ve you got to say?” Steven half heartedly smiles then naturally straightens his faces and sort of moans “Well, at least Kelly had some nice shoes back in the day.”

THE END,  and then there’s always another Farcington…

M.E.L