Poor Jerry

September 7, 2010
By Anonymous

It was dark. Rain pouring like a girl sobbing in the sky. Michael, with his head down, rain drowning his leather hat and jacket. His buddy, Floyd, looked the same but he was choking his rifle. A teeth wrenching smirk on his bloody face. The rain made his scar gleam under the light post. Michael, keeping a composed face, shoved his hands into his pocket. They stand their, watching, examining the twisted body. Jerry was his name, he couldn’t take the heat. The robbing, the killing, the thought of going to jail and dying. The boys felt he was going to do something risky, like tell the cops. Michael and Floyd found him walking drunk. Pulling up to him, Jerry didn’t look so hot either. They asked him what his was doing. His drunk voice sounded scared too, not even looking at them and still walking, Floyd got agitated. Michael tried to undertake his choice to go to the cops. Jerry turned to them, tears starting to run down his face. Yelling at them that this isn’t the way to live. Floyd jump out and grabbed his gun. Michael flinched out of his seat, seeing that Floyd was not ready to go to the cooler. Jerry had a this pound puppy face backing up while Floyd is holding the gun above his head. Then he struck, one blow to Jerry’s face. He fell on his back. Michael jolted out the front door and tried to hold Floyd back. Floyd was yelling rude remarks, Jerry crawled away like a snail. Michael, struggle to grasp Floyd, pulled him off from the fight. But a jab came to his nose. Kneeling for support, he could barely see, but he heard Jerry yelling for him, followed by a gasped air after every hit. When he opened his eyes, he saw Floyd kicking him right in the stomach. Picking up his weapon, he walloped him with his pistol. Jerry’s body jolting, with every hit. Then, silence. Michael heard foot steps toward him. Floyd put his hand out, Michael took the left and grunted while getting up. Embracing his nose, the silence was the last thing he wanted. Floyd grabbed his gun and help it tight. Steam was floating away from his face. After an hour of cooling and the red water running off Jerry’s white shirt, they drove off.

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