| Author: | R. Richard | ISBN: | 9781310281716 |
| Publisher: | R. Richard | Publication: | October 23, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition | Language: | English |
| Author: | R. Richard |
| ISBN: | 9781310281716 |
| Publisher: | R. Richard |
| Publication: | October 23, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition |
| Language: | English |
As I approach the young men who are loitering in front of a bodega, I snarl, “Young punks!”
The Hispanic male tends to have what is called ‘macho.’ The young Hispanic male doesn’t take insults. At least, he doesn’t take insults from a lone gabacho, when he’s with a group of his buddies.
I find myself surrounded by angry young Hispanic males.
One of them asks, “You look for trouble, gabacho?”
I shift slightly and push the one that I have selected. As a response, I get a knife thrust into my belly.
I feel pain. Pain beyond the knife in my belly, pain beyond your ability to imagine. The pain that accompanies a Life Transfer.
I first find myself on the ground, badly wounded. I then find myself, knife in hand, standing over the body of the gabacho who insulted me and then pushed me. I still feel the enormous pain of the Life Transfer. However, I must now escape.
I yell, “La policia!”
My companions, fearing the arrival of the police force, then run in one direction, I run in the other direction, the wrong direction, if I'm to return to my car.
As I run, I feel the pain of the transfer receding. Physically, I’m Raoul Herrera, a 19-year-old Hispanic male. However, mentally, I’m mostly me.
I get to a cross street and I turn and run up the side street, for a bit. I then stop briefly under a street light and examine my new body for bloodstains. My clothes are free of bloodstains and only my knife and my hand show blood stains. I wipe the blood from my knife and my hand, on someone’s lawn and I continue up the side street at a normal walk.
I walk for a bit, hearing the sound of police sirens in the distance. I walk for several blocks, up the side street. I then turn right and walk along a residential street, until I come to the same side street that I used to enter Main Street. It’s too dangerous for me to walk back to Main Street, along the side street that I used to get to Main Street. However, no problem, I have studied maps of the area and I walk a turning path, until I find another side street that leads back to Main Street.
I have retained the knife that was used to kill the old gabacho, as I might need it for self defense, in this area. It’s a danger for me to keep the knife, but it might be more of a danger to not keep the knife.
I walk at a normal pace, along Main street. I can see the flashing lights of police cars, further along Main Street, but I only need to make it back to the cross street that I used. I’m just another Hispanic male, in a Hispanic neighborhood. If I just keep calm, I should make it. It’s easy to tell myself to keep calm, but my heart is beating at a rapid rate and it’s all I can do to keep from sprinting back to the cross street that I need. I seems like hours until I reach the cross street, but it’s maybe only a couple of minutes. I turn left on the side street and walk up to the street that leads back to where I left my car. I turn right and walk back along a residential street. It’s, by now, late and I meet no one, as I walk.
I get back to the side street where I left my car. I have hid out a key in each of three different places on the car. I retrieve the easiest one to get to, use it to open the car, slide into the driver’s seat, fire the engine up and drive back to the side street that I used to get to Main Street. I turn the other way and drive along the side street, until I come to a main traffic artery that will lead me back toward my house.
As I approach the young men who are loitering in front of a bodega, I snarl, “Young punks!”
The Hispanic male tends to have what is called ‘macho.’ The young Hispanic male doesn’t take insults. At least, he doesn’t take insults from a lone gabacho, when he’s with a group of his buddies.
I find myself surrounded by angry young Hispanic males.
One of them asks, “You look for trouble, gabacho?”
I shift slightly and push the one that I have selected. As a response, I get a knife thrust into my belly.
I feel pain. Pain beyond the knife in my belly, pain beyond your ability to imagine. The pain that accompanies a Life Transfer.
I first find myself on the ground, badly wounded. I then find myself, knife in hand, standing over the body of the gabacho who insulted me and then pushed me. I still feel the enormous pain of the Life Transfer. However, I must now escape.
I yell, “La policia!”
My companions, fearing the arrival of the police force, then run in one direction, I run in the other direction, the wrong direction, if I'm to return to my car.
As I run, I feel the pain of the transfer receding. Physically, I’m Raoul Herrera, a 19-year-old Hispanic male. However, mentally, I’m mostly me.
I get to a cross street and I turn and run up the side street, for a bit. I then stop briefly under a street light and examine my new body for bloodstains. My clothes are free of bloodstains and only my knife and my hand show blood stains. I wipe the blood from my knife and my hand, on someone’s lawn and I continue up the side street at a normal walk.
I walk for a bit, hearing the sound of police sirens in the distance. I walk for several blocks, up the side street. I then turn right and walk along a residential street, until I come to the same side street that I used to enter Main Street. It’s too dangerous for me to walk back to Main Street, along the side street that I used to get to Main Street. However, no problem, I have studied maps of the area and I walk a turning path, until I find another side street that leads back to Main Street.
I have retained the knife that was used to kill the old gabacho, as I might need it for self defense, in this area. It’s a danger for me to keep the knife, but it might be more of a danger to not keep the knife.
I walk at a normal pace, along Main street. I can see the flashing lights of police cars, further along Main Street, but I only need to make it back to the cross street that I used. I’m just another Hispanic male, in a Hispanic neighborhood. If I just keep calm, I should make it. It’s easy to tell myself to keep calm, but my heart is beating at a rapid rate and it’s all I can do to keep from sprinting back to the cross street that I need. I seems like hours until I reach the cross street, but it’s maybe only a couple of minutes. I turn left on the side street and walk up to the street that leads back to where I left my car. I turn right and walk back along a residential street. It’s, by now, late and I meet no one, as I walk.
I get back to the side street where I left my car. I have hid out a key in each of three different places on the car. I retrieve the easiest one to get to, use it to open the car, slide into the driver’s seat, fire the engine up and drive back to the side street that I used to get to Main Street. I turn the other way and drive along the side street, until I come to a main traffic artery that will lead me back toward my house.
