Douglas Lee
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 1, 1970
- Posts
- 754
There was a hard set to the jaw of the young Hispanic man as he sat on the hood of his beat-up old car. He was watching a few kids, one of them his younger brother, playing basketball across the road at one of the few parks in the gang-laden city. But that wasn't what made him contemplative.
His brother ran up, breathing in short huffs, sweating so much he looked like he had been taking a sauna in a heavy-duty frying pan.
He was about to begin saying something when the Chevrolet Monte Carlo turned the corner, the enemy gang members inside, obviously the predominantly African-American enemies of the Hispanic gang and obviously armed, began spraying bullets.
Knocking his brother to the ground protectively, the young Hispanic man reached into his old car and pulled out a twelve-gauge Mossberg shotgun, pumping it and firing off two shots, more to draw attention to him and not his brother than to hit any of the blacks.
The car screeched to a stop, one of its tires blown out, and the driver climbed from the door, firing a .357 Magnum towards the Hispanic, using his car for cover as his five comrades did the same, armed with either Uzis or shotguns as well.
The Hispanic man dragged his wounded brother (he had been hit twice in the front) behind the old car. He was pissed off now. He could hear the sirens blaring in the distance but knew the cops wouldn't do anything. They were all dirty. He'd have to bust a cap in these Negros himself.
He fired the shotgun over the car without aiming and one of the African-Americans fell, the man shot twice in the chest and once in the leg. Another fell, shot in the wrist by the same blast.
The others ran like hell, chased by the other Hispanic gang members. The ambulance came and got the Hispanic man, whose name was simply Rodriguez, and took him to the hospital. Everything was tooken care of, written up nice and no one got arrested or blamed.
A normal day in the hood.
Rodriguez walked down the street after the gunfight, looking boredly through the alleyways and he saw a hot young Latina girl sitting behind a dumpster, surreptiously fingering herself.
He raised his eyebrows and that wasn't all that raised.
"Woah," he whispered, walking forward.
His brother ran up, breathing in short huffs, sweating so much he looked like he had been taking a sauna in a heavy-duty frying pan.
He was about to begin saying something when the Chevrolet Monte Carlo turned the corner, the enemy gang members inside, obviously the predominantly African-American enemies of the Hispanic gang and obviously armed, began spraying bullets.
Knocking his brother to the ground protectively, the young Hispanic man reached into his old car and pulled out a twelve-gauge Mossberg shotgun, pumping it and firing off two shots, more to draw attention to him and not his brother than to hit any of the blacks.
The car screeched to a stop, one of its tires blown out, and the driver climbed from the door, firing a .357 Magnum towards the Hispanic, using his car for cover as his five comrades did the same, armed with either Uzis or shotguns as well.
The Hispanic man dragged his wounded brother (he had been hit twice in the front) behind the old car. He was pissed off now. He could hear the sirens blaring in the distance but knew the cops wouldn't do anything. They were all dirty. He'd have to bust a cap in these Negros himself.
He fired the shotgun over the car without aiming and one of the African-Americans fell, the man shot twice in the chest and once in the leg. Another fell, shot in the wrist by the same blast.
The others ran like hell, chased by the other Hispanic gang members. The ambulance came and got the Hispanic man, whose name was simply Rodriguez, and took him to the hospital. Everything was tooken care of, written up nice and no one got arrested or blamed.
A normal day in the hood.
Rodriguez walked down the street after the gunfight, looking boredly through the alleyways and he saw a hot young Latina girl sitting behind a dumpster, surreptiously fingering herself.
He raised his eyebrows and that wasn't all that raised.
"Woah," he whispered, walking forward.
