Last Blast

By Jason A. Wendleton

After a long day of watching TV and playing violent video games the Reds decided to go outside. Outside to play. The Reds were all childhood friends who now, nearly grown, spent most of their time clinging to the last fading days of youth. They weren’t really a gang, per say—they were more like a pack. And though they weren’t really very organized, they still like to think of themselves as a gang.

Johnny “Cools” Whitmore was their sometimes leader. It was his apartment where they’d spent the day holding up—waiting for the sun to go down.

“We’re like fucking vampires,” he’d once quipped. “We only go out at night.”
The other, dimmer boys would either shrug or laugh along maniacally with their leader.

“I just gotta wait for school to let out,” Mike Stuart said as he peered through a set of dirty blinds.

Mike was the only member of the Reds that was still legally forced to attend an institution of learning. Johnny had managed to barely graduate a few summers back. Randy Thompson was seventeen and no longer opted to take advantage of the city’s offer of a free education. Mike and Sal (or “The Switch” as he was sometimes called) were both sixteen. Sal, however, had gotten thrown out of school for carrying his trademark blade to school one too many times.

So, as they heavy sun dipped beneath the clouds of smog and building tops, the Reds prepared for another long night of raising hell.

* * *

Johnny looked like a model from a cigarette ad. His features were rough and lean. He wore loose fitting jeans and a navy shirt. Over the shirt he wore his prized leather jacket—it was jet colored.

“Just like the space in between stars,” that was how Johnny described the word “jet” to his fellow Reds.

He was always saying strange things like that, and that was one of the reasons why they made him their leader. But Johnny didn’t just rule them because no one could make heads or tails of what he said—Johnny was also very smart. No matter what he said, they thought it sounded real intelligent.

Johnny, the cig model, stood by the front door of his apartment and waited for the others to get ready to go. Mike Stuart was tying his fat shoelaces. Sal was wrapping a blue bandanna around his throat.

“I shudda polished my blade ‘stead of playing another stupid video game.”

Johnny snorted, “You keep polishing that thing and people are gonna think you broke a mirror ‘stead of saving up for that knife.”

Mike laughed.

“So what—so I take pride in my equipment …we can’t all look like you Cools.”

Johnny grinned, “And how’s that?”

“Like ya just stepped outta picture book, you’re so damn…effortless…”
It was true; from the second he woke up to the minute he went to bed, Johnny looked exactly the same.

“Yeah, well I figure the disheveled look won’t be in forever,” Randy cackled.

“Let’s get out of here!” Johnny roared. They Reds piled out of the apartment and into Randy’s black Toyota.

* * *

The Toyota, despite Randy’s best efforts, looked like an old lady’s car. To offset the cars naturally benign appearance, Randy had spray painted a lion onto the hood. It wasn’t very good looking though. In fact, it looked more like a mutant, rabid hamster.

“Let’s get the gerbil wagon moving,” Johnny said pounding the roof.

Randy groaned but didn’t protest. He slid the key into the ignition and turned it a few times. Like a smoker in the early morning, the Toyota coughed and wheezed. Eventually the engine turned over and the car sputtered to life.

“Nice…” Randy said, patting the steering wheel. The black Toyota death machine jerked its way down the darkening streets.

* * *

The Reds hadn’t gone very far when the familiar blue and red gumballs began flashing behind them.

“Holly shit, it’s the Brick…” Mike muttered.

“I think this is a record boys, he ain’t never hassled us this early before.”

Johnny was cool about it, but his heart was pounding in the back of his throat. It always did whenever the Brick was around. The “Brick” was in fact Police Officer Reginald T. Hammer. Officer Hammer’s beat happened to be the Red’s turf and stomping grounds. He made it his personal mission in life to fuck with them as much as humanly possible.

The candy colored strobes flashed menacingly in their back window as Mike pulled the Toyota over to the side of the road. Officer Hammer sat in his patrol car and stared at them. He let them sit and stew for a moment before getting out and approaching them.

It was one of his little tricks. He liked to give people time to sit and think about what it was they’d done wrong. The tension, he found, worked in his favor. Eventually, the anxiety would get the best of people. So much so that when he came and ended their torment—when he killed the suspense and wrote them a ticket…they were glad. He’d even had people burst into tears and thank him as he handed them their citation. Hammer was full of little head games; it broke up the monotony of police work.

Another one was to act extremely jovial, downright happy, when in fact he was seething with anger. It disarmed people. He acted this way now as he approached Randy’s diver side window.

“Well howdy boys, you little scamps out for another night on the town?”

“Yessir officer Bri…I mean Hammer sir,” Randy stammered.

“You fellas mind if I borrow Johnny for a minute?” Hammer said leaning down low so he could eye Johnny who was sitting over on the passenger side. They all looked over at Johnny. True to his nickname he stayed cool—Mr. Cool Whip.

“Be right back boys, don’t turn off the car—I shan’t be long.”

Johnny got out and followed Hammer back to his patrol car.

“You pukes carrying tonight?”

Cools shook his head, “No sir.”

Hammer put his thick hands on his hips and leaned closer, “I’m sorry—what was that?”

“No sir, my friends and I are not carrying tonight, sir.”

Hammer grinned at him.

“I thought not,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out small plastic bag. “You wanna tell me where you bought this?”

Johnny’s cool faded.

“What?”

Hammer grinned, “Yeah, you heard me…where did you buy this shit pissant.”

Something bad was about to happen.

“I’ve never seen that…”

“Shut the fuck up stupid, and listen to me,” the baggie vanished back into his pocket. “Now I’m tired of these nightly games of hide and go seek we’ve been playing…you little shits run around here like you own the damn place…”

Johnny’s eyes glazed over, this was a warning—and a threat. He’d been around long enough to see where this was going.

“…so if I catch you or that retard Sal cutting up another fellow hood…or if Mikey don’t start making it to class—I’m gonna make sure, damn sure, that you all go away for a very long time, understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

Hammer nodded, but knew that nothing had changed between them. The boy and the man were still separated by some measureless gulf. A chasm which neither could cross.

“I’m gonna be hauling your ass in, probably someday real soon…”

Johnny’s cool returned and he nodded slyly.

“What you gotta ask yourself, Mr. Whitmore, is whether or not you want to be responsible for dragging those other poor bastards down with you…”

Hammer’s belt radio erupted and before Johnny knew it—he was back in his patrol car, racing off to some unnamed emergency. The candy colored police lights vanished around a corner.

“Hey Johnny! Way to go man!”

“Yeah you’re the king!”

Walking back to the car, Johnny felt a flush of foreboding.

* * *

They’d driven in silence for a few minutes before Randy asked what the Brick had wanted.

“To warn me, to warn us…”

They all waited in anticipation for Johnny to elaborate.

“Warn us about what Cools?” Sal said from the backseat.

“The Brick is sick of us. He’s getting tired of playing shadow games…the vandalism, the fights, the boozing runs through the park…”

“You mean he wants us to stop having fun and go straight,” Mike grinned.

“Yeah, maybe grow up and become fat little piggies…little fucking Hammer juniors,” Sal crackled.

Johnny rubbed his temples, “He threatened to plant smack on us next time any of us get busted.”

Silence dominated the car.

“Wow, he’s not pulling any punches…”

“No, no he’s not…” Johnny could see that they all wished that he hadn’t told them now. They could tell it was going to ruin their evening.

“Ain’t no way the Brick is going to do that…I mean…it’s against the rules…”
Johnny snorted, “So is cutting up a Mexican behind Vito’s, but ya did that last weekend Sal.”

“Shit.”

Mike shrugged, “Did he mention me skipping school.”

“Yeah, it came up.”

“Well I guess I better start going again.”

They drove in silence. Soon they were at the diner where Johnny’s gal pal, Pammy, worked.

“So who’s hungry?” Randy said, pulling into a parking spot.

* * *

They sat sipping milk shakes and eating greasy fries. All four boys were crammed into one dingy green and white booth. Pammy provided them with discounted food and drinks in exchange for some fun and excitement after work. Tonight, however, judging from their demeanor she could tell there wouldn’t be much fun and games.

“Hey yo’ what’s eatin’ you clowns?” she asked wiping her hands on the front of her checkered apron. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost or two.”

“Leave us be Pam,” Johnny waved her away.

“You guys ain’t high are ya?” Mr. Frenneit, the owner would freak out if she served any of her stoner friends while they were high.

“I said scram!”

“Alright, alright…sheesh…”

After she was gone, they quietly began discussing their options.

“I say,” Sal began. “That we go and cut Mr. Oinky’s throat right open!”

“That damn knife’s your solution to everything!” Randy groaned.

“Yeah, funny…I never really thought about it like that before…but you’re right it is!”

Mike wore a sober expression on his face, “It’s over…all of it. The drinkin’ and the carryin’ on…the Reds are though, kaput!”

“I’ll kaput you!” Sal said tussling the other boy’s hair.

“I wouldn’t go that far Mikey…”

“What do you think Johnny?”
The three of them all looked over at Johnny. The older boy sat there in the booth, thoughtfully sipping a cherry flavored malt.

“The Brick is serious boys, so we have to be serious too.”

They nodded like children listening to a teacher.

“I think that the Red’s and their gang days are numbered,” Johnny said solemnly.

“The Brick has us beaten in many ways…”

“Like hell he does!” Sal slammed his fist onto the table top.

“Oh calm down ya psychopath!”

Johnny held up his palm, “Listen!”

They all squabbled a little longer, then quieted down.

“Now ain’t nothing last forever, this day had to come sooner or later. Today it came sooner.”

Randy shook his head, “So that’s it? We just pack it on in—game over?”

“No,” Johnny said. “Not just yet. First we gotta have a ‘last blast.’”

“Last blast?”

They all mulled this over to themselves.

“Alright, I give,” Mike said. “What’s a ‘last blast’?”

Johnny smiled, “One night, one last eight hour party. We do everything we normally do—but we do it longer and harder. At the end of the night, we tie up any loose ends and then call it quits for good.”

“So we get to go wild…”

“Yeah, really tear up the joint…paint the town red…” Sal said.

“That’s it,” Johnny nodded. “Do it all up real good…then call it quits.”
Sal’s smile dropped off, “Why? For fucksake, why do we have to stop? Why Cools?”

“Because, as long as we’re careful, the Brick won’t catch us on our last blast…but if we keep going, like nothings changed—eventually he’ll catch us. Or change his mind and just nab us and frame us without even catching us in the act.”

Randy nodded, “So instead, we go out still on top.”

“Yeah,” Mike beamed. “I like it—we get the last laugh. The Brick’ll never beat us…we’ll be legends.”

“After our last blast we will be, that’s for damn sure,” Sal said warming up to the idea.

Johnny stopped them, “Only we can’t just go ape shit-bananas tonight…the Brick’ll expect that.” He looked around, conspiracy on his face. “No, we gotta fake ‘em out.”

“How we do that?” Randy asked.

“Simple. All this next week we act like nice, good little boys. We dot all our ‘i’s and cross all our ‘t’s.”

“I go to school…”

“Yeah Mike, you go to school…I’ll go to work everyday at the packing plant. Randy you lay low at your Mom’s house…Sal…you go and do whatever it is that you do…”

“No cutting stuff, right?”

“Right.”

“Damn, this thing sure don’t sound like a very fun way to go out.”

“It will be,” Johnny continued. “Because once the weekend hits, BAM!” He slapped his fist.

“Last Blast!” They all whispered.

“Exactly.”

“So we behave ourselves for one week, and then go crazy…”

“…and become legends,” Mike interrupted Sal.

“Become legendary and then just ride off into the sunset?”

Johnny nodded.

“Damn, that makes me sad.”

“Yeah, but it beats jail.”

No one, not even Sal, could argue with that.

* * *

The first three days of the week passed without incident. Little Mikey Stuart went back to Taylor High. His days were filled with geometry lessons and history quizzes. At night, he amazed his parents by attempting to do his homework (though he never actually finished it).

During the day Johnny worked at the meat packing plant. His days spent carving beef carcasses and his nights scrubbing off the blood. No one, it seemed, noticed his unusual (and perfect) attendance. Every now and then he stopped by Mr. Frenneti’s diner and chatted with Pammy before heading home.

Officer Hammer patrolled the neighborhood near Johnny’s apartment, but seeing no sign of the Red gang soon relaxed his vigilance. Randy Thompson spent his time fishing quarters out of the fountains at the Hillside Valley Mall. He spent his ill gotten booty on comic books and smokes.

Sal “the Switch” sat in an empty lot and spit polished his knife. On Thursday he got bored and went to see Johnny. First he checked out Frenneit’s diner, but Pammy quickly shooed him out when she saw that Johnny wasn’t with him. Sal worried her, he was dangerous and unpredictable. Like the lion Randy had envisioned for his Toyota’s hood. Pam knew that without his leader, there was no telling what he’d do.

Sal put his hands in his jean pockets and casually walked the four blocks to Johnny’s apartment. Every so often, Sal looked over his shoulder—expecting to see Officer Hammer and his rusty police cruiser. Instead, all he saw were stray cats and random traffic.

“Damn,” he said to himself. “Maybe this whole laying low thing is working.”

Once he reached Johnny’s apartment, he climbed the concrete stairs—a smile fixed to his normally leering face.

“Hey Cools,” he said knocking on the front door. “Open up, it’s me, Sally.”

Johnny opened the door—he was still in his blood soaked uniform.

“Holly crap! I thought we were laying low this week!” Sal said, hurrying inside.

“We are,” Johnny said.

“You call that laying low?”

The older boy looked down at his crimson smeared polo and khaki colored work pants.

“Shoot Sal, you’ve seen me after work before…”

Sal rolled his eyes, “Oh yeah, that’s right…the plant. Sorry Johnny, I forgot all about that.”

“It’s alright whattaya think, I went out and raised some hell without you?” he winked.

“Maybe.”

Johnny walked over to the brown couch where he collapsed.

“I tell ya Sal, this living and working…this everyday bullshit, it’s tiring.”

Sal sat down on the floor, “Yeah, let me tell you...”

Johnny starred at him through a fog of fatigue.

“Okay,” he said. “Tell me about it…what have you been up to?”

Sal grunted, “Just, you know…making myself scarce. Not getting into anything.”

“Polishing that sharp hand mirror of yours?”

“Yeah,” Sal chuckled. “You got me!”

They sat in an awkward silence; finally Sal turned and looked at his leader.

“Is this really how the Reds are going out? Like a bunch of sissy girlies…crying about dish pan hands and housecleaning?”

Johnny looked at him tiredly, “What are you squawking about?”

“I guess I figured we either go out in a blaze of glory or we’d just…”

“Live forever?” Johnny finished for him.

“Yeah, I can’t believe that we’re just going to roll over and let the Brick kill our buzz…”

Johnny held up his hand, “Now wait a sec Sal, first off you said you figured we’d ‘go out in a blaze of glory’ now what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Well I guess that I thought…”

With cold, unblinking eyes, Johnny Whitmore leaned forward and stared at his friend.

“You mean to say ‘get killed or go to prison’ cause that’s where we’re headed Sally boy.”

“So?!”

“What do you mean, ‘so’? Wake up will ya? Not all of us want an early funeral or a ticket to the big house.”

They sat there, neither one daring to break the silence. Finally, Sal got up and made his way over to the front door. He opened it and started to leave. Stopping he turned and looked over his shoulder at Johnny. Seeing him sitting there, tired and covered with blood, he realized that he wasn’t the same Johnny “Cools” he’d grown up with. The leader of the Reds was a defeated man.

“Without this gang, without those wild nights…I’ve got nothing. I am nothing.”

He turned and walked out the door.

* * *

Even though Johnny knew a week wasn’t really long enough to convince anyone that the Reds had turned over a new leaf—he prepared for Saturday night’s last blast.

Sitting alone in his room on Friday night he took stock of the last blast inventory: one baseball bat, two packages of band-aids, a sock full of quarters, and a shiny metal flask. These were the tools of teenage destruction. The quarters represented the meager beer fund. Since his wages were small (and none of the other Reds really worked) most of the money the boys spent came from their periodic vending machine raids.

Johnny smiled whenever he thought about them. He could still see Randy and Sal rocking the Pepsi machines near the 59th street arcade. Eventually falling forward, soda and slimy black oil gushed from them onto the pavement. Anyone unlucky enough to be walking by would be asked to make a “donation” by Sal and his switchblade. Sal also had an affinity for smashed parking meters. He’d wail on them outside of the trendy nightclubs downtown. For fun he tried to time his blows with the music seeping through their neon facades. The parking meter money was used to buy gas for Randy’s black Toyota death machine.

All of that fun was about to come to an end. And Johnny was glad really. He’d seen people get hauled off by the cops. Hell, one of his best friends from middle school was packed away in juvenile hall. Even if the Brick, Officer Do-Gooder, hadn’t stepped up the heat—Johnny would have wanted the nightly adventures of the Red gang to end anyway.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he once confessed to Mike. They were sitting in Randy’s Toyota alone. Sal was buying a pack of smokes at a convenience store, and Randy was off taking a leak.

“What? The gang?” Mike had asked.

“Yeah, all this junk…”

“Why man? You not have fun anymore?”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“No, but that’s just it…all I ever do is have fun Mike.”

“So what’s the probe?”

“People aren’t supposed to run around and only have fun Mike.” Johnny could see that his younger friend didn’t understand. “There’s got to be more than just getting wasted and breaking stuff.”

“Like what?”

“God, I don’t know…love? Family, maybe even school…”

It was then Johnny knew that none of the others would be able to understand. Johnny felt like growing up, and moving on with his life. That was something none of the others were ready to do. Maybe they would never be ready.

“I don’t know, school sucks Cools. I fuckin’ can’t stand it. They’re always like ‘sit down and shut up’ and ‘take notes…pay attention.’”

They both laughed. Johnny let it go, but deep down he knew that it was the beginning of the end. Articulating his growing desire for change was the first step in ending his life as leader of the Reds.

* * *

Sal was the first one to show up on Saturday. He wore jeans and a plain white t-shirt along with his trademark blue bandana.

“The white shirts so the blood will show up better,” he told Johnny as he sat down on the dirty sofa.

A few minutes later they both heard the stuttering purr of Randy’s Toyota. He and Mike arrived together.

“Gangs all here chief,” Sal said. “Ready to start this thing up?”

“Sun down yet?”

“Soon.”

Johnny nodded, putting on his black leather jacket. He looked at the three boys standing by his front door, itching to go out. Go out and have some fun. Johnny could tell that for them, it was like any other night.

“We gotta make this one last…we gotta make it…”

“Memorable,” Sal finished for him.

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “Cause this is it people. I’m done after tonight, and if you’re smart—you’ll be done too.”

Mike looked like he was about to start crying, “We still gonna be friends though, ain’t we?”

“Course we still gonna be friends, hell whattda think he’s made of stone?” Randy laughed.

Johnny nodded, “Yeah Mike, we’re still going to be friends. But no more Reds after tonight.”

No more Reds.

No more tussling matches with the Braylock Boys. No more beer blasts by the rail road tracks. No more beating up the soda machines and parking meters. No more close calls with the police. Johnny told them all this. Then he told them that he was thinking about trying to go to college or at least try and get a better job. Somewhere. Somewhere far away.

“You’re leaving us, ain’t you?” Randy asked.

“Yeah Randy, I am.”
Sal frowned a little then laughed, “I thought we were gonna have fun tonight? I’ve been bored all week, let’s get outta here.”

So they all shuffled outside where Randy’s lion-gerbil half roared—half whimpered on the black hood of the Toyota.

As they were getting into the car, Johnny noticed a bulge in Sal’s right jean pocket. Before he could ask him what it was, Mike popped a cassette tape into the dashboard player. Soon the backseat was awash in AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Johnny forgot about Sal and starting banging his head.

The last blast had begun.

* * *

The very first thing they did was head to Mrs. Yeager’s Market. There Johnny used the last of the Pepsi machine money to buy beer from Trisha. Trisha was a community college dropout who worked the night shift for Mrs. Yeager. She had a nose ring and a ‘I-don’t-give-a-fuck’ attitude. She happily sold the boys two six packs of cheap beer. Sal bought a pack of menthol Kools “in honor of our leader Mr. Cool Whip himself.”

They all laughed.

Once they had all piled back into the Toyota death machine, Randy sped off to Mr. Frenneti’s diner. The parking lot was mostly empty, so they pulled around back so no one could easily see them.

“Alright, let’s get this party started,” Mike said passing around the beer.

Johnny, who was the best at math, told them they each got three beers apiece.

“So make ‘em last,” he glared at over at Sal.

“What? I can’t help it I drink fast!”

“Well slow down,” Randy said, doing his best imitation of the Brick.

They all had another good laugh.

“So what else you bring, chief?” Mike asked.
Johnny reached into his faded back pack and pulled out the band-aids and they all fell into another laughing frenzy.

“Never did have any when we needed ‘em,” Randy said.

“Yeah, like the time you put your fist through your old man’s back window,” Sal laughed. Randy held up his mangled left paw, it was covered with dozens of scars.

“Damn thing bled all night, next morning too.”

“You were so drunk Randy,” Mike beamed.

“Yeah, that was some crazy shit…” Randy trailed off. He hated being reminded of that night, because that was the night he and his dad had gotten into a huge fight. Randy claimed that it was over nothing, but the hole in the back window said otherwise.

Johnny reached into his faded back pack and pulled out the bat and flask.

“Hey! I thought tonight there was a three beer maximum,” Sal joked, he was already working on his second.

“Well I also happened to have a little whiskey we can nip on latter…I also brought Bessie.”

Bessie was the bat’s name. It was about half the length of a normal bat—Randy had won it years ago at a carnival.

“Bessie! That old window breaker!” Mike cheered. They had named it after the cow that had started the legendary Chicago fire all those generations ago.

“How many beamers has this thing trashed?” Sal asked, examining the short bat.

“Too many busted out windshields man…to many to count.”

Johnny frowned a little, “I thought we could like…bury it or something. You know, to put it to rest.”

They all stared at Johnny, their leader. The look on his face was sober (despite the beer). He meant what he’d said—they all realized right then that this really was going to be their last night of mischief.

“No,” Sal declared. “I say we burn it…just like the Vikings.”

Vikings were one of Sal’s favorite subjects.

Johnny wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, but Sal had already made up his mind.

He’s taking my place as their leader, Johnny thought. This is my last night, not theirs.

Sal told Randy to drive them over to Taylor High School. They would burn Bessie on the football field, in front of the bleachers.

* * *

They found a trashcan and started a fire on the forty-yard line. Mike and Randy were chasing each other on the bleachers while Johnny and Sal watched over the flames.

“You’ve been arrested before, right Sal?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah, I did about a month in juvee…I ain’t ever going back.”

Johnny nodded, “Those two look up to us Sally.”

The other boy nodded. He held the half-bat in his hands—he looked at it reluctantly.

“I don’t want to see them get busted.”

“Me neither Johnny, but damn it! Why do we…”

“We’ve gone over this before—because if we don’t we’re going to end up dead or in prison…maybe both.”

“That,” Sal said knowingly. “Is where you are wrong Cools…dead wrong…”

Mike and Randy ran over to where they were sitting by the fire.

“Hey Johnny!” Mike yelled. “We gonna toast that thing or what?”

Sal tossed the bat over to Johnny and stomped over to the bleachers. Johnny thought he looked twice as old in the moonlight. Mike and Randy did too.

“Let’s toast this weenie!”

They each took turns holding it one last time, then Johnny dropped it into the fire. The plumes of smoke rose higher and became blacker. It felt like the end of all things. Of course, that was silly. Johnny knew that everything would be the same tomorrow. Everything but him.

Those guys—Sal, Randy, and Mike…they weren’t ready to grow up, to move on. But he was. It was time to leave childhood behind.

He was going to put in two weeks notice tomorrow at the packing plant. Maybe start looking at colleges. Who knows, maybe he could get a scholarship?

“So long Bessie!”

“Goodbye Reds!”

There was a loud screeching sound, followed by two blazing white lights. At the far end of the football field a police cruiser was pulling into the parking lot.

“Shit!” Mike yelled. “It’s the cops!”

“Get the beer! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Johnny grabbed his back pack and started to run. They’d parked Randy’s black death machine about a block away from the school—just in case.

“Where is Sal?” Johnny asked as they were about to leave.

“Dunno, wasn’t he over by the bleachers?” Mike gasped, his voice was quivering like always when it looked like they were going to get caught.

“Sal!”

“Sally!”

It was no use, he didn’t respond.

Johnny was the first to spot him. Sal “the Switch” was making a bee line towards the parking lot. Straight for the police.

“Shit! Sal’s lost his marbles!”

Randy laughed, “Poor guy must’ve been drunker than I thought.”

“No,” Johnny said.

Sal wasn’t nearly drunk enough to do something that stupid. There was something else, something terrible propelling him towards the cops. Johnny took off without even thinking towards his friend.

Randy and Mike reluctantly followed. It wasn’t that they wanted to, it was just that they were followers and could do nothing else. Not like Sal and Johnny—they didn’t follow, they led. And right now, they were both leading them into trouble.

“Halt! Stop moving and get onto the ground! Now!” The police officer said into a megaphone. They didn’t listen, they all just kept running.

“Sal!” Johnny said winded. “What are you doing? Stop!”
He tackled his friend from behind, pulling them both down just before the end zone closest to the parking lot.

“Get off of me Cools,” Sal growled, pushing his friend aside.

“What are you, crazy?”

“No, just sick or running from the cops!” Sal said foaming at the mouth. “Besides, once I kill the Brick we can all stay together.”

Johnny couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He also couldn’t believe what he was seeing—from his jeans pocket Sal had produced a handgun.

“Sal! Stop! That’s not the Brick! And even if it was…killing him wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Yeah it would—there’d be one less cop for one thing…”
Randy and Mike caught up with them at the edge of the field.

“Holly shit…is that a gun Sal?”

“I thought you like blades…didn’t you say you hated guns Sal?” Mike asked on the verge of tears.

“Yeah well, things change,” he glared at Johnny.

“Come on, put the gun down Sal. Let’s all go home…”

“I don’t fucking have a home!” Sal screamed. “This is my home…out here…”
The policeman was nearly upon them. He was yelling at the top of his lungs, yet none of the boys could hear him.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” the office boomed.

Sal staggered to his feet and began to raise the gun. Johnny leapt onto him and wrestled the gun free from him.

“Why is it so easy for you to just walk away…” Sal cried from the ground.
Johnny stood up and turned, the gun still in his hand.

There were three shots.

Then Johnny “Cools” Whitmore collapsed onto the dewy grass. A pool of blood began to collect beside him—it glistened in the moonlight. Mike and Randy stood horrified on the football field.

Their last blast was over.