One-EightyMature

Cameron rounded on him angrily. “Shut up!” He looked back at me. “Yeah, we got enough.”

“I don't have all night to just sit here. Either get in or I leave you here.”

“I said shut the fuck up!” Cameron pulled his hand out from under his coat, and as I caught sight of a flash of silver, all the sounds melded together into a distant, wordless buzz. Cameron was still yelling at the cabbie, I guess, as his mouth was furiously opening and closing. I looked back at his hands, utterly confused. No way. 

Cameron had a gun pointed at the cabbie's face. A pistol, actually. The cab driver's features went from annoyed to confused to terrified. I just stood there, stock-still, as questions blew through my mind. Where in the hell did Cam get a gun? I've never seen any guns at his house. Maybe one of his uncles? My uncle goes hunting, he's got guns; but those are shotguns, though, not –

BANG. As the cab driver's head pitched back violently, a little spurt of red flew from his forehead, just like water from a water fountain.

BANG BANG. Cracks, like spindly spider legs, scattered off from the hole in the windshield made by the first bullet, and the second ripped through the man's throat. The blood gushing from the jagged canyon of flesh looks just like cherry Slurpee. I felt oddly compelled to shove my cup underneath his neck. If you got Slurpee on the floor at the 7-11, the guy yelled at you and made you pay. I didn't want to pay.

Something pulled persistently on my sleeve, and the buzzing slowly turned back into audible words. “...get out of here, Jerr.”

And we ran. Somehow we ran the whole way home.

***

The End

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