Too Far Gone (Urban)

05| Shanty Town

"I wouldn't fuck you even if I was a lone, wasted hooker," Chenelle responded with mutual repugnance. Pierce sucked his teeth.

     "Fuck you, ho!" Pierce snapped with a challenging glare.

     "Aye, dawg!" Rascal jumped in, "Don't talk to her like that! I don't even understand why the hell you can't stand each other!"

     "'Cause she almost ran me over!" Pierce complained.

     "I said sorry!" Chenelle upbraided, leaning in towards the front of the car.

     "If she took ya legs, then I'd understand why you dislike her man." Rascal said calmly. "But, she didn't. She apologized." He added, with a deadpanned expression, "Stop being fucking stubborn, and don't catch yourself callin' her a ho again."

     There was a great, tense, uncomfortable silence after this. Pierce folded his arms like a child, grousing quietly under his breath. Chenelle ignored him, but also folded her arms and kept her gaze out the window the whole time. Rascal kept his serious expression, but his face melted every time he peeked at Chenelle through the rearview mirror.

     They rode over the bridge to the rich lands (as they called it), admiring the clean, polished commercial buildings and high rise condos that caressed the murky night sky. There was late-evening traffic on the streets. Rascal didn't inform the two where they were headed, so when they pulled up in front of Friendly Fire, a licensed gun store, they were a bit surprised.

     "What we need guns for?" Chenelle questioned, slight concern beginning to grow. She never shot a gun before nor has she ever owned one. "We shooting somebody?"

     "There's a hobo uprising at Stilwater Caverns." Rascal stated, and that's all he told them before getting out the car. Pierce and Chenelle followed behind, giving each other the death stare and middle fingers.

     Friendly Fire was the most common gun store that specialized in all kinds of weapons ranging from measly pistols to highly destructive rocket-propelled grenades. And yes, they were all sold legally to anybody; seventeen-year-old teens and all. Guns adorned the walls of the store like pictures in an art museum. A glass display showcased smaller vintage weapons. The spread right in front of the cashier advertised packs of ammunition as well.

     "What would you like to kill with today?" The man behind the counter quipped. His arms were folded over his chest, showing off his inked arms.

     "Three rifles." Rascal replied. "Bullpups."

The man looked astonished.

     "Whoa! You fighting an army?" The man quipped again, a cynical grin on his roughly stubbled face. He passed each of them an onyx bullpup rifle.

     "You can say that." Rascal grinned as he inspected his new deadly toy. Chenelle examined hers curiously, an imagine of her father wielding one of these very weapons flashing in her head. The image was blurry, but she remembered it. Making sure the safety was on, she placed her finger on the trigger and pointed it at the wall to her right, mimicking her father.

     "Pop pop pop!" She said unobtrusively. Pierce observed her, shaking his head.

     "It's not a toy," Pierce remarked, only to draw a scowl from her.

     Rascal slapped a lump of cash on the counter, collecting their ammunition and motioning for the other two to exit.

     "Don't forget to clean the barrel of your gun every now and then!" the man called out.

     The group loaded back up in the car, headed in the opposite direction. It was another long and silent ride to the metropolitan district of Stilwater.