Mon- 2 / 9 / 2015
*
Desperado
*
Last time I took
the shortcut past Johnny P’s house, he shot me in the head.
Lucky for me, his
weapon that day was a B-B gun not the .38 Special he took to carrying in later
years.
Still, it hurt
like hell and, being a head wound, it bled like crazy. The projectile hit me in
the hard bone behind my ear, traveled under the skin, came out near my temple, left
the side of my face a bloody mess.
Johnny didn’t
favor the much coveted Daisy Red Ryder Carbine. No, his weapon of choice was
the super powerful, window shattering, rat (sometimes cat) slaughtering, Daisy
pump. It was his latest tool of terror against the kids (Johnny was about 15, I
was 9) of our neighborhood. Johnny couldn’t catch me on foot, and I’d once
tried to keep him from smacking the shit out of me by whipping on him with a
car antenna (impromptu weapon of choice for the era and area).
Sunday mornings a
hung-over Johnny would take his pump gun and a quart of Rheingold beer, up on
his roof, and wait for targets. Why would I deny myself the opportunity to
taunt / outsmart my favorite asshole? Well, that day I was the asshole and I
got outsmarted.
If he’d lived long enough Johnny probably
would have upgraded his .38 to a .357 mag. But, his psychotic zest for living
on the edge took him to an early terminus on the Bronx-Whitestone
Bridge . Johnny went down in a blaze
of gory glory, blown away by a small army of both Queens
and Bronx cops. Far as I know, none of those cops were
armed with B-B guns.
Some of the other
neighborhood kids (toadies / sycophants) held Johnny P. in awe, saw his passing
as a great tragedy. Not me. I wouldn’t kiss his ass when he was alive, nor
would I mourn his passing. When I heard the news? I laughed my ass off.
Writing this, I’m
still laughing.
Hey, Johnny! See
you in hell, mutt.
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