Bullets over Burbank Part 1

I felt my body tense up, the Young Turks were coming, back to bring death to us all. I reached more immediately for my Kalashnikov, because it had been polished and prepped earlier that week, and besides my .45 had a serious muthafuckin jamming problem. I still took the .45, just in case, kind of like how you always take a wooden pencil to a scantron test as backup, because you never trust that mechanical muthafucker quite enough. I noticed the sun sunk carefully, like a ball control offense wearing down the clock in the fourth quarter. My mind was processing relentlessly, playing out scenarios, calculating bullets, and my heart in its jealously was pulsing faster than your moms last night.

Then the gunshots, the killing, the murder, the Young Turks were sacking Burbank. I stepped on to Olive Ave., I was going to call them out like a telemarketer. I began reading a History book in the street, and they were so appalled by this action, they charged with steadfast resolve. I tried to hold the fire on the Kalashnikov until I could see the whites in their eyes, but it was kind of dark, you know, so I just shot sort-of-whenever. I mowed down a series of em, than the Kalashnikov jammed and I looked like the Libyan terrorist from Back to the Future as I struggled with the weapon. In frustration I reached for the .45, and fired off a final couple rounds. The Turks stabbed me in the the sternum, and for a moment, I was surprised how simple my death would be. The sensation of a fatal stabbing was more like a drawn out stomach ache than you might expect. I spent the next couple minutes contemplating Christian or Buddhist on the Religious roulette wheel, I didn't want to have a shaved head in heaven so I went Christian just before I blacked out.

But Fuck Dying......Ill finish this motherfucker later...