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himself.
    “That’s none of your concern.” With that, there was a series of oh-shits and daaammns.
    “Well, look here, muthafutha. This here—this is my corner. Yo punk ass is in my muthafuckin’ yard, and you sho’ better start showin’ some fuckin’ respect!”
    His underlings got a kick out of his show. “Tell his cracker-ass, Junior!”
    I didn’t like the odds in this situation. My adrenalin was starting to run; this had the potential to go south real damn quick. There were three distinct groups in this little parking lot. There was the rabble I was currently confronted with; there were the “kids,” and then there was a group of older men under the awning of the store at a little table. It looked like they were playing dominoes.
    “Well, friend, respect is earned, not given. And from the look of you, you’ve never earned a damn thing in your life.” It’s often said the best defense is a good offense. It was obvious where this was going, so I wanted to go ahead and start the show. Gold Dollar’s crew laughed and hooted, and he did not like it. You might say he was pissed.
    “You cracker-ass muthafucka, who in the fuck you think you talkin’ to? I own yo fuckinin’ ass. You got nowhere’s to go; you fucked!” He was so pissed that spittle was flying from his mouth. He was gesturing wildly with his arms and really working himself up. About this time, one of the old domino men started toward us. He had long arms and was bent at the waist slightly. In his youth, it was obvious he had been a big man.
    “You boys let that man be!” He had one of his long arms out, pointing at the group. Gold Dollar looked back at him.
    “Shut the fuck up, old man. I’ll fuck yo ole ass up too. I know where yo ole ass stay at. Go play some damn dominos!” The old-timer stopped, resting his hands on his hips.
    Gold Dollar turned to me. “Now, you gonna give me that fuckin’ pack and everthin’ else you gots, or I’m fixin’ to bust yo ass and take it, bitch!” He turned to his crew. “Look, he so damn skeerd he don’t know what to do.”
    Magic Man piped up, “He don’t look too skeerd to me.”
    Gold Dollar turned on him in a flash. “Oh, you a bitch now, huh T? One mothafuckin’ white boy, and you punk out!”
    When Gold Dollar turned back toward me, I brought the XD out of the bag with a quick flip of my wrist. He wasn’t ten feet from me; as soon as the muzzle cleared the bag, I squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. He immediately crumpled to the ground, letting out a terrifying wail. I quickly brought the weapon up and started looking for additional targets, doing a quick 360 degrees. The three that were in front of me were nothing but assholes and elbows heading for the back of the store. The “kids” were likewise, only they were heading for the store across the street. The old men were all right where they had been. The one that tried to intervene was standing there, shaking his head. I had a sight picture on his center of mass.
    “You don gotta worry ’bout me, son. He got what was cumin’ to ’im. These punks gots no smarts dese days, talkin’ ’bout respect. Day gots none fer no one en’ nuthin’,” he said.
    I looked down at Gold Dollar; he was still wailing a high shriek. I walked up to him quickly and knelt down. The iron smell of blood was heavy, as well as the overpowering stench of shit and piss. I pulled his hoodie up; there was a Taurus PT92 in his waistband. I pulled the weapon out and patted his pockets quickly. His right pocket had something in it; I turned it out and produced a roll of cash and four nickel bags of weed. Cash was soon to be useless, but I took two of the sacks; they may be useful latter. He was starting to go into shock. A large blood clot slipped down his belly and onto the ground. A quick look showed one of the rounds hit his pelvis on his left side, and the other hit low in his abdomen, below his belt or where his belt should be worn.