Fiction
Splinterby Allan Durand
I am abso-f*****g-lutely a dead man. Dead, dead, dead. These goddam cowboys have totally killed me, Splinter said to himself.
He had just walked out of the Port o’Call on Esplanade with a cheeseburger and baked potato to go, and there they were, the goddamn cowboys, leaning on their pickup truck, parked illegally on the neutral ground of the boulevard, and smiling at him.
His thirty-three-year-old life would’ve been considered charmed, even if he had been white, but now it was over.
Technically he was still alive, but if any of the 3NGs drove by and saw him, or the Melphs, or, s**t, any of a half dozen gangs, then it would be reported that he was seen visiting with the cowboys, which in the ’hood is potentially the exact same as snitching. So, to make a
