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I've had this little voice in the back of my head telling me to write this out, and I know you all get tired of me writing shitty stories, and never finishing them... but I suppose that's how i'm going to write untill I find a good story worth sticking too... so for now i'm going to just vent so to speak...















chapter one: Johnny Wild.


Dumb-s**t doesn't know when to stop I couldn't help but laugh. "Might as well just quit right now." I said calmly with a trace of amusement still in my voice. He threw a quick left jab, then a kick to my legs. So SLOW! The punch felt as though the air around it was saturated with molasses. I felt a little sorry for him so I decided to end it early. I grabbed his leg in a vice and fell to the ground against the bend of his knee. Sweet music. His screams of pain were my personal symphony. I loved it. The blood. The dirt. The pain. The fight. I got up and stared down at him writhing like a stupid worm trying to get on it's non-existent feet. Finally I pulled out a phone and dialed "911" I told the little cream-puff girl on the other side the there was a man badly beaten where I was at, then hung up. I shoved the phone back in my pocket and wiped the dirt of my black leather jacket.
Punk got blood on my blue jeans. I kicked the gun this little 'tard pulled out on me to the trash-cans on the side of the ally. "You're lucky actually... I don't do guns... If that were the case you'd be dead about 4 minutes ago." I walked towards him, and soon enough I was standing over his face still contorted in strange ways trying to put the pain at bay. I picked him up by the neck of his shirt, and brought him to eye level. "My name is Johnny Wild, and boy, I live up to my name." I laughed again and with that I gave him a good punch to remember—haha or maybe he won't remember a damn thing!—to his chops and he went limp and unconscious. his broken leg dangling uselessly below. I dropped him and took the wallet from his back pocket. Thanks so much for your contribution good sir. I took the money and threw the wallet back down on top of his body; the money simply went in my pocket. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it feeling it's warm smoke flood my lungs. Exhaling I laughed a little again. Another drag and I was walking off into the street again, looking for a place to call home for the night. Still can't believe that idiot pulled a gun on me! Whatever happened to a good old knife? I suppose a fair fist fight might have been too much to hope for uh?