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The Way of the Gun.
By jon | May 23, 2008
Jonothon Voit chased the mutt down and threw him against an old getto wall 105 times. The uncough man had done enough evil deeds to make a minister barf. It was a Dark Night in the Land of the Hard, and this night, Jonothon Voit stirred the stew. This freaking creep was a pea or carrot.
The creep lay on his butt like Tony Parker after a Fool’s Elbow from the likes of Rambis. He prayed his precious prayer’s to Jesus and God; however; neither lendt an ear. Waiting for dearth.
Jonothon Voit took out the gun from his manifold. The creep shuttered.
“You know how a gun works?”
The creep was confused, because it was wierd to have conversation right now.
“Well let me shine some light on the Way of the Gun. See this hear? This is the handle. You just put a bullet in the handle…like this.”
A click echoed throughout the alley. The creep jumped, because he was scared because the gun made a sound. The gun that would soon snitch his life.
“Then this is what happens. The bullet sit’s in the handle. Waiting like a gumball in the Death Machine. A kid will eat it and blow bubble’s. You will eat it and Blow You Away.
“Then I do this.” Voit spun the round thing in the middle of his gun incredibly fast. “This is the primer. Get’s the juice’s flowing.
“You see, the Science of the Gun has been invented by Science. Its an evolution, like you or me. All the same in this freewheeling world. Its’ but a keg in the machine. The world is a freaking unicycle that goes nowhere because there impossible to ride.
“Lucky for me…training wheel’s.” “Jonothon Voit hit a piece on the back of the gun and it made a sound.” “Now I did that thing, and the bullet is in the chamber. Its begging to be shot. Begging fore a ride. Like a junk-yard dog. Choking on his collar by his chain. The bullet is a dog.”
This is important because the creep, Timothy, started his Evil long ago by throwing rocks at a dog. Timothy begg’d refuge from the Pain Train about to roll over him at 50 M.P.H.
“Oh. Almost forgot. The safety.” Jonothon didn’t really forget; it was Theater. Jonothon unscrewed the lid from the barrel of the gun. “Now your dead. Tell the Lord God he owe’s me a sole.”
Timothy grifted his teeth. Then: the science. Bullet. Gun. Gunpowder. Trigger. Bullet. All working together like a League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
The bullet fire’s.
Timothy checks his head. Its still there. Jonothon Voit smiled, the safety clench’d in his teeth.
“Yore life starts now. Go be a freaking doctor. Go into the Telecom field. Do whatever the freak you want, but get out of these streets, my fine feathered friend. Their going to swallow you up and crap you out. Fightclub
It was an awkwardly randome night.
Topics: By: Jon | 1 Comment »
January 5th, 2009 at 10:45 pm
Dude your shit is badass. We need to talk about getting this published. HARDCOOOORE!!!!