In order to live one must try the limits of physical and mental being. Stopping every now and then to see just how far the bubble has been pushed
The wind was crackling between the buildings giving the sound of a freight train leaving the station down town. Sun was setting over the dead end street leaving shadows of kids playing tag. This side of town the firehidrent worked as the wading pool. The kids here seemed to appreciate it more than those playing in the swimming pool up town. There was just something more urgent about them. The feel was that of having fun before they grew up tonight or tomorrow.
The laughter here was genuine, the bickering like training for war. The smell of suppers filled the air. It was a good smell, I felt warm and welcome here, and it was like home.
I melted into the buildings; the sidewalk led me to porches full of people taking in the air before the evening meal. I felt good.
It sounded like a car backfiring, and then, screaming, I turned in my tracks, car speeding at me, two kids lying on the ground bleeding, I pulled my service revolver and placed four rounds into the car.
A tree received the results of my work, stopping the vehicle. People pealing off porches, running to the kids on the sidewalk; still others to the kids in the car.
Sergeant says "desk duty; file your report."
I think, I am going to like my new job, driving truck; too bad I have to wait two weeks before I start.
In June, 2000, two college students — Amy Shute and Jason Burgeson — were approached by a group of men. Forced into the backseat and driven to a remote location, they were murdered in cold blood.
Following this brutal double homicide, Johnston, RI D
