Frank
Ugh.
As if that sound were created for the sole purpose of describing his third-shift job at the plant. Frank strode home in the early light, tired feet giving their last strength to carry him to sanctuary. Heh. Sanctuary. Sure, the rent was cheap, but what did he expect? To not be living in a second-rate crack den? No, it was home to the peons, social burnouts, and the ones who'd totally given up. It was home.
A sudden thundercrack of gunfire snapped Frank from his thoughts.
Ugh.
Shots weren't an unusual sound in this part of the city, but this sounded close to his home. He hoped Johnny was ok. Not that he particularly liked Johnny, but he was just about the only one who would tolerate someone like Frank. Someone who doesn't buy drugs is someone you can't make money off of. Frank quickened his pace.
More gunshots, followed by indistinct yelling. It was probably that other gang, the hoodlums in purple. They'd been making life hell for Johnny and his cohorts, and by extension, Frank, for months now. And it seems now they weren't playing anymore.
Ugh.
Frank grabs a pipe from a nearby scrap pile and now runs towards the sounds.
"What am I doing?" Frank thought aloud. "Risking my life for someone who might not even remember my name?"
Wasn't long before he could hear sirens in the distance. Local law making their way towards the inevitable slaughter. And Frank was going to get caught right in the crossfire. But what else could he do? Run away? No. Frank had more integrity than that. Or maybe stupidity. Who knows. All Frank knows is that he was tired of the repetition. Tired of going to work at the same time and putting the same part together over and over again every night. It may be suicide, but it was also a chance at change.
Ugh.
So, best case scenario, he'll be tied up with police all day instead of going to bed and worst case... Well, you know. Frank sidles up to the corner of the building and peers around to get a grasp of the situation.
"Aw, shit"
There were about five of them, armed with small automatic weapons, trained on Johnny's place, firing sporadically.
"Well, I guess Johnny's alive and well" Frank scoffs as one of the hoodlum's neck explodes in a red mist. The rest dove for cover, and Frank knew he wasn't going to get a better shot. Hellhole it may be, this is his home. His sanctuary. And like hell he'd lose it to some jealous punks.
Frank bolted from cover to the nearest hoodlum, raising his pipe above his head, and swinging it with all the force he could muster. Well, I guess it can't get any worse, right?
Ugh.
