The damp, foggy streets of San Diego were devoid of daytime life. The salty moisture chilled the body, transmuting flesh a clammy texture. An urban palaver pervaded the city, filling the air with a monotonous drone- a maddening, background noise a part of the city’s nightly ritual.

"Detective Howenzer…"

"Yea. You’re the coroner, Simms, right? Whudda we got… looks gang-related."

"A Hispanic male approximately 16 years old with a gunshot wound inflicted to the head at close range."

In a grimy alley, the hypnotic, flashing lights of several patrol cars and an ambulance lit up the dark, filthy pavement. A cop blocked off the area with yellow crime scene tape, as others in ominous, dark blue uniforms snapped pictures and filled out clipboards thick with paperwork.

"Bag em and tag em."

"You got it."

Lying sprawled in a mound of bloated garbage bags was a lifeless kid. Blood smeared the stinking trash, pooling around the stiff body. The coroner rolled the kid into a body bag, as the detective consumed the other half of an apple fritter while sipping from a styrofoam coffee cup, jamming another cigarette between his lips. He patted his pockets for a lighter; the coroner flicked on a zippo.

"Thanks… you’re a lifesaver. Boy, what a mess."

The detective hissed a long, dismissive sigh, shaking his head. The morose look imprinted across his hardened face told of his loss of faith in his job, his years of working homicide desensitizing him to the horrors he came to expect daily on the streets.

"First gang-related murder we’ve had this week," smirked the coroner. He poked a finger through the gaping hole in the back of the boy’s head, zipping up the body bag. Much of what was contained inside the concavity had spilled out onto the trash-ridden pavement. "One less punk on the streets if you ask me. No wonder he’s dead… the kid had no brains!"

* * * *

"Hurry the fuck up, essey!"

It was 2AM as MISTER jammed the screwdriver into the ignition of the glossy black Honda Accord hatchback, the thin line of black peach fuzz along his swarthy, upper lip twitching anxiously. The car peeled out with a piercing squeal, drowning out the distant clamor of the city.

"Took ya long enuf, puto! Put on Cypress Hill, homes… Illusions," PUSHO ridiculed in a barrio accent, running his brown fingers through his greasy, ink black hair. "Yo, VERSE… ya got the ends ta hook up that sack, right?"

Seated in the back lurked an older white kid fidgeting with a can of red Krylon spraypaint. A black baseball cap fit snugly to his head, covering his dark brown, short-cropped hair, the word VERSE stitched in gold across the front.

"Yea. So!"

"How much does that puto, Billy, want this time?!" snidely remarked PUSHO over his shoulder.

"What the fuck makes you think I know! Just ‘cause he’s my connect don’t mean I know his prices all the time! ‘Sides, it depends on the quality a the shit he’s slingin’."

"I’m tired a that faggot dissin’ our crew every time we go to em for a sack…he’s always talkin’ mad shit! If I had me a gat, I’d do em in!"

PUSHO made a gun with his extended index and middle fingers, his thumb the trigger. Booshouw! He spun around, pressing the pretend pistol hard against VERSE’s brow.

"Then get a pinched sack from your pussy dealer in East Diego if ya don’t like my hook-up!"

VERSE smacked PUSHO’s hand away. MISTER and PUSHO turned to each other inamusement.

"You’re the fuckin’ pussy, pinche weto!" provoked MISTER.

"You’re just scared a Billy ‘cause ya owe em three bills for that fronted meth Sent From Above jumped you for!" chimed in PUSHO.

"Fuck both you putos!" VERSE lashed back. "I ain’t payin’ homes shit!"

"You don’t stop actin’ the role n check ya self, ya gonna end up smoked like that toy who got capped last week!"

PUSHO had to always get in the last word.

* * * *

VERSE lazily slumped against the car window, resting his sickly, pale face upon the tinted glass. He peered with glazed over eyes at the swirl of passing scenery, drowning out the world. The hatchback pulled into the vacant parking lot of a supermarket, the headlights extinguishing.

"Hold up! I’m gonna bomb the roof."

He drunkenly clambered out the car, nervously scanning for police as he ran behind the store. He scrambled up a thick drainpipe, creeping, ducked low, to the roof’s front, leaning over the side to paint his crew and name. The car below idled in anticipation of his return, the faint boom of the music reverberating into the cool night air. He quickly finished, sliding down the drainpipe, his feet thudding the ground.

Something moved underneath a rusted dumpster leaning against the store’s back wall, disrupting the early morning solitude. A crushed Coke can inexplicably launched from the dark recess, rattling across the ground until abruptly losing momentum at his feet.

"What the…"

The dumpster was marred by a multi-colored patchwork of layered paint, forming a collage of buffed graffiti, the most recent mark left by SFA. He crossed out the rival tag, spelling his crew’s name in red, dripping paint. It read HBK- Hell Bound Kids.

* * * *

"Wait there."

VERSE banged on the stripped security door to Billy’s cramped studio, glancing back at the hatchback parked in the trash-strewn alley behind the decrepit apartment complex. The door dangled precariously on one hinge, creaking dreadfully beneath the strain of his knocking.

"Don’t take so long this time!" shouted PUSHO from the car window.

The apartment door suddenly flew open with a clangorous screech. In the threshold’s gloom loomed Billy’s imposing mass.

"Where’s my money!" he barked, hooking VERSE by the neck in a vice-like grip.

VERSE frantically hit the brute’s thick, meaty arms to break free, earning only a contemptuous scoff.

"Whudda pussy! Is that all ya got!"

Billy slammed VERSE to the ground, rubbing his face in a clump of pigeon droppings. Some of the more shadier tenants gathered to watch the humiliating entertainment.

"This is the piece a shit that owes me for the meth… and that’s his bitch crew in the car."

"This ‘lil mutha fucka right here?!" boomed one of the spectators, insidiously cracking his knuckles. They converged on VERSE, kicking and stomping, like a pack of feral animals- some ran to the hatchback, pounding on the hood as the car sped off down the alley, smoking the tires. VERSE lost consciousness, Billy grabbing him by the hair, lifting his head off the putrid ground.

"I want my fuckin’ money, ya hear me, bitch! That’s three hundred you owe… ya got ‘til tomorrow."

* * * *

VERSE stood in a giant puddle of undulating blood, the bodies of Billy, MISTER, and PUSHO at his feet. He moved in slow-motion, unable to see beyond the oblivion surrounding him.

"What’s going on?" he cried out, his lips refusing to part. He looked down at the gun in his hand.

From within the void materialized a vague, humanoid form squatting in the impenetrable darkness. The thing made no movements, remaining vigilant in its posture.

"VERSE… VERSE…" a low, wispy voice beckoned to his subconscious. "They deserved to die… as do all the others who have shamed you."

* * * *

"Wake up, homes!"

VERSE sat up with a fright to an impetuous shoving of his person. He was inside a smoky living room lying on a tacky green couch. Dusk tainted the evening sky- he had slept through the day.

"What happened to you?"

As his groggy mind cleared and his eyesight focused on the subject of his pestering, the fat, robust form of his brown-skinned partner in crime, BOZAK, slowly took shape.

"I went ta Billy’s late last night ta hook up and found you layin’ on the ground outside his apartment. He said you owe em big time!"

VERSE massaged his aching ribs, his weary bones popping back into place as he stretched. He felt along the swollen contours of the unsightly, bloated lumps dotting his face.

"Yea… I gotta pay em today."

"Why ya keep slingin’ shit for that puto! Fuck em! He’s just a small-time chump!" scorned BOZAK. "You holdin’ anything?"

"Nah…"

"Well, it’s a good thing I got a primo."

BOZAK lit the cocaine-laced joint, passing it.

"Hey, homes…" violently choked VERSE, exhaling a monstrous smoke cloud as he passed back the primo. "I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout goin’ home."

"I thought your mom’s booted ya ‘cause a drugs n taggin’."

"Yea, but I been thinkin’ a quitin’… I can’t take this shit no more!"

VERSE caressed his wounds again, wincing in pain.

"Here, hit this shit again. You need it, essey."

VERSE inhaled a vacuumous drag, propelling him further into a drug-induced stupor. His vision blurred, his mind incapable of unclouded thought.

"Where’s the rest a the crew?"

"They bounced when I got jumped."

"Those fuckin’ putos! Now ya know why I don’t clique up." BOZAK puffed on the primo some more. "I need ta ask a favor, homes."

"Yea. What?"

"I need you ta stash this piece for me. I’m holdin’ it for a boy a mine, but my mom’s searches my shit when I’m gone."

BOZAK produced a snub-nosed .38 caliber Smith&Wesson.

"Is it loaded?"

"Yea, but it’s missin’ some bullets."

"What happened?"

"I can’t tell ya… but it’s some crazy shit!"

"Like what, a drive-by?"

BOZAK shook his head no.

"A robbery?"

BOZAK shook his head no.

"Someone got capped?"

BOZAK grinned.

"The toy from last week?"

BOZAK’s grin widened.

"Damn…"

"Just hold it for a few days ‘til the heat dies down, then I’ll get it back from you…"

VERSE examined the gun. He hesitated.

"Take it… take it," spoke that same wispy voice. BOZAK seemed not to hear it.

"You know you want to. Why deny the negative emotions you harbor. Release them… release them. Take the gun!"

VERSE looked up as if awakening from a daydream.

"Ahright."

* * * *

"Ya got my money yet?"

Billy plopped back down in his ratty recliner, his stoned gaze zoning out on his antiquated black and white television set. A long, rickety coffee table cluttered with drug paraphernalia stood between him and the T.V.; a moldy mattress draped in a sweat-stained sheet occupied the far corner. Drained beer bottles lined the puke-colored carpeting, mingling with the sickly stench of urine and mildew.

"Ya just gonna stand there with that dumb fuckin’ look on your face?! What the fuck ya starin’ at!"

The fulgurous crack of a gunshot echoed through the apartment complex, sending the neighborhood dogs into a frenzied barking. No lights switched on. No doors opened. The ululation subsided- the complex was quiet again.

* * * *

The complex was alive with activity. A crowd of gawking on-lookers stood outside Billy’s studio, held at bay by several burly cops.

"Detective Howenzer, over here."

Kneeling beside the bloody, overturned recliner was the coroner. Crimson slop had spattered the wall behind the chair, inching downward.

"Whudda we got this time?" sighed the detective.

"A local drug dealer approximately 23 years old with a gunshot wound to the face."

"Yea, I recognize em… has a rap sheet about an inch thick."

"There’s something else I think you’ll find interesting."

The coroner produced a shell casing in his rubber-gloved hand.

"This isn’t what I think it is?"

"Yep," smiled the coroner, unable to contain his enthusiasm. "It’s the same issue as the one used on our friend from the alley last week."

The detective’s eyes widened.

"Looks like my lucky night."

* * * *

The glaring lights of the #2 bus loomed into view, the monstrosity lumbering toward the bus stop, slowing to a halt with a loud, obnoxious screech. The metal and glass door slammed shut behind VERSE, the bus continuing with a shrill exhale of air. A ruckus of noisy, baggy-clothed youth resounded from the back. The miscreants recognized the name stitched on his cap, their mischief replaced by cold glares. It was SFA.

* * * *

"Two murders in one night. Boy, I tell ya, my job just gets easier and easier," the detective sarcastically chuckled to himself as the coroner snapped on a surgical glove, removing a shell casing from the sticky, coagulated blood along the grooved floor of the bus. "Witnesses said the shooter was a Caucasian male about 17 years old."

"The casing’s the same make," responded the coroner. "Our busy bee must be trying for a record."

"Great, just what I need… a trigger-happy kid."

* * * *

VERSE stood in a dark, claustrophobic nook lined with mailboxes. He pressed one of thirteen buttons along a security voicebox affixed to the wall beside a louvered, metal door.

"Who is it?" blared PUSHO’s voice from the box.

"It’s me puto! Let me the fuck in!"

"Whudda ya want, bitch! You ain’t pissed ‘bout last night?"

"Nah, homes! I got a sack."

"Hold up, I’ll buzz ya in… and watch what the fuck ya say around my grandmother!"

* * * *

Something stirred in the shadowy veil beneath the mailboxes. It’s size was small and insignificant, leading VERSE to believe it was a fat possum or similar animal; but then the silhouette of long, slender, disproportionate arms and thin, worm body took on shape and consistency within the darkness!

The thing was largely concealed, its face featureless, save for the narrow slits of a mouth and two black, pupiless eyes!

"VERSE… VERSE," spoke a familiar wispy voice. "Your eyes do not deceive you."

"What are you?"

"A friend… a friend. A demon… a demon. I have been watching you and the others… the Hell Bound Kids you are called, hmm?"

"Yea."

"You wish to harm those who have harmed you, yes… yes. The ones who shamed you… shamed you. The ones who disrespected you… disrespected you. I sense the pride and anger within you… within you. That is why I am here."

Realizing the gravity of his predicament, VERSE stumbled in a desperate attempt to escape the nook, the uncertainty of whether the thing was real or imagined heavily weighing on his mind. He reeled in terror as the creature’s horrid slug-body fully emerged from under the mailboxes, propelling its slim, humanoid torso, arms and head slithering across the floor! The black, sinewy thing wrapped around him like a snake coiling its prey!

"Foolish boy!" the creature squeezed tighter, its slimy, forked tongue flicking his face. He averted his eyes from the abomination, its spindly arms fondling him down below! "Don’t fuck with me!"

The creature’s weight sent him toppling to the floor. He struggled in vain to wrestle free of the hideous thing, grasping its squirmy, repugnant waist! He clenched tighter and tighter until its pudgy flesh burst, oozing a sickly purple ichor onto his hands! The slug-thing roared in mocking laughter, groping him and humping him and shoving its slavering tongue down his throat!

 * * * *

The louvered door emitted an annoying buzz, VERSE snapping to attention. He dauntingly reassured himself the creature wasn’t real, but lingering doubts  invaded his every thought, leaving him dwelling on whether the confrontation took place.

"Remember our discussion, boy… boy," issued the wispy voice, ringing in his ears. "Now use the gun!"

* * * *

"Where’s VERSE?" urged the detective. PUSHO leaned slumped against a wall, coughing up blood onto the living room rug. He stared in delirium past the detective, as if at some unseen presence within the room. "Don’t you die on me, kid! An ambulance is on the way!"

"My grandma…" PUSHO gurgled, clearing his throat.

"Don’t worry about her… she’s okay. You just hang in there, you hear me!"

A team of paramedics rushed into the dingy apartment toting a gurney, urgently tending to the gushing hole in PUSHO’s side. He went into convulsions as they lifted him onto the gurney, one of the paramedics rubbing together the adhesive paddles of a defibrillator.

"Clear!"

"Save him!" PUSHO’s venerable grandmother hysterically screamed in a broken accent. "He all I have!"

"Ma’am! There’s nothing you can do for him," the detective sternly consoled, forcing her by the arms into another room. "I can’t help you unless you calm down and tell me exactly what happened."

"It one of those tagger kids he hang out with," she sobbed.

"Your grandson said the kid goes by the name of VERSE."

"I no know. I no see him before. I sitting watching T.V. when I hear a gun go off. I run to see, and he standing over my baby. He point gun at me, then he look confuse and stop, running away."

"We’re losing him!" rose a paramedic’s desperate voice above the commotion in the living room. The coroner calmly walked in, thrilled by the excitement.

"I just got here. Is it our shooter?"

"Yea. We’re close… we’re real close."

* * * *

VERSE strode unevenly into a nearby liquor store. He made his way to the cooler in back, the plump, balding clerk eyeing him suspiciously. VERSE covertly pocketed a forty-ounce bottle of Olde English, hiding its bulk in his huge, sagging pants. He turned to leave the store, hesitating.

"Go ahead… go ahead," beckoned a low, wispy voice. In the glass door of the cooler appeared the reflection of a featureless face, mouth slit, and black pupiless eyes. "Do you truly believe you will be absolved of your sins by not stealing the beer? It is too late for you… Hell Bound Kid."

VERSE ran out the store, the clerk chasing after him. He drew the gun, spinning around, the hammer clicking into position. The slug-thing sat atop the unwitting clerk’s shoulders, debasing VERSE as he gently squeezed the trigger.

"Do it… do it! You worthless piece of shit! Kill him… kill him! Shoot the gun!"

 The back of the clerk’s head exploded into a gory, red spray! VERSE stooped over the twitching body.

* * * *

"Drop the gun and lay face-down on the ground!" the detective yelled over a megaphone. VERSE looked up from the dead clerk, reality flooding in, jarring him from his trance-like state. The creature was gone. The voice dissipated. A firing squad of cops lined behind a barricade of patrol cars trained their guns on him.

"Last chance, kid!" warned the detective. "Don’t be another statistic!"