Neo Chronicles
Episode 4: Fine Your Funeral
Table of Contents
Where am I? This Friday started off pretty rough for Chris. Did I take a wrong turn or somethin'? Every single teacher at school decided to give him flack about, what he considers, stupid stuff. No, that doesn't make sense. All throughout the day, he fantasized about jumping out of the window and putting everything behind him for good.
He would have done it, too. But something—more like someone—kept him from doing so. His friend Lynn has a certain look about her. She only looks that way when she looks at Chris. It's the type of look that makes him stop in his tracks and think about things. Those who know her know not to test that stern gaze, because at any moment and for any reason, she can and will turn whoever into a monkey or frog or other silly such creature.
Wait, I know I've seen that house before. All day, he was looking forward to school ending. After the seven hours that he was forced to endure, it finally does. Wait, no I haven't. He couldn't wait to be free of that locker filled prison. As soon as the final bell rang, he ran out as fast as he could.
And now I'm lost. And now he's lost. This don't make no sense. I've been to DJ's house plenty a times before. He had promised his friend Darius that he would stop by on his way home. Having known each other for most of their lives, one would think that running to his place wouldn't be a problem, but something about having super speed and a bad sense of direction make for some odd results on occasion.
Chris was so focused on getting out of school that when that final bell rang, he didn't bother to check where he was running off to. He just ran. He ran, and he ran, and he didn't stop. All it took was one or two wrong turns, and now he's in a new, strange, and different part of town.
Alright, I'm lost. I get it. Don't know how I got here or how to get out. What do I do storyteller? He tries to retrace his steps. He wishes he paid attention a few minutes ago, because retracing is not working.
He's in a neighborhood. That much is certain. The houses are tightly packed together; all are single story. The buildings have seen better days. Given their condition, it's easy to tell how old and run down this part of town is. Not too different from his own residence: cars parked on the side of the road, graffiti, discarded cans of Hollaway (the poor man's liquor)—Yeah, I know a ghetto when I see one.
Chris is no stranger to them. All through his preschool and elementary life, he's had the privilege of living in one—a couple actually. Just him and his mom. They were always moving around, never really being able to afford a permanent place of residence until almost two years back. Thankfully that's long behind them, but the stories he has to tell because of them are incredible.
In fact, that bus stop bench at the edge of the street brings back the time his mom and him had to ignore every word, utterance, and grumble from passerbys looking for a dime. Public transportation was the worst, but some how all his mom ever had to do to anyone giving them trouble was glance at whoever for half a second, and the people would leave them be. I think it's cuz she got TP. He's never been entirely sure what type of ST his mom possessed, but after recounting over most of his life with her, he's concluded that telepathy is most likely. How else does she happen to know everything about everything? And the fact that she can make people do stuff when they don't wanna. Sounds like mind control to me. Or a mother who doesn't put up with any bull, but who can know for sure?
Shots are fired.
It's a loud noise. Multiple noises. Multiple loud electrically pulsating noises. He knows the sound. It's a step above shell grade, but still a scary sound to hear. He prays to God that the noise wasn't close by. He prays to God that the sound isn't as close as it sounds. His first thought is to panic. As fast as he is, his first thought is to stand perfectly still and pray to God the sound goes away.
But the sharp stings he feels dancing on his back, burning through, one small ember at a time prove that his pleas go unanswered.
Then his flight mechanism kicks in. Run. Hide. Cover. He needs to do all of these, and he needs to do them now, but in the commotion, he can't properly discern what to do first, and how he long each one should take. So he does all at once. He runs down the side walk. A block takes little more than a second for him. He dives in the driveway of whatever house he winds up at, and covers himself, rolls up in a ball and stays put. Everything rushing to his head, adrenaline, fear, panic, pain.
Then he hears the sound of a car zooming past. It's fast. It's in a hurry. Chris stays in his fetal position for a few more seconds before realizing that he's not entirely well hidden. In fact, he's kind of just lying out in the open on the asphalt. If whoever shot at him wanted to come back to finish the job, it wouldn't take much effort on their part.
But they're gone. Yes, they're gone now. No one else is out on the road. It's just him lying in this driveway. His back stings. No, it more than stings. It burns. Plasma spit from a low grade firearm. This is definitely the ghetto. Thankfully, the shots were only meant to stun and not kill. That doesn't change a thing. Except for the fact that I'm writing about a boy who survived a drive by shooting instead of one who didn't. Well, there's that—
That and the fact that the boy who survived a drive by is now raging mad and looking to get even as soon as possible. Now you're talkin'.
And now he's running—chasing the car that came by. He's running, but the primal instinct on his mind isn't flight. He's looking at the other thing.
Without thinking, he leaps. He's hanging onto the roof of the hover car now. The sudden jolting impact of an extra passenger catches the driver by surprise. So much so that he loses control of the vehicle. Before anyone knows it, they're all swerving out of control. It all ends with everyone: driver, passengers, Chris, and the car, all lying in waste on the side of the road.
Suddenly the adrenaline wears off, and Chris is reminded of the scathing burn on his back. This was not a good idea. He knows this now. He tries to get up and sneak off before the others come to, but he did just get flung off a car. It's going to take him a while to move. So he just sits there—lays there on the side of the street. At least they're not goin' anywhere. Most of them aren't. But there is that one—
“Aw n****, you done pissed off the wrong mutha f**** today!”
Someone got up. Chris turns to see the barrel of one of those plasma spitting firearms pointed at his face. The one holding it is a burly, built man of African American descent. Tattoos all up his arms, unkempt hair on his hair and face. Lookin' like a black wookie when he let his beard grow, weirdo. Brown skinned, e'en got his hair low.
“Dude, you shot me! If anything, I should be the one upset. So don't you dare come huffin' an' puffin' like some, some—I mean what the crud, dude?” Chris would normally start going down a list of insults at this point in time, but sadly, he hasn't the energy to give him a decent response. Instead, he just turns over and moans. Today is not a good day.
Then he hears the gun charge. For some reason, he doesn't think it's set to stun anymore. He's about to die. He wants to get up and go out swinging, but his body just doesn't want to.
He starts to imagine this all being a dream. That would be the only thing that made sense. He fought a “demon” yesterday, and now he's going to die as a statistical casualty of gang violence. As standard for all dream sequences, things that don't make sense start happening more frequently. Like green fireballs raining out of the sky and covering the area around them.
The emerald embers surround them. It's a ring of flames. The smoke rises up, quickly. Chris hears himself coughing. It gets bad. The coughing does. As for the burns, the exhaustion, and feeling of hurt all over, that was already bad. But he doesn't pass out. He thinks about it, but he doesn't. He doesn't until he does, and then wakes up thinking that he didn't.
Crud.
He was only out for about ten minutes, but it's ten minutes he missed. In those ten minutes, he could have fought off those thugs or ran home or done something cooler than lie in the streets and wake up seeing some older kid standing over him asking if he's alright.
“Are you alright?”
“Whatchu think, man?” he responds as he sits up. Still coughing. Still dreaming. Or not dreaming?
As it turns out, that green fire was real. It actually came from the white boy standing before him. Soon after he showed up with the light show and the smoke trick, the thugs got fed up and just left. There might have been a fight. The white boy says there was, but Chris finds that hard to—Ain't no way this dude right here fought dem posers off!
“I'm really sorry this happened,” the white boy says.
“Someone oughta be.”
Chris manages to stand up and actually get a good look at whoever this guy is. Not very impressive.
“To think, they were gunning for me. Those b*******.”
“No cussin', an' what?”
“Yeah, they tried to shoot me, and shot you instead. That house you walked in front of was mine.”
“That—man, if I was up for it, I'd smack that stupid, TV/movie/serious main character look off that face a' yours. I can't believe I got shot up fo some stupid junk like that? A mix up? They actually thought I was—what the crud, man!”
“That's how life is over here.”
“An' you still here because?”
“They killed my sister.”
“Revenge? Lame. You goin' buck wild on 'em cuz a that? You da movie man. Should know it don't always work out for the hero.”
“Except in the end.”
“This is real life. No way around it. You gonna die.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. In case you forgot—or maybe it hasn't registered—I just saved your life. Besides, this isn't about revenge. I just—I just don't want any more people to go out like she did. Those guys didn't kill her directly, their lifestyle—this lifestyle—did. I don't want this neighborhood to be about that.
“It already is.”
“That's why I'm still here.”
“So you Batman?”
“Who?”
“Man, does nobody pay attention to the—some comic book dude from back before the dark ages. Went around fighting crime, tryna protect his city. Parents died. Lifestyle. Same as you, minus the batsuit.”
“Sounds like a good guy to me.”
“Sounds like a crazy guy to me. This ain't no comic book. Know what happens when folks really do that? They get shot. They die. An' nobody's there to help 'em.”
“You don't underst—”
“No, you don't. You look older than me, but apparently you haven't learned this yet. The only people who do this kinda stuff is crazy folks lookin' for a reason to kill 'emselves. I get that you're upset over your sis an' all, but don't think for a second that this charade's gonna help her. You're an idiot, an' if she were here, she'd call you one, too. If the cops can't do this, you can't either. My momma done taught me that, an' now I'm tellin' you.”
“What if it were you? Someone you cared about? If you could make a difference—what if it were you?”
“There's jus' no—whatever, man. It's your funeral.”
Episode 4: Fine Your Funeral
Table of Contents
Where am I? This Friday started off pretty rough for Chris. Did I take a wrong turn or somethin'? Every single teacher at school decided to give him flack about, what he considers, stupid stuff. No, that doesn't make sense. All throughout the day, he fantasized about jumping out of the window and putting everything behind him for good.
He would have done it, too. But something—more like someone—kept him from doing so. His friend Lynn has a certain look about her. She only looks that way when she looks at Chris. It's the type of look that makes him stop in his tracks and think about things. Those who know her know not to test that stern gaze, because at any moment and for any reason, she can and will turn whoever into a monkey or frog or other silly such creature.
Wait, I know I've seen that house before. All day, he was looking forward to school ending. After the seven hours that he was forced to endure, it finally does. Wait, no I haven't. He couldn't wait to be free of that locker filled prison. As soon as the final bell rang, he ran out as fast as he could.
And now I'm lost. And now he's lost. This don't make no sense. I've been to DJ's house plenty a times before. He had promised his friend Darius that he would stop by on his way home. Having known each other for most of their lives, one would think that running to his place wouldn't be a problem, but something about having super speed and a bad sense of direction make for some odd results on occasion.
Chris was so focused on getting out of school that when that final bell rang, he didn't bother to check where he was running off to. He just ran. He ran, and he ran, and he didn't stop. All it took was one or two wrong turns, and now he's in a new, strange, and different part of town.
Alright, I'm lost. I get it. Don't know how I got here or how to get out. What do I do storyteller? He tries to retrace his steps. He wishes he paid attention a few minutes ago, because retracing is not working.
He's in a neighborhood. That much is certain. The houses are tightly packed together; all are single story. The buildings have seen better days. Given their condition, it's easy to tell how old and run down this part of town is. Not too different from his own residence: cars parked on the side of the road, graffiti, discarded cans of Hollaway (the poor man's liquor)—Yeah, I know a ghetto when I see one.
Chris is no stranger to them. All through his preschool and elementary life, he's had the privilege of living in one—a couple actually. Just him and his mom. They were always moving around, never really being able to afford a permanent place of residence until almost two years back. Thankfully that's long behind them, but the stories he has to tell because of them are incredible.
In fact, that bus stop bench at the edge of the street brings back the time his mom and him had to ignore every word, utterance, and grumble from passerbys looking for a dime. Public transportation was the worst, but some how all his mom ever had to do to anyone giving them trouble was glance at whoever for half a second, and the people would leave them be. I think it's cuz she got TP. He's never been entirely sure what type of ST his mom possessed, but after recounting over most of his life with her, he's concluded that telepathy is most likely. How else does she happen to know everything about everything? And the fact that she can make people do stuff when they don't wanna. Sounds like mind control to me. Or a mother who doesn't put up with any bull, but who can know for sure?
Shots are fired.
It's a loud noise. Multiple noises. Multiple loud electrically pulsating noises. He knows the sound. It's a step above shell grade, but still a scary sound to hear. He prays to God that the noise wasn't close by. He prays to God that the sound isn't as close as it sounds. His first thought is to panic. As fast as he is, his first thought is to stand perfectly still and pray to God the sound goes away.
But the sharp stings he feels dancing on his back, burning through, one small ember at a time prove that his pleas go unanswered.
Then his flight mechanism kicks in. Run. Hide. Cover. He needs to do all of these, and he needs to do them now, but in the commotion, he can't properly discern what to do first, and how he long each one should take. So he does all at once. He runs down the side walk. A block takes little more than a second for him. He dives in the driveway of whatever house he winds up at, and covers himself, rolls up in a ball and stays put. Everything rushing to his head, adrenaline, fear, panic, pain.
Then he hears the sound of a car zooming past. It's fast. It's in a hurry. Chris stays in his fetal position for a few more seconds before realizing that he's not entirely well hidden. In fact, he's kind of just lying out in the open on the asphalt. If whoever shot at him wanted to come back to finish the job, it wouldn't take much effort on their part.
But they're gone. Yes, they're gone now. No one else is out on the road. It's just him lying in this driveway. His back stings. No, it more than stings. It burns. Plasma spit from a low grade firearm. This is definitely the ghetto. Thankfully, the shots were only meant to stun and not kill. That doesn't change a thing. Except for the fact that I'm writing about a boy who survived a drive by shooting instead of one who didn't. Well, there's that—
That and the fact that the boy who survived a drive by is now raging mad and looking to get even as soon as possible. Now you're talkin'.
And now he's running—chasing the car that came by. He's running, but the primal instinct on his mind isn't flight. He's looking at the other thing.
Without thinking, he leaps. He's hanging onto the roof of the hover car now. The sudden jolting impact of an extra passenger catches the driver by surprise. So much so that he loses control of the vehicle. Before anyone knows it, they're all swerving out of control. It all ends with everyone: driver, passengers, Chris, and the car, all lying in waste on the side of the road.
Suddenly the adrenaline wears off, and Chris is reminded of the scathing burn on his back. This was not a good idea. He knows this now. He tries to get up and sneak off before the others come to, but he did just get flung off a car. It's going to take him a while to move. So he just sits there—lays there on the side of the street. At least they're not goin' anywhere. Most of them aren't. But there is that one—
“Aw n****, you done pissed off the wrong mutha f**** today!”
Someone got up. Chris turns to see the barrel of one of those plasma spitting firearms pointed at his face. The one holding it is a burly, built man of African American descent. Tattoos all up his arms, unkempt hair on his hair and face. Lookin' like a black wookie when he let his beard grow, weirdo. Brown skinned, e'en got his hair low.
“Dude, you shot me! If anything, I should be the one upset. So don't you dare come huffin' an' puffin' like some, some—I mean what the crud, dude?” Chris would normally start going down a list of insults at this point in time, but sadly, he hasn't the energy to give him a decent response. Instead, he just turns over and moans. Today is not a good day.
Then he hears the gun charge. For some reason, he doesn't think it's set to stun anymore. He's about to die. He wants to get up and go out swinging, but his body just doesn't want to.
He starts to imagine this all being a dream. That would be the only thing that made sense. He fought a “demon” yesterday, and now he's going to die as a statistical casualty of gang violence. As standard for all dream sequences, things that don't make sense start happening more frequently. Like green fireballs raining out of the sky and covering the area around them.
The emerald embers surround them. It's a ring of flames. The smoke rises up, quickly. Chris hears himself coughing. It gets bad. The coughing does. As for the burns, the exhaustion, and feeling of hurt all over, that was already bad. But he doesn't pass out. He thinks about it, but he doesn't. He doesn't until he does, and then wakes up thinking that he didn't.
Crud.
He was only out for about ten minutes, but it's ten minutes he missed. In those ten minutes, he could have fought off those thugs or ran home or done something cooler than lie in the streets and wake up seeing some older kid standing over him asking if he's alright.
“Are you alright?”
“Whatchu think, man?” he responds as he sits up. Still coughing. Still dreaming. Or not dreaming?
As it turns out, that green fire was real. It actually came from the white boy standing before him. Soon after he showed up with the light show and the smoke trick, the thugs got fed up and just left. There might have been a fight. The white boy says there was, but Chris finds that hard to—Ain't no way this dude right here fought dem posers off!
“I'm really sorry this happened,” the white boy says.
“Someone oughta be.”
Chris manages to stand up and actually get a good look at whoever this guy is. Not very impressive.
“To think, they were gunning for me. Those b*******.”
“No cussin', an' what?”
“Yeah, they tried to shoot me, and shot you instead. That house you walked in front of was mine.”
“That—man, if I was up for it, I'd smack that stupid, TV/movie/serious main character look off that face a' yours. I can't believe I got shot up fo some stupid junk like that? A mix up? They actually thought I was—what the crud, man!”
“That's how life is over here.”
“An' you still here because?”
“They killed my sister.”
“Revenge? Lame. You goin' buck wild on 'em cuz a that? You da movie man. Should know it don't always work out for the hero.”
“Except in the end.”
“This is real life. No way around it. You gonna die.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. In case you forgot—or maybe it hasn't registered—I just saved your life. Besides, this isn't about revenge. I just—I just don't want any more people to go out like she did. Those guys didn't kill her directly, their lifestyle—this lifestyle—did. I don't want this neighborhood to be about that.
“It already is.”
“That's why I'm still here.”
“So you Batman?”
“Who?”
“Man, does nobody pay attention to the—some comic book dude from back before the dark ages. Went around fighting crime, tryna protect his city. Parents died. Lifestyle. Same as you, minus the batsuit.”
“Sounds like a good guy to me.”
“Sounds like a crazy guy to me. This ain't no comic book. Know what happens when folks really do that? They get shot. They die. An' nobody's there to help 'em.”
“You don't underst—”
“No, you don't. You look older than me, but apparently you haven't learned this yet. The only people who do this kinda stuff is crazy folks lookin' for a reason to kill 'emselves. I get that you're upset over your sis an' all, but don't think for a second that this charade's gonna help her. You're an idiot, an' if she were here, she'd call you one, too. If the cops can't do this, you can't either. My momma done taught me that, an' now I'm tellin' you.”
“What if it were you? Someone you cared about? If you could make a difference—what if it were you?”
“There's jus' no—whatever, man. It's your funeral.”
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