THE SOLITARY SHADOW: OF LOVE LUST AND BLOOD PT. 2
this is the link to PT. 1 in case you missed it...
http://atacxgymcapoeira.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-solitary-shadow-of-love-lust-and.html
THE SOLITARY SHADOW : OF LOVE, LUST AND BLOOD PT. 2
I and the moderate crowd--grown to about 30, 40 kids and a dozen or so adults stopped by the sound of our laughter and the b-ball court hijinks--kept laughing at Mike Mike.
Mike Mike and his mix of Lincoln Park ganxtas and non-LP street crew members were not at all inclined to join in our levity. Their faces ran the gamut of chocolate from nearly white chocolate to the richest darkest flavorful hues. Their faces ran the gamut from being sinfully unattractive to that uniquely ganxta blend of charisma that can only be described as handsome and threatening. The expressions on their faces ran a similar gamut of disparate looks: expressionless visages that for all the world seemed calm and unaffected...except for the cold, homicidal, cobra like glare of their eyes. Or naked, wolf like hostility. Eyes gleaming with eagerness for the kill. Faces stamped with the rictus of bared teeth. Growling and barking not empty threats but symphonic bloodlust that was the mandatory prelude to flesh rending, bone snapping, tendon tearing, life ending attack. Their hands twitched eagerly at their sides, straining at the leash of their owners' wills to spring at my throat and crush the life out of me. Or. Their hands remained tremorless; afflicted with a preternaturally stillness. The calm before the hurricane of violent death. Oftentimes their faces had warm sincere smiles, but the smiles were multifaceted in purpose. Smiles for their friends and loved ones. Disconcertingly similar smiles at the thought of or while in the action of deleting their enemies.
MIKE MIKE AND SOME LINCOLN PARK BLOODS
Whatever, haters. You just mad that I clowned you on your basketball court in front of the ladies and the hood. Act bad some mo'? I'll do it again. With even more trash talk, for good measure.
Still laughing, I walked toward the b-ball at the left bottom corner of the key [ a place well known for basketball players driving in for the lay up or bank shot, as they're only 16 feet from the basket ] as if I hadn't a care in the world...
...heads are gonna notice the cops soon.I thought to myself. When that happens all hell is gonna break loose. Those navy blue shirts of theirs stand out boldly against the green grass of the small sward surrounding the bball court and their batons and black holsters provided no camouflage as they vainly tried to make themselves invisible to us by melding with a brace of brown tree trunks.They're attempts at a tactical horseshoe position designed to cut off my escape and snare me are beyond stupid. Lol.
No way they coulda got in here without already being spotted unless somebody helped them...
...still laughing, I snagged the b-ball, started to turn casually to my right as if I was going to walk away when in reality I'd already decided to dash the exact opposite direction. Saw beautiful Tracy staring at me not 20 paces away, her small feet clad in stylish athletic shoes [ Blue n White Nike Airs ], blue jean booty shorts showing off her flawless dark chocolate and cinnamon legs, the sweep of her thighs and luscious butt to effect. Her sheer white half crop top tantalized the eye, her raven black tresses rippled in the soft breeze. And my eyes followed as the Spring/Summer warm, flower and grass scented air playfully spread open her top, revealing her firm breasts straining against the blue baby tee underneath...
...Tracy's still fine as hell...
TRACY
...a slender black grill iron gate about 5 feet tall closed not ten yards beyond Tracy's left shoulder. Someone was retreating along a narrow corridor between the apartment buildings. Betcha that's how the cops got in! Somebody let them in right there just to get me...
..."PO-PO!!" the cry of alarm rose from about a dozen throats at once, as denizens of the bball court all spotted the cops practically at the same time. Instantly, a mad dash jumped off. Everybody scattered like buckshot.
The San Diego Police did what they normally do then; they snatched out their batons in one hand, their guns in the other, or lifte their semiauto assault rifles and shot and swung lustily and aggressively--at head height, exactly what their procedures said that they shouldn't do--at all within range. Boys and girls, no matter how young. Men and women, no matter what they did or didn't do. I saw them amass in small units and with weapons pointed at civilians...civilians whom they knew were unarmed, unresisting and frequently these civilians had their arms half raised with palms out, indicating they're unarmed...proceed to swarm upon, stomp, beat, club with batons and in other ways brutalize or shoot these innocent people down, merely to satisfy their racist bloodlust.
POLICE IN THE HOOD
POLICE IN THE HOOD
Hard to tell which [ if any ] are the good ones
But the worst of the offending SDPD are two officers that were roundly hated in the hood. We called them Pork n Beans.
Officer Pork looked exactly like a homicidal human Porky Pig in a police uniform. You ever see those Orcs on THE LORD OF THE RINGS or on BRIGHT, that Netflix joint starring Will Smith?
Well, imagine those Orcs with pale European Vandal colored skin, without as many splotches and without any tusks...and that's EXACTLY how Officer Pork looked. I mean...exactly. Nose, cauliflowered ears making him look like he had sow's ears, pot belly...sweaty all the time. The works. But his looks belied his lethality. He was good with the baton, accurate with the pistol but not sniper accurate. In the CQC [ Close Quarters Combat ] typical of urban areas like the hoods I'm from? You don't have to Carlos Hathcock head shot a guy from a mile or so away. If you're a steady hand from 30 feet in, with a reasonably quick draw? You're a real threat to most of the lives of whomever you encounter.
Officer Pork was definitely a cold shot from 30 feet and closer with the pistol, and an equally dependable shot with his shotgun [ which he kept racked in his vehicle ] and with its shotgun slugs from 100 meters out.
He possessed formidable hand to hand skills, a brute's love of violence and carnage, and solid kyokushin karate, judo and japanese jujutsu skills that took advantage of his 6'7" height and great girth. Unusually well conditioned and athletic, he moved like a mid to big college level offensive lineman...surprisingly quick and explosive over very short distances. A natural at Kyukoshin Karate, Officer Pork had calluses on his knuckles from two decades of crushing bricks, boards and bones with his strikes. His knuckles were the size of chestnuts, his hands looked like professional baseball catcher's mitts. His bones were conditioned by his diligent, even zealous, Kyokushin Karate training so that they were denser than the bones of most people...enabling him to hit like a Mack truck. He was involved in scores of hand to hand fights last year, resulting in a 100% arrest and jail rate--whether we were innocent or not--more than a hundred broken bones of the moderate to severe variety. More than 82 hospitalizations for us teens and early twentysomethings, at least 17 fatalities, and not one single investigation of police brutality for him. In fact, he received several commendations for bravery and conduct becoming of an officer. Because to White people like these were, it's becoming of an officer to kill nearly 20 kids for stealing potato chips, hanging out at the park, breaking curfew or shooting dice.
I saw little 6 year old cinnamon skinned Shymeka--everybody called her Shy-Shy, beloved by all because of her big heart, sweet disposition and her head shaking, heart shaped French braid swinging, extra precious gigantic canyon-sized dimpled laugh--fall screaming and then slump unconscious from his massive baton swing cracking along her collar bone just as she turned around from her four square game to see what was going on. The grotesque break in her collar bone was immediately visible. She would have a 4 day hospital stay and wear a cast for 2 months.
SHY-SHY
Beans--as in String Beans because he was so skinny and sallow--wore a look of perpetual malcontent and malice, but he too was more capable than he looked. He had a wiry strength that belied his skinny frame, and he was a solid distance runner. No real jukes, no blazing speed, but he wouldn't give up the chase if you were in sight or if he only had to run a mile or two to see you. He also was versed in taekwondo and aikido. I personally witnessed him crack jaws, wrists and arms last year when he and Pork crashed a basketball game we were playing. Sent a half dozen of us teenagers to the jail, 3 of us to the hospital with casts that took months to remove, and 1 of us to the grave. He had a look of absolutely intense malevolent glee and total immersion as he laid about him, mowing down several kids under 11 years old before they could flee. I saw him try to take 13 year old Dayvon's head off with a baton swing, and Dayvon ducked the blow. I tried to warn Dayvon that Beans' baton swing was a feint but I was too late. As Dayvon ducked the baton, Beans fired his steel toe shod boot in a swift, merciless front thrust kick that connected to Dayvon's jaw. There was a crunching sound, like celery snapping. Dayvon unleashed a horrible gurgling scream as his jaw broke in two places, the bone of one break splitting open the skin along his jawline...then his scream was cut off in mid scream as Beans brought his baton back and down across Dayvon's temple. Dayvon crumpled to the concrete, nearly comatose and bleeding from a wicked goose egg raised on his temple.
I saw bad little Sammy--9 years old--catch the butt of Beans' pistol to the juncture of his head and neck. Sammy flew forward a few feet and fell face first to the concrete without attempting to break his fall or even uttering a sound. His head hit the concrete without a cushion, bounced off the ground, dribbled once or twice more on the concrete...then came to rest in a small circle of blood oozing from his mouth.
These fools were here because of me. Because of ME. I had to get them away from the people here.
I saw Pork wind up with his baton like a homicidal vanilla Shrek while standing over Shy-Shy's prone body.
Rooting my entire body into the ground, connecting and synchronizing my breath and stance with the kinetic wave linking, wave-like, muscular strength synergistically amplifying power generation method of my family art, I cocked the basketball back like it was a boulder in the cup of a catapult...then fired a rocket blast of a throw with the basketball straight at Pork's head. The unique properties of the power generation method that I use allowed me to instantly follow the throw by sprinting at Pork with every ounce of speed that I could muster from my 4.5 [ and under ] forty yard dash wheels. The orange Spalding bball I threw at Pork howled across the 15 or so feet separating me Pork and Shy-Shy like a mini-meteor and practically burst into flames before it smashed into the side of Pork's face....and rebounded so hard that it literally arced over the tops of the 25 foot trees forming a 3/4 rectangle around the basketball court. The impact of the ball left a bleeding red mark and literally imprinted the first two letters of the name brand of the basketball--Spalding--in a blood "Sp" on his cheek.
Badly surprised, he lurched to his right, arms waving like a White Gorilla's limbs were thrashing the air. Blood spilled in a red rivulet down his left cheek. He grunted, lurched...and I tore into him with a flying right leg jump spin side thrust kick packed with the sudden, wrathful violence of a magma eruption.
My form was sweet, too. My left leg was folded under my right leg in such a way that the whole sole of my left shoe was supporting my right thigh, so my right leg and left leg looked like they were forming a Figure 4. The heel of my right foot was extended toward him, the toe of my shoe was fully flexed back toward me, and I extended the kick and the heel of my shoe directly to and through his nose just as he turned to see me. Pork's head snapped back, his body arched backwards as if he was suddenly doing the Fat White Boy Limbo, his arms flew wide--the baton sailed to parts unknown--and his nose bones crunched inward with a muted crack.I felt a fierce satisfaction as I felt his cheekbone fracture ,and deep red bone blood spray from his nose to cake his top lip with a blood red mustache, and stain the front of his shirt as if he sprayed ketchup upon it.
As Pork's chin tilted upward and back toward the sky from my side thrust kick, I retracted my right leg with such instant rapidity that [ onlookers later told me that ] it looked like it was spring loaded. I was parallel to the ground in midair, with my right heel cocked back and nestled under my right butt cheek, my left hip pointed at the ground. Even before my right heel came to rest directly under the round butt cheek of my 501 jeans which also sported my right back pocket, my left leg pistoned outward from its tucked under Figure 4 placement just under my right leg when my right leg was extended, and speared with everything I had directly into Pork's suddenly exposed Adam's apple.
For all the world, even though I was about 6 feet off the ground, traveling very rapidly forward and mid-air...the visual picture I presented appeared as if I were a baseball player sliding on his left hip into home base, with his left leg extended.
In Kongo in the continent of Alkebulan miscalled Africa, one of the names for the technique by Kipura practitioners is Upinde Na Mshale Mguu... in Swahili, one of the most popular languages in Afrika, this means: "The Bow and Arrow Kick"...because the first spinning kick looks like we're drawing a horizontal longbow midair, and the second kick from the foot underneath the higher spinning kick [ that's called an Under Kick, because there's a Kick coming Under the first kick ] is straight and true like an arrow. The younger Americanized Asian arts call this kick The Rainbow Kick. My Uncle Bobby--my primary self defense instructor since I was a child--taught me how to do that kick combo years ago, even though he himself didn't prefer "fancy" kick combinations.
The horizontal jump spin kick with my right leg connected perfectly with Pork's nose. I found out later that I broke his nose in at least 3 places. The wicked linear under kick from my left leg slammed my flexed heel full force and without impediment into the front of his throat; temporarily driving his Adams' apple back in his throat. The Upinde Na Mashale kick slammed into Pork with such power that immediate onlookers...even the cops...unleashed cries of empathic shock, worry and fear. Pork was lifted from his feet and hurled about 4 feet backwards. His back crashed hard into the stout trunk of a tree, and that was the only thing that prevented him from being stretched out mid air like he was laying upon a gurney.
The tree probably hated Pork as much as we did, because it flung Pork from its powerful trunk with the violence of a hand ball richoceting off the walls of a handball court.
Pork's feet finally touched the ground another 6 feet further away, but he staggered back and forth like a drunk one legged sailor on the rain slickened deck of a storm tossed Clipper. Blood gurgled from his lips as he choked, a look of excruciating pain commingled with unfettered rage on his face. Both of his strong meaty hands grabbed reflexively at the front of his throat. He'd bitten through his tongue, so blood seeped out of both corners of his mouth. His shoulders hunched as if he were shrugging an "I don't know" response to some unspoken query. His thick face reddened to a truly alarming shade of beet red.
And then he dropped face first to the earth...right into a batch of bushes which scratched up his face ears and necks something nasty... like he got hit with a Sleep Spell from Hogwarts.
Tracy swooped in with the blazing, beautiful speed and agility of a gazelle, snatching little Shy-Shy up in her arms and sprinting away even before Pork had fully rebounded from the tree he collided with. Never breaking stride once. Great work, Tracy.
Without an instant's pause, I coiled into a ball as my feet touched the ground and flowed into a swift, smoothly zig-zagging broken rhythm juking feinting symphony of harakati ya sarakasi ajabu..."incredible acrobatic movements"...dive rolls, low to the ground au frentes, negativas, Mbele Gurumu Ngao [ au fechados ] , lateral rolls, tumbili sarakasi [ macacos ] and Tumbili Ndogo [ macaquinos ] in a nonstop, evasive explosive flow.
My instincts were true as ever, and saved my life.
POW!! Dirt leaped up from the bball court's floor. A white scar gouged the concrete where I landed from my jump kick not a splintered second before. POW!!! POW!!! POW!! Heat narrowly whizzed by my [ still tumbling ] face and crashed into one of the nearest tree trunks.
Beans and his SPD buddies were shooting while chasing me. Beans was closest. I could see the total commitment to my murder in the Skeletor-like look on his face, the way he clutched his baton in his left fist like it was Excalibur. And the way his right fist clutched his pistol, which he thrust at me like the blade of a rapier.
I did a Barry Sanders juke, moving myself out of the line of fire as he extended his pistol. My movement forced Beans to readjust his aim...
BARRY SANDERS SPIN MOVE JUKE
Without a pause I turned the spin that spun me away from Beans into a 360 dive roll
leaping over the low shrubbery as I spun and arrowed into the very trees and foliage that the police had emerged from in their failed attempt to catch us completely unawares.
No. I wasn't stylin on Beans with the 360 dive roll...although it looked like I was trying to do so. The 360 dive roll off the football spin juke is very surprising. Most people in real combat situations never see either one, much less both chained together and fine tuned for the needs of self defense or combat. The movement actually causes opponents to mentally and/or physically Startle Flinch as they try to mentally grasp what's happening...and that's all I need to either close the distance entirely between myself and my target or escape entirely from most dangerous close quarter situations I find myself in.
I came to my feet just in time to see a police officer some twenty meters away swing his baton full force at the head of little Diana--6 years old--as she turned around from playing with her beach ball to see what all the noise was about.
The baton would have bludgeoned Diana's open, beautiful baby face into bloody ribbons had it not smacked hard into a metal object that suddenly appeared and stopped the baton in its tracks cold.
OLD GREG WHEN HE WAS YOUNG
AGE THIS BRUTHA BY 40 YEARS, AND THAT'S OLD GREG NOW
AGE THIS BRUTHA BY 40 YEARS, AND THAT'S OLD GREG NOW
Old Greg had watched the whole scene go down, I would learn later. He would not have intervened had he not seen the SDPD laying about them, breaking bones; maiming and killing. Images of the horrors of his youth in The Old South sprang to Old Greg's mind. The friends that he saw hanged for no other reason than they were Black and they wouldn't allow themselves to be raped, robbed, beaten or cheated by drunk and sober White racists leaped into his mind, crimes crying for justice. The fires set to the homes of Black settlers who refused to sell their land. The women and children violated. All these unmitigated horrors rushed into his mind, triggered by these same horrors playing about him now.
Summoning the righteous wrath spawned by the phantoms of the memories of the past to give him strength and power, Old Greg entered his last fight.
He smartly parried the policeman's baton, holding his walking cane like a quarterstaff. And for a moment...a glorious, fleeting moment...Old Greg was that Hell raising warrior he was in his youth. He whirled his walking cane like metal lightning, smacking the cruel cop in his left ankle bone and scooping the cop off of his feet. The man pitched backward, cracked the back of his skull on the unyielding concrete, and was out like a light. The next two cops that fell on Old Greg, swinging their batons lustily at this old coot, found their police batons skillfully blocked and countered. One cop caught the end of Old Greg's baton on the inside of his right knee cap, just below the patella. The cop roared in agony and pitched face first...forward...on to the concrete. Scattered a few teeth on the ground. Busted his nose and lip. Fell so hard on his face that he suffered a fracture on his eye socket. The other caught the full length of the walking stick across his left temple as Old Greg deviously switched his quarterstaff grip to a baseball bat grip and swung a home run into the police man's dome. That cop fell to the ground, out cold, a wicked knot raising alongside his ear.
Another cop leaped on the back of this crazy old man, wrapping his arms in a bear hug around Old Greg's spare but lean, sinewy frame. Old Greg instantly responded with the old skills he learned from HIS great grandfather, who had been brought to this country of the USA from Kongo in Alkebulan, miscalled Afrika. Living to 110 years of age, Old Greg's great grandfather was a fierce Kipura warrior from The State of Soyo and The State of Bamba in The Empire of Kongo, and this old man taught Old Greg many things; among them? Was the Mwamba Unaoanguka..."The Falling Rock"...head butt attack. Old Greg snapped the crown of his head backwards while his spare frame arched into a standing backbend like he was trying to get under a limbo bar set at his belly button height. The younger, taller, heavier, larger cop caught the full of Old Greg's dreads and the crown of Old Greg's head right on the point of the chin...staggered back, and fell flat with his arms out wide. You know how people lay down in the snow, stretch their arms and legs out and make snow angels? After Old Greg head butted him, this cop looked like he was trying to do the same thing...but on concrete. While he was knocked out cold on the hard ground. Concrete SDPD angel.
"Run home, little baby!" Old Greg shouted into Diane's beautiful upturned face and startled luminous brown eyes.
Diane--curls, pony tails and berets flying in the wind of her haste--vanished into her apartment in the twinkling of an eye.
And then a shot rang out. And Old Greg lurched backwards, his walking cane falling from his numbed fingers.
A crimson patch formed a circle in the upper middle part of Old Greg's white shirt. It looked like The Rising Sun symbol on the white flag of Japan.
And then another pair of cops were on Old Greg, battering him savagely. Even with a bullet in him, the power of the ancestors somehow kept Old Greg moving. Somehow, even while spilling his life blood, Old Greg dodged the first and second blows with guileful agile movements and excellent timing, but I could see him slowing and weakening as the blood leaked from him and the two officers kept their relentless attacks coming. The cops also saw Old Greg slowing and weakening. Infuriated by the old man's thus far successful defenses against their assault, these cowardly cops doubled and then redoubled again their viciousness. Old Greg staggered under the pressure of the flailing powerful batons swung by both cops at him, and the cops redoubled again the frequency, speed and ferocity of their attacks and pressure, charging forward...
...right into a slick outstretched left leg of Old Greg's. The wily old coot feigned being more hurt than he actually was in order to draw their charging attack, then stick his leg out and trip them both. Worked like a charm. They never saw it coming or saw what tripped them up. Both cops fell in a two man pile of uselessness, looking for all the world like modern day Keystone Kops. One knocked out two of his teeth and broke his jaw. His muffled bloody scream was muted by his extreme pain and his misaligned jawline. The other cop tripped so completely that his feet went into the air and his head went down. He looked exactly like he decided to literally take a head first dive onto the concrete. He knocked himself out cold.
That's when I saw the last cop near Old Greg run up from behind him and aim a full force blow at Old Greg's crown. Somehow...even with a bullet in him, even bleeding like he was, even old as he was...Old Greg sensed the attack and managed to turn around and turn WITH the attack. The baton flew harmlessly by Old Greg's head.
That's when I realized what style Old Greg was using. This was the old warrior style of Ndongo Kipura, itself a variation of the even older Kipura of Kongo...which is the root of my family's fighting system. Ndongo Kipura was incorrectly called Capoeira Angola in Brazil.
But Old Greg was too old and too injured to keep dodging the attacks from younger, faster, stronger, better conditioned, better armed groups of men. The next unsophisticated but savage hammering attack from the tall, brown haired cop's police baton smacked remorselessly into Old Greg. Old Greg gasped loudly and reeled backwards, protectively coiling his arms close to his body, attempting to shield his head.
The next blow from the cop caught Old Greg clean in the rib cage.
Even from this distance, I heard Old Greg's ribs splinter like dry kindling. I heard his sharp cry of extreme pain even over the din of screams,yells threats, grunts and gun shots that the Logan PJ's had suddenly become.
I took a step toward the tall, brown haired police officer as he reared back to deliver a lethal, vicious full force baton blow to the head of Old Greg while Old Greg lay downed, curled in a fetal position...
...POW!! the bark from the tree near my left eye exploded into sharp brown needles, flaying my cheek. Drawing blood. Had I not kept up my evasive maneuvers, the next shot would have pierced my skull instead of grazed my ear. Beans was still after me, still shooting and getting closer. His marksmanship drove me away from Old Greg.
Helpless, I saw the police man swing his baton with malicious glee and connect with Old Greg's skull as he moved away and tried to avoid the baton. I saw Old Greg go limp. I saw Old Greg become ominously silent, and all animating energy seemed to leach right out of his body. Crimson stained the right side of Old Greg's face, pouring from his opened hairline.
I mentally marked the tall, exultant, brown haired police officer crowing over Old Greg's body. He would pay dearly. He and Beans will pay.
POW!!
Beans risked another shot, missed me again, and killed the living room window of a nearby ground floor apartment. I heard the jangling musical chime of its shattering death cry, and the startled scream of the mother in her apartment as the bullet punched a nearly human head sized hole in her front window. And then I was engulfed by the swirling throng of bodies as Logan PJ's Black Latin and Samoan denizens raced to and fro, battling with and fleeing from the San Diego Police Department Officers. I threaded through this rushing river of flesh, determined to annihilate that cop who killed Old Greg...
...settled into a Right Fighting Side Horse Stance as I executed a hard Right Inside Block on the right arm of a baton wielding cop as he tried to take my head off. The Inside Block deflected the onrushing police officer's murderous assay and obliquely deflected him away from me...and I flowed into a Right Neutral Bow Stance as the Right Inside Block I executed put the cop directly into a violent collision with my ferocious left reverse punch to his throat followed by a blindingly fast right hammerfist ( as I returned to the Right Fighting Side Horse Stance ) -left backfist ( thrown mercilessly from a Right Forward Stance that gathered and launched all the speed, force and focused rage I had then launched it into a cannonball of a left backfist ) combo to the cop's right temple. This is my family's ATACX GYM STREET WARRIOR Self Defense sequence called NGUMI ZINAZOTIRRIRIKA..."Flowing Fists"...similar to Kenpo Karate's ALTERNATING MACES. The cop was out cold before he finished falling to the ground. I hit a neat front roll, smoothly picking up the cop's discarded baton as I wove between the trees and removed myself from being a clear target for Beans.
But my relief was short lived. I gave Beans the slip but picked up 3 more police officers, all of whom attacked me at once from different cardinal directions. I eluded them the only way that I could under those circumstances...with a 6 foot lateral dive that kept me so low to the ground [ and away from police reflexes trained to target more upright victims ] that I virtually skimmed the concrete prior to transitioning into a speedy, angular moving, tightly coiled side-rolling breakfall dive front rolling break fall combination.
I came out of the fall, and even while moving I assessed the situation. A plan was already forming in my mind. That's the Udanganyifu..."Deception"... from Kipura [ wrongly called Malicia in the art of "Capoeira"; just as "Capoeira" is a misnomer resulting from the mispronounciation of "Kipura" by the racist Catholic priest Raphael Bluteau in the year 1712 ] working for me.
I caught sight of beautiful Tracy, juking cops like nothing near The Big Tree.
The Big Tree is--at 115 feet tall--the tallest tree outside of The Towers. It is also the biggest tree [ not the tallest but the BIGGEST tree ] period, in this section of the city. It's so wide, it looks like something out of that animated kids movie about the magic forest called Ferngully or that other movie with the people with the blue skin who were clearly parallels to Native Americans. What's that movie called again? Oh yeah...Avatar.
The Big Tree would look right at home in the forests of either of those movies.
The Big Tree occupied a central part of the PJ's, and many of us would come and chill under its many leaved, many boughed expanse. The Big Tree was barely 20 feet from Shy-Shy's house. Tracy was trying to take Shy-Shy to her parents...that's why she was using The Big Tree to juke the cops.
Tracy still held Shy-Shy protectively close to her breasts, even as she juked through the riot of bodies, blood, bullets and battle. A cop...now another one...were trying to block her way. They had their batons out, probing the air between themselves and Tracy with feints and thrusts designed to hem Tracy and Shy-Shy in between the two of them, the better to beat and jail the both of them. Tracy was still evading them pretty easily...a very difficult feat when you're carrying the fully unconscious bodyweight of another person 2/3rds your bodyweight in your arms...but both Tracy and the cops knew that very soon more SPD would soon rally to help hem Tracy in, as she tired from the pursuit.
I needed to help her, but there were twothreefoursix cops chasing me now.
I couldn't make out Old Greg anymore. Too many people between him and I.
Immediately I lead the cops pursuing me off to my right. Away from Tracy and Shy-Shy. In a dead run full speed gallop toward the 2 storey apartments on the other side of the square fronting the basketball court. Right behind me came the cops.
As I flashed up the stairs, 5 cops followed. The sixth cop...following the training from their Police Academy...stayed on the ground and followed me from the ground; the better to cut off any escape that I might make from the 5 following behind me [ however improbable it was ].
The staircase was narrow. It didn't have room for any more than 2 abreast. The cops were already 2 abreast as they chased me up the stairs. There was no direct way to get to the 2nd storey of these apartments without entering one of the apartments and taking the staircase inside the apartment to the second storey shared by all 3 apartments, and that was deliberate. It ensured privacy.
Well, they THOUGHT that there was no way to make it to the 2nd storey.
I took the cops on a full on sprint, a pedal to the metal race directly to the end of the 1st storey, and right when they thought they had me corralled by the ending of the first storey landing,the first two cops racing shoulder to shoulder behind me pulled their guns--not their batons, their guns--and fired onetowthree shots at my fleeing back.
Clearly their intent was homicide, not capture and jailing of me.
I'd fully expected that from SDPD, and just as they fired...I coiled into a tight small ball and executed a series of beautiful speedy front rolls on to the ground. The bullets scoured the air over me, and smashed into the stout side wall of the neighboring 2 storey apartment complex 50 feet away. Without a pause, I came out of the front roll in a dead sprint and leaped onto the narrow sliver metal stair rail.
There I was in full view of everyone. Balanced like a jaguar on the frail strip of metal, with homicidal cops at my back, and a sheer thirty foot drop to concrete at my chest were I to wobble even slightly on this thin fragile metal railing. Below me on the concrete...looking up at me with feral passion in his eyes.. a homicidal cop assumed his Shooter's Stance with gun in hand aimed up at me, and waited for me to fall into his clutches.
For a fractured moment, everyone in both of the nearest two storey apartment complexes watched me...as I cast about, apparently trapped and desperate...with horrified, bated breath.
Without pausing a single moment, all five of the SDPD fired a volley of bullets at my back--and even the SDPD officer on the ground fired up at me-as I stood on the railing.
A great shout of horrified anger leaped from the small crowd...safely ensconced in their homes...as the police fired.
Their bullets burned through empty air, pinged-panged sparks and flashes of multi-colored light from the steel railing that I was standing on not a sliver of a second earlier.
I'd leaped from the first floor in a dazzling, upward and outward, death defying, mountain goat of a leap to snare the very tip of the roof of the second story ,and pulled myself up. It looked like I took one of those impossible but cool, only possible in video games, gravity defying leaps straight out of that video game series called Assassin's Creed. Only then did it become clear that I was purposefully drawing their fire, in order to spare the many Logan PJ's denizens from being murdered by the SDPD shooters.
At first glance...and second, and third studious staring...such a leap as I executed didn't look to be humanly possible. But it was. And that was my plan all along. Strand these fools on the other side of the PJ's, far removed from the real action. Keeping the death toll lower than it would have been were these six still in the thick of the fray of battle.
Without a single break in my movements, I'd smoothly clambered atop the roof...now standing 5 storeys above the concrete...and raced back the way I'd come, flying with a speed that Hermes would envy. I saw Tracy still juking the cops by racing around The Big Tree, but they were inexorably tightening their noose on her. If Tracy wasn't carrying Shy-Shy? This wouldn't be a contest. Tracy is 2 time state champ in 200 and 400 meters, plus she's the anchor on the state champion 4x100 relay team. Under normal circumstances? Tracy would not only easily outrun these guys, she'd cook their boxers and shred their titey whities with her speed. But carrying, shielding and protecting Shy-Shy was rapidly draining her.
I raced like a cheetah 65 meters across the rooftop. The rooftop halted nearly twenty feet from The Big Tree...exposing me to a 5 storey drop, a canyon of open air to unforgiving concrete.
Without stopping a single second, I sped off of the roof and arrowed across twenty feet and down ten feet...a thirty foot displacement...bridging the forbidding gap between the roof I was on, and the nearest limbs of The Big Tree. Another Assassins' Creed like display that drew exclamations from small clumps of people below who saw me spring across rooftops...
...and execute a literal Leap of Faith across the yawning gap between the rooftop, concrete, The Big Tree, me and Tracy.
My leap wasn't aimed directly across to the limbs of The Big Tree at the same height of the roof that I'm standing on. Instead, I focused on getting down to Tracy as fast as I could, which meant changing my lateral broad jump to a diagonal downward leap, foregoing the large leafy multitudes of The Big Tree's higher branches to instead alight on the outstretched interlacing latticework of The Big Tree's bigger thicker lower branches. It was as if a ray of darkness flashed from the rooftop across the yawning chasm and in to the green shadows of The Big Tree's lower branches.
Fifty five feet down below, neither Tracy nor the cops pursuing her looked up, so intent on their own dance were they.
So neither Tracy or any of the cops knew I was even remotely nearby before I dropped on the cop nearest Tracy with the force of a plummeting boulder and the savagery of a starving velociraptor. I hit him with both feet crashing into his exposed back.
I deliberately placed both of my feet at the specific juncture of his back that the armored vest that he wore protected, so my drop didn't kill or severely maim him.
I remembered what you said, Old Greg.
But I bet the pain the cop felt made him sure that I HAD killed him. My weight smashed the air from his lungs and virtually pummeled him below ground level. He smashed into the earthy leafy grounds around The Big Tree so hard that a mushroom cloud of earth, dirt,leaves and small fallen branches leaped up from the ground and billowed across us all as he drilled into the earth .It looked like a Nature Nuke had gone off .
He was out cold...with moist earth and dirt packing his hair, the insides of his shirt, vest, underwear mouth throat and nostrils...before his knees finished twitching.
The pile driving, avalanche force of me dropping upon him caused his arms to reflexively flap upward like he was making the American Football sign for "Touchdown" or he was raising both hands up to surrender to some imaginary enemy that rudely appeared out of nowhere. As he did so...his numbed fingers released their hold on his baton.
Riding the howling momentum I'd never stopped building since Beans fired his first shot at me, I saw the baton go airborne and went after it, executing a high leaping, fast, flashy front pike layout while snaring the baton out of midair.
CLICK ON THIS LINK TO SEE THE FRONT PIKE I EXECUTED
Smooth and quick as quicksilver...well, I'm Black so that makes me quickebony...I seamlessly combined my landing from the front pike layout into a ramming slamming merciless blindside flank collision directly into the second cop chasing Tracy. It was like the second cop got blindsided by a Lawrence Taylor blindside blitz.
CLICK THIS LINK TO SEE HOW I HIT THE RACIST COP LIKE LAWRENCE TAYLOR DID
He didn't have a ghost of a chance. His shocked fingers released his baton in a spasm of a throw...and I pirouetted like a master ballerina, snapping it out of midair with a one handed snare that we often see high caliber American Football players do when they're catching the football.
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