this is the link to PT. 1 in case you missed it...


 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. 

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...


 ...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, 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.

                                                 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, caulifowered 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 marksman 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 and boards and bones with his strikes. His knuckles were the size of chestnuts, his hands looked like 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 dozens 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. 

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, laughing, gigantic canyon sized dimples springing into being on either side of her adorable cheeks whenever she burst into laughter [ which was very often ] Shy-Shy--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.


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 a 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...which was cut off in mid scream as Beans brought his baton back and down across Dayvon's temple. Dayvon crumpled to the concrete, asleep 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 his 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 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 Afrika, one of the names for the technique from West Afrikan 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 martial arts 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 into the front of his throat and temporarily drove 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 shock. 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 like 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 from  and flowed into a swift, smoothly zig-zagging broken rhythm juking feinting symphony of harakati ya sarakasi ajabu..."incredible acrobatic movements"...dive rolls, au frentes, negativas, Mbele Ngao [ au fechados ] ,  lateral rolls, tumbili [ 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!!! Heat narrowly whizzed by my [ still tumbling ] face and crashed into one of the nearest tree trunks.

 Beans was shooting while chasing me. He clutched his baton in his left fist like it was Excalibur. His right fist clutched a pistol, which he thrust at me like the blade of a rapier.

 I spun away from Beans, leaping into the very trees and foliage that the police had emerged from in their failed attempt to catch us completely unawares. Rolled 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's walking cane.

                                              REPLACED THE CARD WITH A WALKING STICK, 
                                               AND THAT'S OLD GREG

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. And images of the Old South that he grew up in sprang to 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.

Summoning the righteous phantoms 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. He was temporarily out of the fight. 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.

"Run home, little baby!" Old Greg shouted into Diane's beautiful upturned face and startled luminous brown eyes.

Diane--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 cop was on Old Greg, battering him savagely. I saw a full force blow from the tall, brown haired cop's police baton hammer 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 he 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 OWR3, 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 him become ominously silent. Crimson stained the right side of his 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.


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 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...

...executed a hard 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 him...and directly into a ferocious reverse punch to his throat followed by a blindingly fast left backfist-right hammerfist combo to the cop's right temple. This is my family's ATACX GYM STREET WARRIOR Self Defense sequence called ALTERNATING MACES.  The cop was out cold before he finished falling to the ground. I hit a neat front roll, smoothly picking up the 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 from Kipura [ wrongly called Malicia in the art of "Capoeira"; just as "Capoeira" is a mispronounciation of Kipura of the Kongo of Afrika ] working for me.

I caught sight of beautiful Tracy, juking cops like nothing near The Big Tree.

The Big Tree is--at 75 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 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. 

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 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 ]...waited for me to fall into his clutches.

Everyone in both of the nearest two storey apartment complexes watched I cast about, apparently trapped and desperate...with horrified, bated breath. 

Without pausing a single moment, all 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 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 fractured 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 Assassin's Creed. Purposefully drawing their fire, as the richocheting bullets would drive them back and discourage further shooting from them while they're in such close quarters.

At first glance...and second, and third studious staring...such a leap 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. 

Without a single break in my movements, I'd smoothly clambered atop the standing 3 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 meters and 400 and on the state champion 4x100 relay team. 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 3 storey 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 Big Tree.

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.

Twenty feet down below, neither Tracy nor the cops pursuing her looked up, so intent on their own dance were they.

So the cop nearest Tracy never saw me drop on him like 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 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. 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 guided missile. 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. 

The second cop was knocked sideways and literally head over heels twice before he hit the ground. Slid, leaving a swath of dirt behind him, caking up earthy loam on his face and uniform. Twitched once. Didn't make a sound.

Guess he was exercising his right to remain silent. Anything he said was already being held against him in the Court of The Ghetto.

Tracy...seeing her chance...bolted like she was carried by the winds of a hurricane directly to Shy-Shy's mother's apartment door, which Shy-Shy's mother opened as if she could read Tracy's mind. I heard Shy-Shy's mother--Glenda-- wail as she saw how badly injured Shy-Shy was, and Tracy slammed closed the door. I heard the locks and dead bolt rattle and slide into place as I engaged the remaining officers.

A third and fourth cop...who appeared out of no-frickin-where...arrived, and they both were swinging their batons at my skull. My head, by the way, is an illegal target for them to swing their batons at. But...little things like observing and not trampling the legal rights of Black people and exhibiting some facsimile of respect for same never was the strong suit of SDPD. 

I was too close to their fellow officers for the other SDPD guys to risk a shot, so this would be settled by batons. I held a baton in either hand, and my two adversaries gripped their baton in a power grip like they were swinging a baseball bat. I engaged them both at the same time, and in so a glaring flaw in their training.

Like most police officers, these SDPD guys had minimal hand to hand self defense training and basically sucked at skillfully using anything that wasn't a gun. Including their police batons. I used part of Kali's Heaven and Earth 6 to drop the third cop, and I finished the fourth cop with a technique from my family's style of Kipura called Agayu's Lashing Fangs. 

Beans. Appeared out of nowhere. Gun drawn.

He's got me dead to rights. I'm perfectly locked in his sites. It's over for me.

Damn. I didn't plan on dying this way.

Just before Beans could squeeze the trigger and put me away, a police officer flashed in from my left side, swinging his baton lustily at my head. I ducked. The baton hit The Big Tree so hard that it sprayed bark everywhere and nearly exposed Big Tree Flesh previously covered with more than a century of bark.

The baton wielding madman cop was now between me and Beans, spoiling Beans' perfect shot at me. 

I have never been so happy to see a police officer in my life.

Roaring, the berserk cop swung a backhanded smash of a strike that looked for all the world like the way the old European knights swing their heavy broadswords. I ducked this shot, too, and saw that my other calculation came to pass. Later than I expected, but it happened.

I was face to face with the tall brown haired cop who killed Old Greg.

OFFICER WALTON, read his badge. Officer Walton killed Old Greg. 


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