And then, in the blink of and eye, it happens. Jobo, the hobo, jumped out from behind the Wonko Chocolate factory with an armed AK-47 machine gun. With fingers trembling with fear, with eyelids sweating like rain falling from the sky, and hearing the bullets crash into the cement wall behind me like trains crashing into cars stupidly sitting in the middle of the tracks, I fell to the ground with horror. Then I examined my right index finger where I had been shot. Luckily, Jobo only had four bullets in his one round of ammunition before firing, and also the point of hitting me only once. When I looked up, I saw nothing. For all I know he left me no evidence of where he had gone whatsoever.

After going to the ER and having my right index finger amputated, I headed back to the scene of the crime with my wicked awesome detective, Doctor Simon. He stood at 6ft, 3inches and wore brown slacks with a gray WMU t-shirt. When he put on his white rubber gloves, his fingers looked obese. As we stood near the area of where Jobo had stood, we found the four empty AK-47 shells as well as a muddy footprint with the toe pointing towards the east. We picked up the shells and started walking in the direction of the footprint. We had walked towards our evil enemy, walked toward a man with a possibly loaded AK-47, walked toward a hobo.

After walking for over as mile, we spotted a fork in the road. “Which way?” I asked Dr. Simon.

“Who knows?” he replied, “But we should search the ground for clues.”

“Alright,” I answered.

After ten minutes of searching I noticed an empty pop can with a note inside it. I removed the note and it read, “Face south and look up.” So stupidly I did and saw Jobo standing on a four-story high National City bank like Batman. He was giving me that I-have-you-where-I-want-you-and-now-I’m-going-to-kill-you look, with an M-16 pointing right at me. I could almost smell the smoke coming from the rapid fire of bullets soaring right towards me like rockets. When he stopped shooting to put in a new round, my right ankle felt so numb that I looked down to my blood oozing out of my leg at about and ounce a minute. I reached down to touch the blood, to taste it and make sure that it wasn’t ketchup. It definitely didn’t taste like ketchup. As I began spitting the real blood out of my mouth, I heard the start of rapid fire again! And BAM!

The next thing I knew I ended up in a wheel-chair and rolling around the hospital with a cast on my leg and a huge bandage on my left shoulder. That is where I must have been shot that last time, I thought. While Simon started to push me, I had a flashback of the last scene and mumbled to myself, “He’s still out there, and this could become even worse than it is.”
***4 MONTHS LATER***

As I began to walk down that dreadful street I noticed a trail of blood leading towards a trash bin labeled, “Best Way Disposal” with “My home, not yours,” spray-painted over the label. I peeked inside of the trash bin to find the body of Jobo just lying there, with his hand clenched around the bloodiest pocket-knife ever that was jabbed into his side. Then I noticed that he had a son in the bin with him who had sadly followed in the footsteps of his father. He also had about 50 empty beer bottles (meaning that he was under the influence and didn’t just randomly commit suicide). Saddened by this horrible ending of two lives, I thought about all of the other “Jobos” in the world and that I can’t stop them and control them all. As tears came running down my cheeks I began walking back home past the Wonko Chocolate Factory and noticing the four bullet indentations in the brick wall.