Folks just grab me and use me for whatever they want,; sell me or throw me away. They just do not care about people like me right?
I had seen some cold nights and bloody days, when they grab me and bullets sprayed, they use me wrongly. My body is cold and steel for real. I was made to kill, that is why they keep me concealed under car seats. They sneak me in clubs and I have been in the hand of mad thugs – they feed me. When they load me with mad slugs, seventeen to be precise, one in my head and they called me Desert Eagle, semi-auto with lead.
I’m seven inches four pounds. I have been through so many towns from Little Rock to Canarsie. I was living harshly, being beaten up and battered. When they pull me out I watched people scatter and they make me to kill people who were adjacent to me. Nonetheless what I felt, it never mattered. When I’m empty I’m quiet, finding myself fiend to be fired. I have a broken safety and thugs place me in shelves and under beds, so I beg for my next owner to be a thoroughbred, keep me full up with hollow heads.
I bust off when they unlocked me. Results of what happens to people shocks me. I see people bleeding, running from me in fear, stunningly tears fall down the eyes of these so-called tough guys. For years I’ve been used in robberies and giving thugs a heart to follow me, placing peoples in graves, funerals were made because I was sprayed.
I was laid in a shelf with a grenade, met a wrecked-up tech with numbers on his chest: five-two-oh-nine-three-eight-five and zero. I had a serial defaced, hoping one day the police would place me where he came from, or some sort of person to claim me. I’m tired of murdering I want to be a plain gun but my owners had some other plans.
Like the next time shooting is on I’ll make myself jam right in my owner’s hand.
One day my owner was walking in the middle of the night, he heard tyres screeching and the driver just pulled out his gun and shot him on the shoulder. When he tried to pull me out – the driver ran to him and hit him with a fist.
Since that day he was always tasting revenge in the air.
Weeks went by and I was surprised I was still stuck in the shelf with all the things that an outlaws hides besides me its bullets. There were two vests, a grenade in a box and that tech kept crying because he’s not been cleaned in a year. He’s rusty as clear and he’s about to fall to pieces because of his murderous career.
I could hear somebody coming in, open the shelf with bubbling eyes. He said, “It is on.” I felt his palm, troubled and shaking as he stomped him out, his dome was aching and he placed me on his waist.
The moment I had been waiting for.
He walked me outside and he saw this thug. He cocked me back, said, “Remember me?” He pulled the trigger but I held on, it felt wrong. He squeezed harder I did not budge, sick of the blood, sick of the thugs, sick of wrath of the next man’s grudge. What the other kid did was to pull out, no doubt a newer me in better shape before he lit out.
He led the chase. My owner fell to the floor, his wig split so fast I didn’t know he was hit. It’s over; no more mad thugs, screaming people were running and police were coming. Now I was happy, until I felt somebody else grab me.
Tell us what you think: What do you think of the piece? Have you ever thought of guns to have a life too?