It’s a drab Saturday afternoon,  most are dormant and disengaged from workday frenzy, light snow layers the spotty slick ice, a cold breeze cuts through my snow laden scarf, unobtrusive to any, walking is slowed by a tested concern for falling.

On the fringe of suburbia,  middle class houses straddle the road, I walk river in sight, nearing home, supplies packaged in a backpack, my center adjusted, returning from a grocery run, an excuse for exercise the motivation.

Ears muffled by two hats, the outer woolen and billed, my cadence shifts with sounding beats, gangster rap pulsing moderately, the low bass tones coherent, “Thump  Thump  Thump,” a vehicle’s rubber tires pierce the frozen sand embued surface and crackle a casual approach.

As a turquoise tinted olive sedan passes, a driver hidden behind the half opened darkened smoke window murmurs “Bang   Bang   Bang,” hinting manifested superiority at the pistol grip of a gun, my sprawled bloodied body now lifeless,  crimson melting icy white below, the punk not missing a beat continues his troll for the others deserving of his righteous requiem.