As the world went screaming mad I.E.D. Davon buzzed out Greenmount Avenue like a baby faced bitch-ass biker escaping from hell. With only his jock strap on—which was the only thing Mrs. Henderson ever let him where when he cleaned her house, which did lend a comforting nod to familiarity—he was worried about getting burned on the bike, as the engine and gas tank took on heat.
“Thank you WhiteBoy Wayne, for this ass-saving bike!” he screamed into the wind, as he did a wheel stand up the center line at 70 MPH, not even caring what these crazy people where doing to each other.
No way would a car have gotten anybody out of this crazy hell of a town today. He had spent half of his time on sidewalks, the other half heading up the center line or weaving between wrecks and the staggering and struggling people. It had been fairly smooth going as end of the world moments went as so few people in the hood had cars. But now he was hitting the county line and things were getting sketchy.
He did see a chanting mail man nailed to the front of a vacant like Jesus, and being soaked with gasoline by two brothers. As the match was thrown Davon looked away, looked up, and said a prayer to God, and, since he didn’t know any prayers, made one up.
“God, I don’t think you know me. I was one of those dudes in Iraq who you didn’t care about—not ‘cause you a douche or anything, but because, you know, we shouldn’t have been there—so I get that. But God, this shit here ain’t you, and ain’t know way you wan’ it. And I’m against it too God, so I thought maybe you might want to continue helpin’ a brutha out seeing as this shit is getting’ real raw up in here. Anyways, amen brother—not like you my brother, more of a father really. Thanks for listening God!”
As those holy words ripped from his mouth with a bitch-ass squeal, Davon flew across Northern Parkway as a city bus packed with kids was ripped in half by a speeding coke truck. As Davon swerved around that disastrous mess and continued out York Road [which was the white version of Greenmount Avenue] he saw an old white lady, in her granny hat and memaw dress, standing on the sidewalk crying, as she looked around and a five year old child—a devil of a black girl—punched the old lady in her legs.
Davon slowed down, but was afraid—this five year old bitch looked serious about hurting someone. Ever since he had pulled his buds from that Stryker one piece at a time while blood ran out of his ears, he had wanted to rescue someone, to be a hero in some way, after his one chance had merely amounted to a boat load of survivor’s guilt.
“I got you granny!” his deaf ass yelled.
The woman was apparently deaf and did not here him. However, the little half pint ghetto bitch heard him, and turned with an evil preternatural light in her hoodrat eyes, reached down and picked up a shard of glass, looked back up into his eyes, and said something threatening that his non lip-reading ass could have swore was, “I ought to cut your junk off.”
That was it! Davon gunned the throttle and road right over the little devil, who was now stuck under the rear wheel of his XT crushed to death, her head rolling into the gutter. That was all some pretty tragic shit. But it was hero time and God might just be looking, so he acted like the hero he had always dreamed about, reached out and grabbed Granny, who did not weigh but shit, and set her old ass down on the back of the bike.
The poor lady was shivering and shaking and crying and a crazy man with a paint brush and bucket was limping up behind them, so Davon gunned—gunned it good, and the painter was lost in a spray of blood and gore as the rear wheel of the ancient 500 CC Japanese dirt bike tore into the body of the little girl and propelled Davon and Granny out York Road into Towson. The old lady’s little hands were stronger than he would have figured, and held onto his abs, her little splotched fingers digging in between the muscles in his stomach, making him feel like Black Bitch-ass Captain America for just a second as.
Davon did less maneuvering with Granny on board and kept the speed at about 40. Finally, after working his way around the roundabout above Towson Town Center, Davon was feeling good for a flat out run to the country beyond Delany Valley. Avoiding a sedan driven by some screaming cackhead he gunned it downhill, shooting to 70 in no time, and then saw the worst traffic jam of his entire life. He would have to make a left across the parking lot and down through the casement ditch.
“Where you at, God?”
“Davon’s gettin’ all save white granny heroic down in here—brutha could use a lille help!”
Just as he eased off the throttle and took a chance on the ditch he heard it, about the first thing he had ever heard since coming back from Iraq, and perhaps the one thing he had most wished he had heard—or did he feel it—the unmistakable metallic groan of an A-10 Warthog tank buster at 300 feet.
As the downdraft nearly knocked him over he found himself beneath the wings of a thundering god, that was spitting fire and turning the cars and trucks before him into scrap. He slowed it down and picked his way at 20, through the sawed vehicles, rolling tires, leaning axils, hamburger bodies and flaming fiberglass coffins as the plane pulled up above and veered off to spit death God only knew where.
Before he knew it he was through the burning coals of the automobile-people barbecue and out on up the road to the real York Road, where white people have money, and possible freedom from this crazy day beckoned. And he wasn’t the only one that was happy, Granny was now holding on for dear life by his junk. As creepy as that was, it made him feel appreciated as a hero for once in his bitch-ass life.
He leaned forward over the handle bars and Granny leaned her little head into the dip between his shoulder blades as he ripped out the road, between stopped cars, bodies, struggling knots of people, and the zombie like walkers that all seemed to be chanting something.
“Thanks God, I owe you one!”
