Diagnosis: Acute adrenaline addiction

Eight-six degrees, at a poorly designed intersection. The old barber’s daughter is smoking at her front door. Men with big guns stare intently into the mature trees of the historic neighborhood.

The man–just 20 minutes ago–had fired his gun across a busy city street. He was sort of aiming at two officers intent on arresting him. The shooter is hiding under a house. But we don’t know that.

The smelly bloodhounds are on their game, today, though. Though everyone is sweating, the dogs know what the ass in the passenger seat of that green car smelled like. And the dogs are on the move.

The moment explodes like a pissed-off woman’s slap. The cops are screaming, the guns are out, the civillians are running inside and locking the doors. The man with the gun is running. And now so are we.

The run cools the sweat on the forehead, but the adrenaline makes us hotter. The gunshot cracking through the air only makes it worse.

The man is now on the ground, face-down on the front porch of my favorite guitar store.

Is he dead? No, just stupid. But just smart enough to know to stop shooting at the police, and surrender when the police start shooting back.

It’s 30 minutes and a pound of perspiration. But its a fix.

Good thing the adrenaline fix doesn’t leave tract marks. I’d never be able to wear t-shirts again.