Fake Identification

The obtuse mosaic glass pattern determined the visual structure of humankind’s direct motivations and vernacular reversal to harbor the lone Denver Washington responsible for the massacre earlier appearing on the avenue of Saint Flagg for a frantic attempt at living sunlight.

In the desperate attempt to murder his abhorrence from his uncalled firing from his current career, now flushed down the toilet, Denver attempted to weigh his weapon (a pistol of casual fire-power and his trained combat shotgun he received as a farewell gift from a mate) that was concealed underneath his extended trench coat.

But before the course was acted on, with a measured sinister spell, almost as if he were considering something more additional and vibrant than lethal intentions permitted, Denver was able to compound and connect his thoughts into transferred action until he witnessed someone with a movement that tore off his mind with a menacing movement.

Denver Washington comprehended at once.

Denver looked over the counter from the bar, stationed his hat over the brim of his face, and heard the sound of shallow popping sounds, which he understood sounded like the same mute popping that obtains fear in the considerable gathering crowd.

There was a terrifying scream which was blasted out from the movement of the crowd.

Denver steered outside, understanding that someone outside the bar had the boneheadedness to pull off what Denver wanted to achieve, for his stupidity; and before he could enter into a request of canceled culture, he sedated his motioning body forwards, removed his combat shotgun, and shot a combed, relaxed man dressed in an outlandish verdant malicious green jacket and denim trousers, that resorted to seedy offhand purchase, who handled an Assault Rifle bound to his proper arm via argumentation.

“One more move, I’ll shoot,” Denver Washington said, his aim straightforward onto the man in the green jacket. Unexpected, Denver thought, Now, I’ll be the hero.

"What daddy always wanted," he said out loud, staring around the people watching.

“The hell—did you come from?” choked the gunman, his backside laid against the sidewalk. "There wasn’t supposed to be any conservatives at this god-damn parade,” he buffed up, and blood spewed out of his mouth, raising hairsbreadths high, and landing over his white chin bumbled with brown hair in coordinate accumulation.

Denver noticed the man’s youthful strike, but he maintained the weapon, and the chaos settled on him like moss on a marshland. “You’re just a child,” Denver said, regarding the sensational belief that he had gained his repurposed reprisal after being dispatched home last week.

“Again?” said the man in an odd countenance. “Again?” he said, once more. “Screw off!” he tried to lift his rifle, labeled on the waterless winter cement of Flagg Alley; unable to tighten his forefinger on the trigger, as Denver fired a third shot inflicting heavy impairment into the man's good shoulder, screeching through flesh outwards from the back of his shoulder blade, immediate sit-down against temptation did invest Denver to regulate the weapon with steadiness.

The young man coughed more blood out of his mouth; the blood stretched among his unbrushed teeth, now defined with red-colored blood; his neckline downwards covered in the living substance. “Come on, finish me.”

“You don’t have to have this happen to you,” Washington lowered his shotgun, “I shot you in three locations. You won’t die from non-lethal distortions, but it’ll likely cripple you for the remaining time you have here on earth.”

The man chuckled with light penetration then determined his exactness was closure, confessed his true intentions. "Where’s the body then?” The question he asked was curiously invigorating and trampled with interests. Denver looked left where he heard the shot, but there wasn’t a body laying on the walking path they were standing on. “What is this?”

“You dumbass,” he answered, laughing. Sudden chills visited Denver Washington. “There ain't nobody.”

“Of course, there,” he turned his head in the direction of the sound, where he head the muzzle. “—isn’t?” he said, confirming his suspicions, he walked towards the area, he believed there was, and did not discover one. The street had been emptied, the night had come, and a young man was lying in his pool of decaying blood. “You shot the wrong person.”

“I don’t understand, how—?”

Two shots rang out. Denver looked down at his chest, noticed blood was surging through his left breast, and he quickly stumbled but maintained his stature. “Fire! Fire!” shouted human voices from behind him, but he couldn’t tell where they were sounding off. More shots inflicted into Denver, several more, and onto dedicated hatred, the busy body flatlined and fell directly onto the gorged ground filled with sprayed brands of his blood, personal and retreated from his body. Denver's entire diction was obliterated without contortion, but onto death and its final curtain call.

“You can’t escape me, man. You never could,” said the words, but not the tongue inserted in the mouth. “You’re dead now, and I can have reassurance now. Oh, what a world, what a world where one can’t learn to have a sane little mind.”