There another one stands on the corner, shivering in the cold with a cheap hooded sweatshirt while he scans for customers and cops. I coast up next to him and press the switch to lower my passenger side window down. He saunters up with a knowing look and begins his sales pitch.

Two years ago, I was a domesticated suburban husband with a wife, two sons, and a baby daughter. I drove a big gas guzzling SUV, paid my mortgage, mowed my grass, kissed my boss’s ass, and watched television religiously.

Then, one day on the way to see a show in the city, my family and I became the unfortunate backdrop for an exchange of gangland gunfire.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson,” the doctor said in his best feigned sympathy, “but your wife and children died from their wounds. Why I’m here, however, is to inform you of the tumors we found in your brain.”

Losing everything had freed me to do whatever I wanted.
I wanted to drown my grief in blood.
I’ll hunt them until the tumors, the cops, or the gangs send me to see my family.