You might of heard I run with a dangerous crowd. We all have our leather jackets and torn up jeans. We have our dark hair greased back. We all got scars. All of us but Johnny. Johnny ain’t the type: he doesn’t carry around weapons or pick up broads or even grease his hair. Johnny is quiet and smart and he doesn’t look like one of us except for his jacket. I know, we ain’t too pretty; we ain’t too proud either. We ain’t got much money but we got each other and our knives. We’re ready to rumble, but we’re not looking for trouble.

There are some guys who are lookin for trouble, though, and when they pulled up in their mustang with their nice clothes and their blond hair, I knew they were dying for a fight.

Tony was all ready for a street fight. He already had his knife out. We could all tell this wouldn’t end well. In a few minute’s time, after we all thought they were down for the count, we heard a gunshot. When I looked down, I saw the most awful sight: Johnny with a hole in his chest.