As the kid made his way back to the rear of the Infiniti, it seemed he would notice the Yo-Yo for sure, poised just within the pale pool of light encircling the car. But since the kid didn’t want to waste a moment to broadcast his badass ways to whatever posse followed his every deed, he kept his head down almost all the way. Almost. Because just before he swung back in the car, something bothered him, jogging his mind’s shoulder: a primordial instinct, an imperfection in the blackness that enveloped their little world. Whatever it was, it made him look up, directly at the Yo-Yo.

His eyes widened and his head tilted as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing—a huge white guy pointing a pistol straight at him. And that was the last thing he ever tried to make sense of before the Yo-Yo’s gun flashed and boomed, blowing his brains out of the back of his head and over his buddy in the front seat. His buddy yelled in shock and then kept yelling. His high-pitched scream overlaid the staccato urban beat and wafted over to the three men in the SUV.

The Yo-Yo strode to the front of the car. The kid behind the wheel looked up, eyes wide and terrified, face dripping red with the cranial detritus of his friend. He yelled until the Yo-Yo’s gun boomed again, throwing him out of his seat and headfirst down into the passenger footwell.

There was a flash from inside the car and a small bang, almost a pop. Pistol Pete had gotten his act together. The Yo-Yo stepped aside and crouched while more flashes lit up the car interior. The rear windshield dissolved. The guy was firing blind. The Yo-Yo leaned against the rear fender. One of his feet was actually on the hand of the first kid’s corpse. He took careful aim through the open rear door, through the front passenger seat, and fired again.

Moments later, Pistol Pete appeared in front of the Infiniti clutching his right arm, bug-eyed, hyperventilating. He half crouched, half fell against the front of the car, looked back frantically over both shoulders, and then took off. He hadn’t made ten yards before the Yo-Yo’s cannon sheered through one of his hips. He went down flailing and proceeded to spin on the ground like an injured fly. One of his Nikes flew off as he kicked at rubble. The Yo-Yo walked up to him and quickly put in a head shot, bringing the deranged movement to an abrupt halt. The Yo-Yo fired one more time. He then returned to the car and fired a carefully aimed shot at each of the kids.