"You got a problem with me, daddy-o," he inquired as he flipped up the collar of
his leather jacket.
	"I've got a problem with you seeing my daughter, boy," Smith grumbled through
his clenched teeth.
	"Just so you know," Johnny volunteered, smirking, "I'm only interested in Sandy
because she has some big ... wits."
	Smith slammed his hands into Johnny's chest, like pistons, knocking the boy onto
his rear.  Johnny quickly picked himself up and ripped off his coat, revealing his tight
white T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the right sleeve.  He reached into his
back pocket and produced a switchblade, the knife's blade sprang out with an intimidating
clack.  The dozen or so of Johnny's comrade in a semi-circle behind him gasped, as did the
people milling about around the restaurant.
	"You're gonna regret that, old man," Johnny threatened, tightening his grip n the
knife at his side.
	"Oh, I don't think so, son,"  Smith quickly and confidently retorted.  From
underneath his coat at the small of his back he slickly produced a Colt Detective Special
.38 revolver.  He leveled it at Johnny's forehead, which was no more than ten feet away,
and cocked the hammer.
	Johnny's jaw dropped and his eyes grew wide.  He almost dropped his switchblade. 
A puddle was forming at his feet.  Everyone had fallen silent, and even the crickets
ominously had stopped chirping.
	Tense seconds passed, drawing on seemingly forever, and then the chirping
returned, and everyone started to remember to breath.  Murmurs of muted comments
between people floated through the air like far away whispers, the question on their mind
and lips obvious.
	Johnny remembered he was performing for two audiences, not just his gang but
also the townspeople, and closed his mouth, and turned his startled looking eyes into thin
slits of contempt.  He was still as sacred as before that a bullet would tear his mind apart,
but he couldn't shot it if he wanted to keep his gang's respect, and the town's fear.
	"Is that the best you got, pops," Johnny defiantly sneered at Smith, looking down
his nose at him.  "Thirty-eights are for cops and kids."
	Smith only snorted.  "It'll kill you just as dead as any other caliber, punk.  I asked
you nicely before to leave my daughter alone.  Now I'm telling you."
	"You want me to leave Sandy alone.  But dues she want me to leave her alone? 
That's the important thing here; not what you want for her, but what she wants for
herself."
	"You sound like you might have a brain about you, Johnny boy," Smith observed,
"but you're wasting it on these mindless sheep.  Get a job, some respectable clothes, and a
new attitude, and you'd probably be okay.  But as of right now, Sandy doesn't need to be
around garbage like you.  She doesn't know what's best for her right now, but I do." 
Johnny opened his mouth to say something, but Smith cut him off.  "And I sure as hell
didn't take a bullet in Berlin so that I could watch my little girl be corrupted by the likes of
you."
	As was his style, Johnny spoke first and thought later.  "We're not any trouble
really, we just got a bad rap.  Just because we ride motorcycle and wear leather jackets
don't mean we're bad people.  We're just misunderstood."
	Smith didn't have the time nor the energy to listen to such blatant lies.  "Well
understand this:  you and your little friends can get your little bikes and get out of town,
or you can receive a free brainectomy from Doctor Colt.  The choice," and here he
emphasized the word choice, making it seem like he'd just as soon shoot the boy as see
him leave town, "is yours.  You've got to the count of three.  ... Three."
	"Oh Johnny," a shriek tore through the night.  Smith turned around to see his
beloved daughter Sandy running down the street, tears streaming from her eyes.  Then
behind his back he heard a chorus of shocked gasps, and he turned back around in time to
see Johnny's snarling face coming right at his, his switchblade outstretched.  Johnny
drove his blade deep into Smith's throat; Smith pulled the trigger and Johnny's forehead
collapsed in on itself.  As the two lifeless bodies collapsed gracelessly to the cold
pavement, Sandy went to her knees by the two dead men, weeping uncontrollably.