Descriptive Essay-Turon Lamont Walker

The moist, humid air clings to the skin of the many Portland Grassroots festival goers. One particular festival attendee, Turon Lamont Walker Jr. is excessively feeling the scorching heat on this hot May afternoon. He’s wearing a thick cotton sweatshirt and plastered on acidic washed grey jeans. The burning rays from the searing sun burns Turons’ hands, which are dripping with sweat. Grudgingly, he shoves his blistering meathooks into his sweatshirt pocket. The cool touch from the metal barrel nestled closely against his hip brings instant relief to his sweltering fingers. It reminds him of a time where he shoved his torn up knuckles into a pile of snow after losing a fight to one of those queer looking snowboarders up at Mt. Hood on a ski

The stream of blood trickling in front of his eyes is a constant reminder of the trouble that lays in store for him behind his home door. Trembling, Turon grasps the rusted copper door handle with his green discoloured sausage-like fingers. Shoot, I must have hit that son of a bitch in the kisser pretty dang hard. I can’t even open the damn door without breaking a sweat, Turon thinks to himself as an electric shot of pain shoots up his arm when turning the door handle and opening the door. Turon as quiet as a mouse tiptoes across the old hardwood flooring to his room wanting to avoid the confrontation from his father if he sees the physical injuries from the fight Turon started. Just as he was two steps away from entering into his hideout, Turon’s Dad says, “Son what are you doing?” “Nothing” mumbles Turon. “That sure doesn’t look like nothing when you're sneaking off to your room like that. Show some respect and look your old man in the eye.” Tyron curses under his breath. He gingerly turns around and looks at his Dad in the face. If Turon’s dad was a firecracker on the fourth of july he would be the most explosive and vibrant firework in the sky. Literally steam is coming off from the top of his Dad’s balding head. “Shit what happened”, yells Turon’s dad.
Turon gulps and says “I got in a fight and I’m expelled from

He was fed up and tired of that look of disgust and feeling the worth of less than a penny. No one is more superior than I, thinks Turon. Sick and tired of that disgraceful look and belittlement, Turon squeezes the gun and begins to pull it away from his hip. The man is a perfect target to aim at with his bright green outfit contrasting from the eroded brick wall with peeled white flakes chipped and dangling from the exterior of the shabby wedding store behind the hideous dressed man. The white wall makes a perfect canvas for the soon to be red paint to splatter on, creating a nice piece of artwork for the art festival. Turon twists, turns, and lifts the heavy barrel to eye level and pulls the trigger, not letting go. It’s a semi-automatic and bullets spit from the mouth. Abruptly, five large explosions ripple and slice through the air, piercing Turon’s ear drums. Painfully clutching his ear with his right hand and the other hand holding the gun, he frantically tosses the firearm into the air to get rid of the evidence. Turon sprints for his life. Turon was running a race without a finish line. It’s only a short time later when Turon is captured and hauled towards the downtown precinct by Portland’s finest. The radio is up and suddenly time seems to stop. It can’t be true. How in the hell where his two