In a cruel twist of fate, the crackhead was already planning to make a final visit to Greg and his store. Once he had procured his getaway vehicle, Jessie planned to gun down Greg, take whatever loose booty he culled plunder, then ride out into the sunset on a freeway stretch of freedom. Greg had known Jessie, and Jessie was aware of Greg, to a degree that would have been frightening to Greg had he known the full circumstances. Jessie had indeed been the one to break in to Greg's store, as well as many other petty thefts Jessie had carried out without Greg's knowledge.
Greg takes out the keys again. Those keys, those keys, those fucking KEYSGreg was getting dizzy. He dropped the tangled array of keys on the ground. Panic set in. Finally, after all the blood and fear and stress, this is what it came down to.
He was a broken down, out of shape fat man, with a history of heart condition on his family's side. He was not a fucking hero. He was scared, and he was injured and something told him he was going to die now.
Greg had dropped to one knee without realizing it, to pick up the keys. As his dazed eyes looked up, he saw Robert fighting with Jessie. Robert was belting the crackhead with viscous jabs. but still, someway, with some drug that probably he had never heard of, Jessie was still standing. In fact, Jessie looked even more enraged now. Jessie had grabbed hold of one of Roberts legs, so that Robert had to hop awkwardly to keep balance. Then all at once, Jessie pushed forward, overcoming Robert, and making him spill to the ground.  Robert scooted away on his back, using his arms to propel himself away from Jessie. Before Robert could regain his footing however, Jessie shot him in the chest. Robert fell onto his back and coughed blood when he tried to breathe. As Greg watched in horror, some of the blood caught the wind and drifted away into a maroon mist.
Instead of shooting, Greg ranHe was too badly frightened to put up much more of a fight. He was not a hero. The previous thoughts of death removing his responsibilities did not hold comfort now. He couldn't have told you if he wanted to live or die at that moment. His only natural instinct was to survive. He only wanted to run from this individual, to curl up and have it be over, to go to sleep.
His mind was crazed. he no longer felt in control. His only thoughts involve questions about his own self-pity: Why did this happen to him? Why had the woman stopped at my store? If there is a god, why would he  subject me to this??? I am a dead man.
Greg had walked the corridor perhaps a thousand times in his life, and it never seemed much of a journey to him. On a bad day he might cross the threshold in maybe 10 seconds flat, if he was in bad shape. But on that day, as he ran through that little hallway with his own blood caked to the side of his neck, running wildly with gun in hand, it took an eternity to cross.
Jessie was refilling his revolver. If Greg thought about it, he was still at an advantage against Jessie's gun. But Greg couldn't think about it, didn't want to think, didn't want to fight, or shoot anymore, this was not fun, he was dying, he was dying, he was dead.Greg made it halfway across the floor when another shock ran out. The sound was amplified by the stores walls, and Greg found his ears ringing after the sound dissipated. Greg stood there, patting himself dumbly for wounds. Greg heard a strange sizzling sound, and when he looked up, one of his larger 52 inch screen LCD televisions had a smoking hole, with cracks outlining it.
As if jarred from a  stupor, Greg suddenly cuts to the left, realizing Jessie is probably right behind him.
Jessie was actually a decent marksman. It seemed to fit his psychotic, murderous personality, and he spent many days leading up to todays events shooting up an old toilet he found. After several hours, there was nothing but rubble left of the old porcelain toilet. He help improved his aim coldly, with dedication summed up from his pharmaceutical choices. Over the past day, Jessie had taken enough coken, crack and amphetamines to stay flying for quite awhile, and this flight was overnight, with no sleep or dinner breaks in between, ladies and gentlemen. No siree, Jessie was at a plane where food was not needed, and he was reveling in his last final wanton acts of destruction. 
Jessie took careful aim at the fat-fuck. It was an easy target, that fat sonata bitch.
As Greg had stood there stupefied, looking at the largest TV he had in the store fizzle, blood had dripped down Greg's waist. The patter of blood drops pooled together in that brief time he was standing, and that's what Greg slipped on when he tried to run on last time.
Jessie's gun went off at the exact moment. Greg felt a flash of heat and pain in his buttocks as Jessie's bullets tore through him. Greg fell down in agony, with a wet flop on his belly. the bullet had partially ricocheted of Gregs Coxyx, shattering his tail bone into shards imbedded in flesh.
With one final motion, although it hurt him badly, Greg rolled over from his stomach onto his agonized rear end, and emptied the remaining clip of his Beretta. As Greg lay on his back, he could feel his arms kicking up with the recoil of the gun. Greg just kept pulling the trigger, as fast as he possibly could. A total of nine shots. The first two hit Jessie squarely in the chest. Jessie was nocked backwards into a display of old Christmas audio tapes. Gregs hit Jessie a total of 6 of 9 nine times, in the arms and legs, with wounds too numerous to count later on. One bullet pierced Jessies hand, and striking the snub nose, causing it to wobble wildly through the air in a short tumble. One bullet struck Jessie's throat, turning his cries of pain and anguish into an inarticulate, wet choke.
Jessies shepherd skin collared jacket was torn almost to shreds from the bullets. At one point, Jessie had held up his arms in a defensive motion. Several of the bullets went through the radius and ulna bones of both forearms, smashing them to bits. A few of those went further, past the arms and lodged in Jessie's lung.
By the 9th shot, Jessie was already dead and collapsed face-down amongst a collection of Bing Crosby and Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas classics.
The gun was smoking in his hand. The slide was ejected backward, as the final shells were flung loose. That cordite smell again, so bitterHe had smelled it far too much today, it was making his head swim. Hard to hold onthe gun tumbled from his grip, clattering loudly on the floor. His other hand hand managed to stay on his wound throughout the whole ordeal.
He wasn't much of a doctor, but he chalked it up to survival instinct.

He remembered the mother grabbing his cell phone, calling the cops one final time. She kneeled over him with the babe in one arm. Greg had tiredly looked over at the baby chicken he had helped save. He smiled softly at her adorable outfit. He took his hand away from his wound only once, to lightly pat the child on the shoulder. As his hand fell away from the baby, he realized he had left another bloody handprint, this time on the baby's clothes.
The mother had rushed to put a towel against his neck, to stop the bleeding. She propped his pale face agains the corner of the wall, and that's when the paramedics finally came. By that time however, Greg had passed out, and could hear no more

LINK TO PART 5: http://www.ebaumsworld.com/user/blog/artman4444/view=82166173/