The sun is resting its tired head upon the forested hillside separating work and play, new and old, and with the pumpkin tinted sky in my eyes, I hear the loud voice of a youth. He's approaching with two visible props for his entertainment; soccer and basketball are his games today. I recognize the kid. I've seen him in these parts before, in fact, I've taught him a little English via Mr. Spalding. He's been pushed around by some of the older guys at the courts, yet I have always felt bad for this kid. I notice after the first time on the sidelines that he's mentally retarded, and I've humored him when those kids shunned him from the park. But as he walks unabashed towards me, he is yelling at me in Korean and he draws a gun. I am staring down the barrel of his pistol, silvery, shiny; the chrome looks polished and well kept. Here comes the perfect ending to an imperfect death; life's slideshow mocking you with only 22 years worth of material. The memories stop and now amid my desperate plees my only thought is, "Shit! This is how I go down? What a pathetic way to die!" I can see the newsfeed:

Seogwipo, South Korea
Nov. 1, 2006-- Fulbright Fellow James A. Page was shot twice in the chest yesterday at Geomolhae Sports Complex. He was playing basketball when a local disabled kid approached and fired unprompted, witnesses say. The suspect is being held in custody. Page was 22 years old and a recent graduate of Pitzer College. His family was informed by email early this morning.
Anyway, after enough yelling "no" and "stop it" in Korean, the kid dropped the gun to the ground. I knew that this kid must just have a fake gun, but the notion that maybe this kid had found a gun in his parents' room and brought it out unaware of its potential danger irked me. Being mentally retarded, I did not put this possibility past him, but I just want to believe that Korean parents are more responsible with firearms, if they even have them. Fortune graced me, somewhat, when I witnessed a casual loading of the BBs into the chamber. Though pleased to see it wasn't real, I was still shaken from a few minutes before. Things abruptly changed again, when I began a duck and dodge basketball style to avoid the propelled BBs. I kept telling the kid to stop it, but he seemed to prefer repeating what I said to him whether my words were Korean or English. The game became aggravating after a few shots taken in the chest, arms, back and chin. Soon my fury began boiling inside from the surface level pain of the BBs and I spat an onslaught of English profanity from my dirty mouth as I dribbled around the court, which he began incoherently repeating with his sloppy, slurred speech. Though hurling out vile and disgusting phrases about his mother and crude penetration of non-traditional orifices (I believe I referred to the ear canal at one point), he preferred to, either knowingly or not, mock me with pellets and futile attempts at repetition of my vehement jargon. After about 20 minutes of him stopping and starting up with the target practice, I put my basketball in my backpack and prepared to go, but then the kid grabbed my fleece and nuzzled his face through it saying things to the effect of "I like it". I asked him for it nicely and put it on, but while my head poked through I noticed that he was already rummaging through my belongings. He attempted to take my loose change and I had to physically restrain him from doing so, as simple commands were not being obeyed.

Finally, I managed to get my things and avoid any point blank shots in my eyes. Though humored and frustrated with the whole ordeal, I realized the incredible cool I had kept by not grabbing his piece and throwing it over the fence or worse, beating the living shit out of him. Could you imagine the police report?

"So then the kid loaded the BBs and started firing?"
"Yes"
"And then once hit a few times, you approached the kid--"
"While being shot, sir."
"Yes--and proceeded to slap the 12 year-old victim, take his gun, shoot a round in his leg, and push him to the ground?"
"Yes, sir"
"And how did he get the gash on his face?"
"From the gun, sir."
"You pistol-whipped a 12 year-old mentally handicapped kid?"
"Uh, um...errrrr...yes."

As I left the courts on my bike, he began yelling again and I heard the authoritative sound of the pistol being cocked back and forth between apparent firings at his moving target headed home, defeated.