“All of it, now!” said the head hoodlum, gesturing to Howard’s pockets with a pointing motion from inside the front pocket his own baggy shorts.
Whatever he was pointing with, it wasn’t his finger, Howard thought. The outline of something small, hard and cylindrical was clearly delineated by the short’s fabric stretched over the contours of its end. Howard was certain that the semantically challenged gang leader had a pistol in his pocket and was pointing with its barrel. Howard’s hands shook and his knees felt weak. His stomach was upset and he wanted to pee. Although he couldn’t admit it to himself, he was terrified at the prospect of being skewered from behind and being gutted like a barnyard animal at the abattoir.