Damon opened his eyes ever so slightly as he slowly lifted his head from his pillow. Strangely, it didn't feel like the same pillow he slept with every night. It was too firm and too flat. That's why he chose a soft down filled pillow, nothing was more important than sleep, except possibly baseball.

He sat up a bit further and tried to stretch his arms up to the sky, part of his usual morning ritual that would be followed by the rubbing of his eyes before he glanced out the window to check on the day's weather. As his stretch reached its apex he felt a tremendous throbbing pain vibrate through his left arm. And then it came back to him like a boomerang he wished he had never thrown. The nightmare had been real.

It all began with the sameness of another scorching summer afternoon. Taxicab horns echoed through the hurried rhythms of commerce, those pursuits of wealth that overtook the masses every weekday from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. But this was his lunch hour, time for himself away from his trivial work, away from his coworkers that he put up with only as a means to an end. He liked them but they weren't the sort of people he would ever have chosen as friends. They were intellectual types and as such were boring sticklers for detail stuck in the same meaningless routines day after day. Yet it was that very same attention to detail that Damon shared with them as a common trait necessary for his job.

Today, he had decided that for lunch he would walk up the block to Fat Eddy's, home to the best French fries on the island. He knew they weren't the healthiest food around and yes it would probably make him sleepwalk through the rest of the day but boy it would be a great fifteen minutes while he savoured every stick of unpeeled deep-fried Idaho potato.

He never made it to Fat Eddy's. Instead, he found himself desperately running through a slew of businessmen, midday shoppers and tourists as he tried to evade his pursuers. Nobody even gave him a second glance. This was Manhattan, everybody doing their own thing. If only they could put their lives on hold long enough to notice somebody in need of help.

What the hell is happening to me, Damon hastily thought to himself as he the maze of pedestrians across the busy streets of midtown Manhattan. I should have just given them my wallet. Why do I always have to make my life so darned difficult?

Damon looked back over his shoulder, his pursuers were still chasing him through the crowded masses and they were gaining on him. Just open your mouth and yell for help, he thought to himself but the thought never made it to reality.

As Damon turned a corner into an alley he felt his new leather shoes lose traction on the smooth pavement beneath him as he slipped to the ground. With his heart pounding, his lungs longing for air, Damon lifted his head, checking behind once again to see if he had outwitted his pursuers. Instead, he found himself encircled by them as they swaggered with an air of viscous confidence. Damon looked up at the one who had first approached him, the steroid freak with the ripped tank top that read; God may have brought you into this world but I'll take you out. He leered over Damon as he flashed a crooked smile, showing off his gold teeth.

I'm going to die.

"You made us chase you, and that pissed me off," he told Damon as he bounced his massive chest muscles, nearly tearing apart what was left of his shirt. "You know what you have to do now."

Damon wasn't a small guy but he was tiny compared to the freak standing menacingly in front of him. And Damon wasn't much of a fighter either, he never had to be. Being a thirty-two year, slender built, African American in Manhattan meant the only trait of value was his mind. This wasn't Queens or The Bronx. He grew up using his mouth as his weapon, but he didn't feel that his wit would get him out of this situation. If anything, it was liable to make matters worse. These thugs didn't look like the sharpest knives in the butcher block. His only option would be to capitulate but that didn't mean he had to be nice about it.

"Why me?" asked Damon.

"Because you have to share the wealth brother."

"Don't you brother me," replied Damon in disgust as he threw him his wallet. "Just take it and go."

The oversized gym rat flashed a nasty snarl as Damon realized his ordeal would not end so quickly. "I think we're taking your cell phone too," he told Damon, knowing that he was in complete control and enjoying it. "We've all got some buddies we'd like to call."

Damon reluctantly handed him his password-protected cell phone. Since there was no cash in his wallet and his credit cards were maxed out these thugs weren't getting much, just wasting their time which only made him ask himself once again why he simply didn't give them his wallet the first time they approached him. It must be his loathing for authority, he concluded, a trait that had been passed down to him from his mother. Nobody would dare tell her what to do unless they were ready for an earful. His father found that appealing. He was more than happy to allow his wife to think with him just following orders but nobody would ever say that that didn't make him a man. He simply enjoyed having less to worry about. Damon on the other hand needed to be the one doing all of the worrying.

"Now wasn't that easy?" the freak asked rhetorically. "Did you have to make us chase you? For a black man, you sure as hell don't run too fast. You have to learn to be courteous. When a brother asks another brother for his wallet, just give it to him."

"I'll remember that for next time," Damon replied sarcastically as he tried to get up. "So if we've finished our business I'd like to head back to work now."

The big guy pushed him back to the ground. "This ain't over mister big shot. Take off your watch."

Damon looked at his fifty-year-old Hamilton wristwatch –military issue- with its badly scratched glass and cheap green leather strap, the only object he owned that held any meaning to him. His father had given him when he had finished his tour of duty in Africa. Ever since his father died a few years ago Damon would spend hours on end staring at that watch bringing back endless memories.

"This was my father's. It's all I have left from him. Don't do this," Damon pleaded while reluctantly accepting that once again he had no other choice but to comply. If he fought he would get beaten to a pulp and still lose the watch.

The big guy looked back at the other two gang members with a sarcastic smile. "Do any of you remember your daddy? I sure as hell don't. My mamma isn't quite sure who he is. His daddy could have been mine for all I know."

"You hear that, James?" continued the big guy as he spoke to the smallest of the three gang members. "This boy might very well be your brother." He snarled at Damon. "Are you telling me you want to deny James his daddy's watch?"

"Hey!" snapped back James. "My brother wouldn't run like no pussy."

"Just shut up and take his watch," he commanded.

"Why do you have to disrespect me like that?"

"Are you questioning me? Do I have to slap you around as well?"

Damon noticed that the gang members had become distracted as they argued amongst themselves. He knew that if there was any way he could escape this predicament, he would have to take advantage of this momentary lapse. He placed his hands by his side and slowly pushed himself up. When he felt he had enough leverage, he quickly got up and started to run.

His feet began to move swiftly. His body, fueled by fear, raced at speeds he never knew himself capable of. Every step brought him closer to the safety of the crowded street. It worked. He could feel the distance increasing between himself and the thugs in the alley. This time his new shoes didn't fail him.

As the street drew nearer he could see a cop talking to a pedestrian. Again he decided to yell for help but before any sound could leave his throat he felt the exceedingly painful vibrations of solid metal strike him over the head. Damon's world spun around uncontrollably as he crumbled to the ground and smashed his forehead on the hard pavement.

    His head was still spinning when his eyes finally opened. He looked up and squinted through the bright sunlight blinding his vision of the young man kneeling over him.

"Who are you?" Damon asked.

"You're going to be just fine," he said. "All of your belongings are right here." His voice was calm yet very assertive sending and oddly enough at the same time soothing.

"What happened?" Damon asked.

The young man didn't respond as two medics came running through the crowd towards Damon. In a matter of seconds, they had begun placing him on a stretcher. Damon looked back for the young man, scanning through the curious crowd of people that always seemed to appear around ambulances, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Oh man, not again, Damon gasped to himself, as his head once more began to spin out of control. He decided not to fight it and closed his eyes.