Читать книгу 'The River' Blood Brother Chronicles - Volume 1 - T. Beaulieu - Страница 6

The thunder is rambunctious and powerful, clapping overhead as if God himself has found the devil, beating his eternal archenemy to a pulp. A well deserved pummel indeed.

The surrounding woods are silent except for thunder and loneliness. Night and rain shrouding everything in wet slick misery.

In a small house, built and rebuilt, simple in its humble style, a man sits alone.

In the one room shack, neat and orderly; one bed, a night table, a breakfast nook, as well as a wood burning stove, the young man smiles at his own solitude.

As he sits alone, drinking down another shot of whiskey, the stranger looks to his right. Catching his reflection in makeshift mirror.

Brown skinned and handsome, his fine hair combed back, wet from a tub bath. The young thug seems to be mesmerized by his own reflection, though his mind is on other things.

“Sexy negro,”he smiles.

Amused, glad for the peace, the young mulatto man pours another shot of relief. Downing the alcohol with a wince, he feels the whisky burn its way to a gut already filled with hot food from a woman whom has just left.

Pleased with himself, hands falling between his legs, leading down. The hustler feels his own healthy heavy sexual ambition through his boxers. Half limp yet still throbbing. The creole is still fixated on the sex he just had.

Rising, buzzed with liquor and good love, the young man makes his way over to the heap of discarded clothes as rain pummels a window nearby. Scanning the days worth of laundry, the handsome thug spies a small delight.

Smiling, grinning ear to ear, the half naked roughen lifts a pair of silk undergarments to his nose, taking a long luxurious whiff of heaven.

“Sweet Pussy Sally,” the hunk smiles.

Instantly he feels his hard on jump, needing more attention.

“Naw-tha’ wasn't nuf’. Need mo' pussy,” the man grins.

Chuckling, the handsome hustler looks over to his makeshift closet. A hanging rack of finery that should be in the grandest of wardrobes.

“Bette's husband’s away on business.”

Thinking about the chocolate beauty and her particular gift, the creole grins as he takes another whiff of the panties.

“Yeah, she’ll do jus’ nice,” the young man grins.

Laughing softly, the sexy thug hears his own words.

“Benjamin Beaulieu, yo’ creole crazy ass gon' get shot up sum'thin fuck’in awful.”

"‘Specially if her limp dick’d husban’d find me all up in tha’ sweet pussy.”

Benjamin chuckles at his own thoughts, picturing the short men catching him in mid-stroke. Bette moaning to the high heavens. The thug instantly wonders what he would do as he laughs out loud.

Taking another whiff of the pink panties, purposely left of course by a woman whom sees the killer as a sure fascination, even a death wish. Benjamin laughs.

“Damn-dat’ woman is gon’ git me kill’d yeah ....shiiiiit.”

“Not if otha’s get thu’r blade in mi’ first.”

Needing another shot as his fine silk boxers tent forth, Benjamin drops the panties on the heap of clothes. The creole looks over to his right, seeing a suit and a pair of fine shoes. On the right wall sits two stylish fedoras.

“Perfect,” Benjamin grins.

Suddenly, a loud knock booms through the shack, shaking the air drying stud to his core. Ominous and unexpected.

Especially since nobody knows of is his 'love shack', but his lovers.

“Who tha’ fuck is that?,” Benjamin almost whispers, not moving a step, realizing that the old floors creak.

Suddenly, louder than before, another loud knock nearly beats the door in. This time more demanding.

“Damn neighbors. Must be one of thu’r kinfolk,” Benjamin whispers to himself.

For a few minutes the small shack is silent. The young hired killer is rooted to his spot, shot glass in hand, not moving an inch. As if playing possum.

Suddenly another forceful knock is heard, this time a thunderous. As if knocking the old door from its hinges,

“Benjamin, I kno’ ya’ red ass is in thu'r son!,” can be heard behind the door.

His eyes darting around the room, the creole is shocked. As his eyes shoot across the room, the hustler sees his straight blade and gun a few feet away.

“Yeah .... So wh’ut tha’ fuck of it naw....?,”

“Who tha’ fuck is d'at-knock'in on my doe’ like tha’ devil himself?,” Benjamin yells. No need to play dead. Especially since he just may be in a few minutes.

“Open tha’ damn door mane’. Find tha’ fuck out!,” the male voice booms from behind the cheap wooden door.

“Or I cu’d just kick this fuck’a down!”

Quickly, Benjamin looks to his gun. It would only take a few moves and he would have his hands wrapped around judgment and glory.

Fast and sound, tumbling over, head to feet, landing skillfully on the balls of his toes, the agile creole grabs his gun. Aiming at the closed door.

“I got sum'thin fo’ that ass if ya keep knock'in!”

“Keep fuck'in wit’ me naw...!”

“Ya’ hu’r me naw mutha'-fuck'a!”

Feeling confidant as his adrenaline pumps, the creole is ready to shot off a round. Benjamin aims. Ready. He does not hear not a peep.

“Same nigga awe tha’ way ta’ treat ya’ brutha’?,” can be heard behind the door.

Benjamin’s eyes open wide. A lie.

“Yeah-I hear ya, x’cpt my brutha’ is in damn Chicago. Nice try mutha'fucka!!,” he yells, ready to shoot.

Sure and ready as muscles tense to rock hard steel, the creole’s hands close around the cold steel. Benjamin’s finger train themselves around the trigger. Warm to his clammy touch. He is ready to blast away, doing what he does best.

“Its Slick. Red ass nigga.”

“Be right naw....open the damn doe’!”

“My dick is freezing out here!”

Benjamin hears the voice as a white smiling face floats through his liquor soaked mind. Another in the same profession as he. His half brother.

Or maybe its someone trying to disarm the contract killer for a quick paycheck.

Cautious, the creole’s hands grip tightens around the gun barrel. He does not budge.

“So say yo’ nigga!”

“How tha’ fuck I know its yo’!”

Hearing a shuffle behind the rickety door, a voice speaks up. Coughing slightly.

“Last y’ur, kill’in tha’ Dougan boys afta’ they lynch’d and rap’d that lil black

girl. We met up.”

“Ya’ told me ‘bout ya’ ole lady....”

“We compar’d notes then ya’ spent tha’ weekend with me and Kelly ?,” the voice yells, coughing once again.

Benjamin instantly smiles, remembering a night both men were drunk on good moonshine. Their pockets were filled with $1,000 a piece. The brothers were looking looking for sweetest trouble a man slide get into.

Loosening the grip on his gun grip, the creole thinks.

“Oh yeah. Dorothy. She sho’can guzzle some dick. Can she?,” he yells.

A test.

Benjamin hears nothing but rain, thunder clapping overhead outside.

“Who tha’ fuck is Dorothy? ........,” is said on the other side.

“We’s talk'in bout’ Mary nigga. We both don' fucked her ....” the voice yells.

Suddenly, Benjamin laughs out loud.

His gun falls to his side.

The creole is secretly relieved as he walks to the door.

Unlatching the old door, creaking it open with a big grin, the thug’s face suddenly melts into a agitated deadpan expression.

He is staring down the barrel of a Luger pistol.

Cocky, the creole snickers, seeing past the cold black steel into bright blue eyes, even in the dark night. Eyes of the best friend he has in all of creation.

“Ya’ still go’ tha’ ugly ass gun?,” Benjamin smirks.

“Matt’as fuck’in not muth’a-fuck’a,” the young white mane growls gently.

“Im hu’r ta’ make so’ ya’ meet ya’ mak’a tonight,” Slick smiles deviously.

“So who hire’d ya’ no shoot'in ass?,” Benjamin says with a fixed smile. He knows humor is Slick's weakness.

“Especially wit’ tha’ grand daddy gun.”

“Ya’ a body lay'a. Git’ ya’ so'mthin sexy.”

Short in stature, yet powerfully built, Slick’s blonde hair is wet, as is his well made suit. Drenched to the bone. The gun stilled inches from a face that he has known all his life, the contract killer’s aim would be true. Though his heart would not in it.

“Shut tha’ fuck up negro.”

“I shu’d jus’ shoot ya’ yella' ass fo’ all d'em’ men who's wives ya’ don’ fuck’d,” the blue eyed hustler laughs.

Seeing the steel barrel waver from his forehead, Benjamin's hair is getting wet, his well built chest nearly slick wet. “Like ya’ aint fuck’d anoth’a man's pussy- sssssshhhhh--it,” he laughs,

“Look’a hur’. Come inside. Got some whiskey.”

“Naw-got my own mutha'-fuck'a',” Slick snarls. His focus made strong and true. He has job to do.

Benjamin’s patience has been spent. He is getting irritated.

“Then kill me then fucka!”

“What tha' fuck you wait'in for honkey!”

“Blow tha’ trigga nigga!,” the hit man yells, ready to meet his end.

As the two men stand off, there seems to be a stillness all around everything as rain pelts the dark night. Thunder bellowing further and further away.

Benjamin suddenly chuckles as a thought comes to his mind.

“Nigga. Kelly Anne gon’ kick ya ass up and down Columbia muth’a - fuck’a.”

“Wait till I tell hu’r ya’ stuck’a gun in my face. Ya’ dead meat nigga,” the killer

smirks.

Suddenly Slick laughs loudly, a belly chuckle.

The gun falls to his hips.

Benjamin is instantly relieved.

"I’s gon’ tell hur’ too,” the creole laughs out loud, opening the door wider.

“And ya’ gon’ stop call’in me a negro too. Its ‘colored’ now days ya ig’norunt asshole.

Slick chuckles loudly, shaking his shoulder length hair free from rain water. Benjamin opens the door wider. Glad to see his baby brother.

“Negro please-yo’ in mo' black pussy than me,” the creole continues.

“I cut that white skin of yu’rs. All I’mma find is black-ass skin.”

“Why is ya’ masquerad’in as a white man negro?”

Suddenly Slick buckles over, a heart felt laugh. He can not take any more. “Its tha skin col’a. White folk be confus’d,” he snickers.

“And them devil eyes .....,” Benjamin laughs, welcoming the young man in.

Slick walks right in. Glad for the warmth of the shack.

“Naw, baby boi.”

“These hu’r blue babies git all tha’ sweet pussy I can swim in,” Slick snickers.

“Black’o white.”

Inside, Benjamin pulls up a seat to a makeshift table, slamming down two shot glasses. Steadily watching his half brother, especially the gun that Slick has just placed on the shanty table between them. The creole wonders.

“So yo’ was hired to kill me?,” he asks, pouring.

“Two in tha’ head of ya’ greasy mongrel hair. Three ta’ be safe,” Slick snickers.

“Who hir’d ya’ ?,” Benjamin asks, downing his first shot.

“Who else. Ole Man Fitzgarald,” Slick comments, glad for the whiskey.

Benjamin glares up at the young man seriously. “Yo’ gon' do it ?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Slick laughs.

Seeing Benjamin reaction, the thug’s smile melts from his lips.

“Yo’ a ly’in mutha'fucka'.” Benjamin laughs, downing another shot.

“As sho' as my birth muth'a’ was a saint,” Slick laughs.

“Yo’ mama was no damn saint nigga.”

“My daddy fuck’d hu’r three ways from Sunday. Then made up fo’ Monday- Tuesday and Friday,” Benjamin laughs, downing another shot.

“Yo’ talk'in bout’ my mama,” Slick sneers, almost laughing.

“So....?,” Benjamin grins.

Finally, the gun pushed away, both men chuckle at each other. Occasionally eyeing the pistol. Benjamin and Slick relax. About as relaxed as two contract killers can get in front of each other. Especially when one is hired to kill the other.

Benjamin pours another shot. “How much tha’ racist pig paid’ya’ ?,” he asks.

Smiling, his brother accepts the shot. “Two thousn’d,” Slick grins.

Benjamin pours another shot for himself. “Damn-he want’d my black ass dead real bad.”

“Bout’ as bad as he lies ‘bout not fuck’in tha’ pretty black maid he got,” Slick laughs, eyeing his gun.

The creole relaxes back as he eyes his brother.

“Ya’ mean tha’ one I fuck’d. Stretch’d tha’ sweet pussy wit’ this thick hog?,” he snides.

“Anyways ...yo’ got my cut ...?”

Gingerly, glad for the spirits, the young white man reaches into his inner jacket pocket, drenched through and through. The handsome killer pulls out several neat stacks of rubber band tied bills. Thick and wet.

Slick tosses the money to Benjamin as the wet stack of cash making a wet thud on the rickety table.

“He bought all tha’ shyt ya’ told him?”

“Kook-line and sink’a,” Benjamin grins, eyeing the stack of cash.

“Like tha’ greedy big mouth trout he is,” Slick laughs, feeling the buzz of the liquor in his head.

“Told him I don’ seen tha’ error of mi’ fuck’in ways as a white man.”

“Tha’ I want’d ta join tha’ Klux’s. They tuk’ me ta’ a few meet’ins.”

“Bor’in shit tho’. Pretty gals tho’. Fuck’d two. One let me fuck hur’ in tha’ ass,” Slick smiles.

Benjamin reaches for the wet money.

A plan has just been funded.

Retribution to be.

“Tha’ fat fuck just paid fo’ his whole family ta’ be put unda’,” the creole grins.

“No woman. I think somebody got plans fo’ em anyways,” Slick warns.

Benjamin laughs, trying to unravel wet bills from wet rubber bands. “Hell naw playa’.”

“We neva’ got down like tha’ .”

Looking up, the black man eyes his brother curiously.

“How’s tha’ sexy ass Kelly McDuff?”

Slick looks up from his shot glass, a glint of anger in his eyes.

“I don’ told’cha ta’ keep my son’s mama out’cha slick fuck’in mouth mane.”

“Say one mo’ thing and I’mma do wha’ I was hire'd ta’ fuck’in do -- naw.”

Benjamin laughs, grimacing at the wet linen paper mess in his hands, throwing it all back on the table.

“Aint wha’ she said when I last saw hur’,” he laughs.

“In fact she want’d my slick mouth all ova’ her.”

The creole laughs as his eyes dart over to Slick’s pistol.

It is at a safe distance.

Slick shakes his head, needing another drink. He loudly taps on the table for his brother to pour. “Damn nigga’.”

“Ya’ won’t leave well nuff’ fuck’in alone will ya,” he snickers, his clear blue eyes sparkling.

“So ya’ say yo’ white honk’y,” Benjamin smiles.

The creole pours another shot for his brother. “So how is she?”

“My dear sist’a-in-law ?”

Lounging back in the rickety chair, hearing it creak, the black man relaxes. Ready to hear of his half brother’s latest trials with the love of his life with the legendary “Cold-As-Ice-Kelly”.

One of the loveliest woman in McClellanville, south Carolina.

It is rumored that the cold hearted seductress has had several lovers killed. Men whom talked too much, spreading lies ad rumors. The beauty has also been rumored to have killed off her late husband.

Benjamin looks to his kin dressed in a different skin, not understanding how the short handsome man could land such a beauty. Let alone convince the “Ice Queen” to have his baby boy. The pride of Benjamin's life.

“What ya do ta’ hur’ ?,” Benjamin grins, feeling the effect of the alcohol.

“Wha’ ya’ say naw ...?,” Slick laughs.

“Ta’ land Kelly negro. What ya’ do ?”

“I aint’cha looks fo’sho’

Slick leans back as his wet suit dries slowly. Warming to his damp skin.

Smiling, the sexy scoundrel runs his fingers through his blonde shoulder length hair. “Shiiiiiii-t ......,” he playfully hisses.

“I jus’ let hu’r take control. Simple as that.”

Benjamin instantly laughs, pouring another shot. “So ya’ let ‘Ole Ice Queen make yo’ hur’ bitch?”

Slick laughs, buzzed, enjoying the conversation.

“Yep, and I’s enjoy every moment of it. Tha’ woman can ride a dick like a cok’d up jockey. And it aint nobody’s business. Ya’ hur me -- ya’?”

Benjamin nods, understanding the hint.

The woman that is the center of conversation, though cold to men whom seek her as a lover, has a heart just as warm and kind. A truly loving soul.

Last year, two young teenage black boys got themselves in a world of southern justice trouble. Both were in a corner grocers in Beaufort, doing what teenage boys do. One was said to have made a comment to a white girl of the same age.

Two days later, both teenagers were in jail, beaten to a pulp. Their necks about to be strung up the nearest tree.

It was Kelly whom convinced the sheriff to have second thoughts, finally letting the young men go.

Some say Kelly did sexual favors for two of the sheriffs. Others say that Slick is cuckolded and the law man is Kelly’s lover. All gossip created by envious women and men.

Both men at the table know exactly why the sheriff let the kids go so suddenly.

Money, and lots of it.

“I should’a shot tha’ fat racist fuck,” Slick sneers.

“Naw-tak’in him up to Vincent's was gu’d enough. Hog tied and shit,” Benjamin laughs, his snicker quickly dying down to a mumble.

Both men know what happen to the murderous sheriff.

“Is it true.....?” Slick grins.

“Wha’.....?,” Benjamin asks, relaxing more.

The creole tries his best to not even consider what happen to the ruddy ignorant officer, shifting in his seat.

“Ya’ might be a pretty boy Benjamin. But ya’ aint no damn dummy,” Slick laughs, pouring another shot.

Thinking through a grimace, Benjamin's light hazel eyes leave those of blue. Both men look off, considering all that may have happened. The cruelty of it all.

“Yeah .....four of em’... they all took turns,” he finally says, barely. As if the act itself offends even his retched soul.

“Bet he won’t be fuck’in with no mo’ color’ds any mo’ tho’,” Slick laughs.

“Naw.......cause they fuck’d him....,” Benjamin laughs, finally letting it out.

The punishment fit the crime.

“They said it was white men tho’,” Slick says as Benjamin shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable with the conversation.

“A mix ....po’ white trash and negros. Two of em’ tha’ sheriff sent to hard labor fo’ no reason,” Benjamin says.

“Good.” Is all that Slick says.

Looking away from his partner in crime, the thug wonders about something else.

The plan.

“Look-a-hur negro....” Slick starts as Benjamin laughs.

“Yes honky.... ?” the sarcastic killer smiles.

“How we gon’ do this?,” Slick grins.

“Ya’ mean who gon’ be first?” Benjamin asks.

“Shiiiiit-tha’s easy as possums fuck’in. Tha’ damn snotty nose fuck.”

“Mick McClaren, tha’ fuck almost got my Kelly hurt,” Slick admits as Benjamin's eyebrow raise.

“Say wha’ naw’?”

“Wha’ tha’ fuck you mean ‘Kelly hurt’?,” the creole assassin sneers. Benjamin already knows half the story, but not the truth. Arms crossed, his back tense, the creole looks squarely in his half brother's face. “Spill it white nigga.”

The hustler pours another shot. Sliding it over to his partner in many crimes.

“Calm tha’ fuck down killa’ “ Slick smiles with a twinkle in his eyes.

“It’s been taken care of. Trust me.”

“What he do ?” Benjamin asks.

Downing the shot quickly, fire in the killer’s eyes, now in his belly as well.

Slick sits back, thinking about what he was told with a sigh. “He tried ta’ set Kelly up wit’ a moonshine charge. Tha’ federal time playa’ .”

“She don’t even drink tha’ shit tho’!,” Benjamin yells, lowing his voice.

“Yo’ know tha’-I kno’s tha’.”

“And tha’ church past’a knew tha’ as well. He spoke up fo’ hu’r. Got tha’

charges dropp’d,” Slick smiles.

Benjamin breathes a sigh of relief. A natural reaction for a woman loved by many, except for the man whom she takes on as lovers.

“So how ya’ do that, make tha’ fine ass woman fall fo’ yu’r ugly ass?,” the creole laughs. Back to the prior subject, the hustler watches as fire returns to Slick’s light eyes.

“Ya’ aint gon’ let tha’ go is ya’ negro?” Slick grins.

“Hell naw,” Benjamin smiles.

“Ya’ don’t tell me. I might go hu’r it fru’m the horse’s mou’f-so ta’ speak.

Maybe have hu’r do oth’r things with tha’ mouth too,” the creole laughs.

Brazen for what he has said, Benjamin laughs out loud as the short stature man sitting across from him pokes out his chest. He is offended.

Slick looks over to his pistol. A safe distance.

“Ya’ really try’in ta’ make me put’a bullet in tha’ greasy head of yu’rs?,” he says.

Secretly Benjamin loves to egg on his beloved brother. Its just their way of being close. The hustler knows how woman feel about the powerful man sitting across from him. Built like a mighty bull, with a temper to match, Benjamin has watched the white hustler pulls some of the most coveted woman to be had. Married, single or in between. Dynamic and devesatatingly sexy, Slick is not the tallest man in the world, but there is something about his way. Whatever it is, woman flock to him like bees to honey, each glad they did, bragging to their girlfriends about the man’s intense prowess.

“Spill it negro,” Benjamin laughs.

Watching as Slick gets up, Benjamin smiles as the young man gyrates his hips to thin air as the lovable scoundrel belts out a hearty chuckle.

Benjamin grins as he downs another shot.

“So ya’ put it on hu’r wit’ wha’ ?”

“One of my women told me ya’ gotta a baby dick.”

“And ya shot aft’a four pokes in tha’ punani..”

Quickly, Slick huffs as he sits, nearly stumbling over from the poorly made chair.

“Nigg’a - please,” he grins holding up his wrist. “This is why I do’t take ya’ black ass no’ whu’r. Yas’ jus’ as ignunt’ as a cross-eyed hooker.”

Benjamin grins, thinking about business, what has to happen.

“Back ta’ business,” the hustler grins.

Suddenly both men look to the door, hearing a sound outside. It sounds like shoes plopping in mud and puddled water. The noise is heard only once.

Sitting still as death, the brothers listen without a sound. Nothing.

Oblivious because of good liquor, Slick sits up in his chair, scouring his mind for details he has planned for nearly six months. Many of which have not been shared with Benjamin or anyone for that matter.

“So check it-two weeks fru’m naw, ole boy is gonna receive a telegram say’in his baby’s mama is in dire straights, down thu’r in Mississippi.”

“Damn, ya’ got tha’ mama involv’d ?,” Benjamin interrupts.

“He’s a arrogant dead beat..,” Slick interjects.

“Anyways, when he gets down th’ur, I got boys that gon’ tail him. Then snatch him up.”

“He gon’ be gator fu’d in ‘bout an hour. Nobody will kno’ tha’ difference,” Slick finishes.

Benjamin laughs.

“Sounds simple nuff,” the creole smiles. “But we all kno’ plans tha’ damn simple always come apart just as easy.”

“Is fail safe -,” Slick scowls.

“Fails safe my ass.”

“How bout’ we go kill him naw?” Benjamin asks, half serious.

Right as Slick sits up right in his seat.

Another sound outside. This time the brothers are sure.

“Ya’ hur that nigga .....?,” the blue eyed killer nearly whispers, looking around.

Almost rising to his feet, quickly remembering that the wooden floors creak,

Benjamin stands in place. His eyes dart past a single kerosene lamp, on towards the front area draped in darkness.

Both men are as silent, listening, hearing past the old wood of the shack. Like two cats, hearing past human senses, the trained killer’s eyes look toward the back of the house simultaneously.

The shack is being surrounded.

Outside in the rain, one pair of feet carefully step forward. Then two. Then three, the mud and puddle water giving each footstep away.

In the dark as rain pelts the night, several men motion to each other silently. Each there for a job that has paid very well.

Inside the old shack, a tension rides in air quick and urgent.

Leaning his weight to his knees, careful of the creaky floors as he bends low. Benjamin looks toward his gun.

Slick peers to his kin.

“Keep talk’in ....,” the blue eyed hustler whispers.

Benjamin nods as he rises carefully on his knees as well, watch his brother creep carefully.

“So yeah. I bon’d tha’ pussy like I aint had pussy in all my damn life!,” the creole says loudly as he looks around.

Slick smirks, moving forward inch by inch. “Shut tha’ fuck up please,” he whispers with a snicker.

Crawling forward, the men make their way to a corner. Both men hear the slightest of wet noises under the house.

“This rat shack got height. Can ya’ get und’a it?,” Slick whispers.

Benjamin nods, looking to the floor. He sees holes in the well worn wood, wondering if anyone is looking back.

The men wait, not moving a muscle. Listening, hearing the slightest of movement right beneath them directly below. Slick has an idea.

Quickly, his mind thinking faster than a blinking eye, Benjamin looks around as he smiles to himself. He feels the security of cold hard steel under his bare feet.

The men have crawled into what Benjamin calls his ‘caste iron cubby’.

In the dark corner the men are crouched in, their feet and back rest upon two inch solid iron that is two inches thick.

Benjamin had the small protective box built just for this reason.

Usually big enough to fit only two men, resembling a small short walk-in closet, the wrought iron mechanisms are essential for peace of mind.

Every gangster has a protective corner cubby, especially in the south since most homes are made of wood and plaster. None of which can stop determined bullets.

Quickly Slick looks over through the darkness, seeing a smile on his half brother’s face as he instantly feels a coolness under his wet socked feet. “Ya sly fucka’,” he grins.

“What's in tha back?”

“Tha’ woods is thick as day ole gumbo - snakes and shit,” Benjamin whispers back, leaning against cold metal.

Quickly, fast as lightening, Slick cocks his gun.

Suddenly a thunderous boom fills the old shack. Loud as thunder.

The trained killer has shot through the wooden floor.

His ears ringing, the blue eyed hustler grins. “Ready fucka’!?”

“Ya cu’d have warn’d me fuck’in fu’rst asshole!,” the creole grins, his ears ringing .

Directly below the brothers, the men hear moaning. Finally a strange silence. Suddenly there is cursing and fumbled movements from under the house. Both hear feet scampering through water and mud. Out to the north of the old shack.

“Get ya’ nigger ass out’cha hur!,” a man suddenly says outfront.

Grinning silently, the brothers look to each other like two mischievous boys. Huddling close like they use to on the cold hard streets of South Carolina as kids, the men are armed with a no fear attitude. Slick feels the heat from his discharged gun, smelling the gun powder. He is ready for more as his heart beats in his ears.

Benjamin listens intently as more running feet splash through wet mud on the outside. Sounds like two other men.

“Anybody follw’d ya?” he snickers to his huddled up brother.

“Hell naw nigga. I aint stupid ya’ kno’,” Slick answers, listening intently.

Suddenly, bracing themselves as they back away from the cold bullet proof cubby’s surface, the men hear several guns cock.

“Ya asshole. Ya lead’a damn bread crumb fuck’in trail to my ‘shack-up’ shack,” Benjamin whispers, his eyes squinted shut.

Before the brothers can take in another breathe, fast and powerful, the room is suddenly blazed in ringing sounds. Powerful and explosive.

Bullets whiz all throughout the small hovel as Benjamin and Slick cower against steel.

Peering through their hands, shielding their eyes, the men watch as the whisky shot glasses they just used.Suddenly obliterated, blown into thousands of tiny shards. To his right, the creole can see his fine suit. Just cleaned, the garment comes to life, writhing on Benjamin’s bed as live bullets shoot through the fabric.

Headboards, tables, chairs, everything is decimated with quick order. As if melting violently, chunks blown off, till no more. Shoes dance with no feet, silk boxers seem to rise up and down.

Cowering with their hands over their ears, the men feel dozen upon dozens of bullets hit their caste iron cubby through the wood from the outside of the house. Each bullet seems to ring through Slick and Benjamin's bones. Instantly ricocheting through the air like deadly metallic wasps.

Suddenly, as quick and profound as it all started. The shooting stops.

The silence is deafening.

“Niggers and nigger lova’s .....,” a man yells outside.

“If ya’ aint fuck’in swiss cheese, step tha fuck out’cha house. Now!”

The creole looks to his partner, grinning. “Is he fuck’in serious?”

Slick smirks as he hurridly reloades his gun. “Like herpes fru’m a street ho’.” Quick, the killer rises fast, over the edges of the cubby, shooting through a large hole made by several exploding bullets. With a fierce determination, Slick moves faster than angry wind, seeming to shoot in several directions all at once.

Instantly, moans can be heard.

Two down out of four. One already killed under the house.

“Shit get’in real fo’ ya’ yet!,” Slick yells as he bends back into the safety of the iron cubby.

He hears nothing but rain.

Gingerly, the hustler rise, looking through bullet holes, seeing into darkness.

All Slick sees is car headlights as a single man hides behind a car doors. The hustler leans close against a wall filled with holes. He sees the outline of a gun.

The hired gun is determined to kill the brothers.

Moving fast, looking behind him, benjamin has kept up with the body count as well. The creole suddenly remembers that there is a rarely used door that leads to the outhouse. “Save him fo' me?,” the creole smirks as he moves quickly.

Slick nods, ready to shoot if he has too.

“Keep that fuck’a talk’in,” the creole grins.

Looking back, nearly to his belly, dressed only in boxers and sheer blood lust, the young contract killer makes his ways across the bullet riddled floor. Finally out the back door. Before exiting, the creole looks back to his half brother. A single wink. A signature. Happy time to be had.

Outside, the air is moist, heavy with the scent of earth and rain.

Benjamin moves slow and patient, making his way down the back steps. Quickly, the killer’s feet lands in cold mud that squishes between his toes. In the shack, the creole can hear Slick curse, tainting the lone shooter.

On hands and knees, as if a warm blooded serpent, benjamin smiles to himself.

Almost chuckling inside, hearing his half brother insult the man. Benjamin can see Slick crouch even lower in the cubby, his eyes and gun aimed, ready to shoot.

On his way, low to the wet earth as mud clings to the Benjamin’s arms, feet and legs, the creole is hungry for blood. Slowly, knees sinking in the muck, the killer crawls forward as he hears Slick’s insults. Slick’s voice getting further and further away.

Slowly onwards, yards from the shack, Benjamin can finally see the lone gunman. The hired gun is crouched like a tiger, listening to Slick. The hired gun’s body is lite up by car lights.

Closer and closer, Benjamin lowers himself, nearly on his belly. Training his breathing, an old trick taught to him, Benjamin barely moves. Slowly crawling inches through cool mud that covers his chest, face, arms and hands.

If the gunman would look back, he would see nothing. The talented killer is completely camouflaged. Melting into the dark night as if a ghost.

Benjamin is so close to the hit man, he can almost hear the man’s heartbeat. Only a few feet away, the killer can even smell the gun man’s cheap after shave over the smell of earth and rain water.

Slower and slower, closer and closer, the killer reaches down, blade in hand. Benjamin glides inch by inch till at the gunman's back. The hood’s body heat, right against Benjiman’s bare chest, feels like a soft glow that attracts something deep and dark in the killer’s imagination.

On his knees, right behind the hired gun, benjiman is as silent and motionless. Closing his eyes, the killer feels a thrill in his soul that borders on pure bliss. Opening his eyes, feeling his spirit burn hot and dark the creole strikes faster than a viper.

Fast and powerful, Benjamin grabs a hold of the henchman so fast, the man barely struggles as his riffle falls to the mud.

Powerfully gripping the writhing man by his head in a sleeper hold. The creole grins as his well toned biceps become hard as steel. Squeezing tighter and tighter.

“Hello my lil piggy,” Benjamin growls, gripping the man tighter and tighter.

“I’m tha’ fuck’in nigga ya’ was speak’in off .”

The urgent moment is sweet for Benjamin, feeling the young man struggle for his life, though no match. Squirming helplessly, the henchman’s body heat can be felt through his cheap suit as Benjamin revels in the sweet goodness of it all. Tightening his grip around the man’s neck, like a python with a new kill, the creole whiffs at the man’s skin, smelling fear.

Subtle but pungently sweet, the killer presses hsi nose into the henchman’s neck, growing more and more intoxicated.

Gripping tighter, feeling the man fighter harder, Benjamin smiles. He feels a certain ecstasy that only a killer can understand. In his veins pumps a heart that is full of zeal and lust, wanting the sweetness of death’s succulent fruit.

Squeezing harder, the murderous killer finally raises his shiny gleaming blade as fear makes his victim’s body almost fluid, struggling more and more.

Suddenly, as a last effort to get free, the shooter’s arms reach back, each pinned down instantly. As the young man tries to scream through a chocked throat, the creole prolongs his victim’s terror, enjoying the slight gurgles struggling from the man’s throat. Benjamin is much too strong for the man’s futile attempts. A lean linebackers build is no match for spaghetti eating pudgy dough.

His mouth finally free, the young mans snarls. “Get ya’ mongrel hands of mi’ naw’ nigga,” the he strains to say, struggling against Benjamin’s powerful body.

Feeling sheer explosive bliss, benjamin’s anger and rage has no place in this moment. The creole squeezes harder, his eyes red, heady, as if glowing with blissful energy. Bending closer, the killer takes a certain erotic lust in the man’s hateful last words, his face close to the hood hate-filled lips.

“Imma take ya’ soul naw’ mutha’- fucka'.”

“When I git ta’ hell, we gon’ settle this once and fo’ all,” the creole whispers lavishly slow.

Quick, fast and silent, the lone gunman starts to gurgle.

Benjamin's grip instantly loosens his vice grip, setting the man finally free.

The creole’s blade had found its mark, slicing through flesh like a hot knife through butter.

Benjamin watches with a crazed zeal, still crouched as the man stumbles back. Tasting some of the man’s blood on his mud laden lips, the creole licks greedily, sucking in the red warm treat for his efforts. As the creole watches in delight, the man finally falls.

The hood stares off into hell, dropping to his knees. Then to his belly, looking up to whom took his life.

Blinking back the cold grip of eternal darkness, the hood looks up. The last thing the man sees on earth is a Benjiman standing over him.

In the dark of night the tall hunk is caked in mud, head to feet. The killer’s eyes gleam brightly as a blood drenched smile sends the man to his death. A sheer vision of hell’s delights awaiting his soul.

Finally a thick wet thud and splash is heard. The man drops face forward into the mud.

Gone.

Rising, looking around, Benjamin comes to his senses, his blood lust haze evaporating quickly.

Still tasting his victim’s life essence on his tongue, feeling a strange peace and serenity, benjamin lets out a heavy sigh. He feels as if he is dark angel, pleased in all of his twisted omnipotence. Seen in the headlights, the killer looks down to his right hand. Dripping with red life, the creole grins at the treat to be had.

As a sweet dark breeze blows through the night air, Benjamin raises the bloody hand to his lips, careful for mud, sliding his thick tongue along the small stream of metallic warm joy.

Instantly, the creole’s mouth fills with sensual life, metallic and coveted. Benjamin grins with a dark joy, licking the rest of his fingers clean.

A strange ritual the killer has come to enjoy, a prize for a job well done.

Gently, like a lover he has never known, the gris-gris that rest against Benjamin’s chest begins to throb. The mojo starts to radiate a soft bliss through the hustler’s body. Intoxicating and glorious.

On back to the shack, the hustler is feels a type of serenity as his bare feet sink in the cool mud. Finally arriving at the rickety front porch, the hustler turns as he feels a new rain fall.

The creole looks back at the dead bodies. “Its so fuck’in good ta’ be a killer,” Benjamin smiles with red smeared lips.

Back in the old shack, his fit body smeared in wet earth, the creole is glad to see his brother.

“Ya feed tha blade?,” Slick ask, still sitting in the iron cubby.

Benjamin smiles, taking off his muddy boxers. “ Right cross tha’ fuck’in throat,” he replies.

Slick rises, dusting off his trousers. He watches as his partner in crime washes off with a pail of water and old wash cloth. As muddy water makes it way near dirty clothes on the shack floor, the creole grins. He continues to consider about what they had just discussed.

Slick beams a big smile as Benjamin dries off. “Ya’ wanna get hur’ wet again?”

“My blade. Yeah, why tha’ fuck not?,” the damp killer grins, looking at his gun.

“I was jok'in,” Slick deadpans.

The blue-eyed hustler brings out a silver flask from his jacket pocket, right as Benjamin snatches it. The killer downs it all with a healthy growl. All mixing well in his gut, along with his strange new fetish.

“We have tha’ money negro. He done paid fu’r his own one way trip ta’ hell fucka’. Why wait till two weeks ?”

“Do this thing fuck’in tonight playa’,” Benjamin laughs excitedly. as Slick‘s eyes light up.

The handsome creole assassin looks around his crash shack. A safe haven for when he wants to stay hidden, every gun-for-hire has one. Sometimes two.

Leaving the table, liquor rushing through his senses, the need to kill in his heart, Benjamin looks to a black raincoat, a suit of the same color, as well as a a pair of ‘ducks’.

Considering, he looks around the small shack. The creole has grown tired of it already. Time to move on, and the dead bodies outside, as well as the triple murder will be just the ticket.

Thinking of another secret shack in another county, the creole says nothing as he moves to is makeshift paupers wardrobe. Snatching what he needs as his half brother watches excitedly.

Slick is ready for blood as his heart pumps hard .

“So we gon’ do this?” he grins.

“Yeah boy-when its done. We out’cha hur.”

Benjamin puts on a pair of wool slacks, struggling at first because of the drink.

“New Orleans needs our kind of talents,” he mumbles.

Soon the creole is dressed as coffee brews on a wood burning iron stove. Both men are ready to go down in infamy.

Benjamin cracks the door open, looking out, making sure the coast is clear.

In the comforting southern twilight, all the creole sees is Carolina swamp and rain. Slick grabs his gun as he chuckles to himself, almost humming. A trait his brother noticed years ago. When the hot tempered man is ready to kill, he hums. Ironically enough, ‘Amazing Grace’

Out on the porch, Benjamin pulls his fedora down over his face. His trusty blade is hidden under his suit jacket pocket, newly cleaned and polished.

In his shoulder holster is a pearl handle Saturday-night special. A gift from one of his many lovers. The ruggedly handsome man looks to his partner as Slick’s eyes blazed under his pulled down fedora.

The men are ready, gleaming, as if taken over by the devil himself.

“Ya’ ready boy?,” Benjamin smiles.

“I was born ready negro.” Slick grins.

Both men make their way in the rain, disappearing into the tempest that is coming down.

Finally a top of the line Packard is heard as the brothers drive off.

In the darkness, a face hovers, then two.

Wet and tense, teeth shattering, watching as the car drives off.

“I fuck'in told’cha that nigger lov’a aint’ gon’ do what we paid him fo’,” one of the men say through chattering teeth.

The other man says nothing, wondering if his wife and kids are at home. He will bet good money the men are on their way to his house.

“Come'on. Gotta get home. Tha’ fucka’ headed to my place,” Mick McClaren says, rushing off with his brother, rain pelting their raincoats.