his lungs. Something he would only show his half brother. Quickly glaring over at his partner, Benjamin has another question.
“Why tha’ fuck didn’t ya’ tell me?
“Ya’ went forty-five miles to’a damn corn’a sto’, when ya’ simple ass could’ve taken a damn stroll nigga.”
“Tha’ was a long ass plan. All ta’ tell me ya’ paid the corrupt fat fucka’ ta’ take me in.”
Slick laughs hard at his partner’s reaction as he sips a new cup of coffee. Eyeing a sweet pecan danish.
“Shut tha’ fuck up ya’ slick haired mongrel.”
“I shu’d jus’ let ya’ ass get strung up tha’ nearest tree,” he laughs.
“I’m sick’o ya’ fuck’in mouf’. “
Quickly offended, though chuckling, Benjamin throws a bacon rind at the crude blue eyed hustler, hitting Slick square in his face. This makes his brother laugh out loud. “Bite me ya’ white trash muth’a-fuck’a,” the creole laughs.
As the men eat, both are quite as they quickly glance at each other. Slick should not have made the crude comment.
A lot in life can be laughed at, keeping one sane.
In this day and age, lynching a black man is nothing to be joked about. “I didn’t pay him,” Slick finally comments.
“One’o my buddies did. He’a memb’a of the Klux.”
“Ole man Jack think he be’in paid ta’ .....,” the hustler pauses.
He will have to pace his words carefully.
“...... Kill ya’ while in jail,” Slick says apprehensively.
He watches Benjamin’s reaction.
Nothing.
Calmly, the creole sits back, reaching down into his left sock garter. There the killer has a custom made holster for his favorite weapon. A five inch straight edge blade. The killer pulls the weapon out, admiring how it shines in the morning sun shine. A shimmer produced by a nightly spit shine.
“You aint worried boy ?,” Slick asks, admiring the blade. He has one of his own.
Chuckling quickly, the creole glares to his business partner.
“Done told’cha ‘bout call’in me a boy. This dick b’tween my legs say otha’
fuck’in wise muth'a’ - fuck’a.”
Looking to back to his weapon, a true companion in Benjamin’s line of work, more intimate to him than his own heart beat. The creole smiles eerily as the weapon shines in his eyes.
Something that would scare most law abiding civilians.
“Ya’ see this lil’ lady right hur’ my ole’ friend.”
“This sexy bitch aint neva’ let me down.”
“She tha’ only lady by my side three sixty-fuck’in five playa’.”
Benjamin smiles, kissing the long pearl handled blade, placing it back in its holster.
“Tha’ fat fuck’a come near me, I’mma gut him lik’a Sunday hog.”
“Trimmings and all.”
The creole looks over to his buddy. Breakfast is finished.
Time to also finish up a few loose ends before the plan takes place tomorrow.
His belly full and satisfied, Benjamin glances to the sunny window. Thinking back, the creole glances at his best friend for twenty-six years.
“Th’ur sum’thin ya’ aint tell’in me. I’ll find out wha’ it is boy.”
“No fuck’in doubt bout’ that playa’.”
Slick looks to the outside day, beaming with a new and pleasing way. Gently, the hustler’s gaze seems to study the kitchen he has been in every morning for the last twelve years. He already misses his home. “Actually thu'r’ is .....,” the young killer says softly.
“When we do this, we off ta’ New Orleans. Fo’ good.”
Benjamin glances to his buddy, then back out to the manicured grounds out front. He has been suspecting this for some time. He has noticed his brother checking for real estate in and around the famous southern city. The hustler has also been paying for information concerning the more colorful residents of New Orleans. The creole has been waiting for the final word for some time.
“Kelly kno’ bout this ?,” he asks.
“Yeah, hu’r folks gott’a big house down th’ur in tha’ French Quarter. Been in tha’ family since yur’ family was in chains. Pick’in cotton and eat’in dirt,” Slick grins.
Benjamin looks over at his brother with a glaring deadpan.
“Next time I bring my blade out’cha my sock fuck’a.”
“That bitch gon’ get a good red sip this morning, courtesy of your fuck’in neck negro,” he sneers playfully.
“Talk’in bout me like that .....”
Slick grins as he looks outside, then back to his kin. He means to say something else.
“Shut tha’ fuck up asshole. My peoples whu’r work’in them same fields. Right next ta’ yours nigga.”
“Proud po’ white trash fo’ decades. Aint no shame in my game.”
Benjamin nods. Slick and he have always had an unspoken communication, a camaraderie of goodwill and care that will never be said nor see the light of day. But its there, has to be. Murdering people can be an intimate affair into the darkest of oblivion.
Sharing that experience with another person that understands keeps one grounded in reality. From descending into darkness. Quietly the men look from each other, knowing the other would give his life for the next.
That fact been proven too many times.
Benjamin’s pick his teeth with a toothpick. “Nigga-yo’ say I love you, I’mma cut ya’ fuck’in throat,” he grins.
“Don't’ worry ya fuck’in yella’ mongrel.”
“I hat’cha ya’ guts like night hat’in day,” Slick grins.
Listening to the woman upstairs, Sally laughing with Kelly, the men consider their lives, as well as the women that love and adore them. Slick can not see his
