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
