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.
Chapter 2
In My Honor
Riding into town under the dark of night and rain is a sport for the two brothers, though Benjamin holds on for a dear life. One of which he should have lost several times.
Slick, none the wiser, skids somewhat as he drives the new Packard. A gift from Kelly. Driving like a bat out of hell, faster and faster, slick laughs out loud.
“Please slo’ tha’ fuck down --naw!,” Benjamin yells, white knuckling his way deeper into the passenger seat.
Making it into town, the dark clouds up above finished with their punishment, Benjamin and Slick arrive at Slick’s home. A hot meal after all that liquor is in order. Especially Kelly’s beef stew, a good meal since both men are drenched and cold once again.
Arriving at the doorstep to Slick’s home, the blond haired killer looks to his cohort with a serious smirk. “No this hur’ Kelly is my woman negro. Yo’ get smart wit’ tha’ pretty face of yu’rs. Yo’ dead,” he slurs with a grin.
“Yo’ feel wha’ I’m cook’in fucka?”
Benjamin laughs, almost a snicker, seeing the small lump in Slicks breast pocket. “Yeah mane. Not gon’ happen fo’sho,” he smiles.
“Scouts fuck’in honor play’a”
Slick laughs as he walks in, his half brother following behind. “Negro please. Ya’ aint got no fuck’in honor, and neither do I.”
Both men walk into a lovely home, a three story mansion of finery, yet domestic and calm. In the long foyer, Benjamin is greeted with a joyful bouquet of lilies and irises. Kelly’s favorite flowers.
Happy to be home, the blue eyed hustler walks ahead, watching his half brother from his side eye.
It has always pained him that Benjamin has never settled down with the right woman. Being a killer can do a toll on a man’s soul. A wound only a good woman can heal.
The men enter a large tastefully designer living area, past bouquet of daisies on a coffee table, along with a Tiffany reading lamp. As Benjamin moves to sit on a overstuffed silk covered arm chair, he hears a bellow from the kitchen as the aroma of good cooking wafting heavily.
“And if you do Benjamin!”
“The good Lord will not be able to take my foot from your butt!,” Kelly yells from the next room.
Benjamin laughs as Slick stands straight, as if trying to make himself taller, glaring over at his chuckling cohort as the creole looks all around. Both are drenched from the car ride.
Looking around wide eyed, benjamin has been in his sister-in-laws proud family home before. In fact he lives with Slick and Kelly, when not hiding out in several homes speckled out across the Carolinas. But a home is not a home without family.
The creole feels the love of family in the air, something he has missed in the last weeks while away on blood business.
For some reason, the showcase 1920’s home feels different, almost as if a certain kind of heaven.
The creole takes in all kinds of art, books, some of which are with titles he read as a boy, others in different languages. Directly in front of the men, a warm fire greets them both, roaring behind a proud brass fire screen that is ornate with gleaming roses. Radiating a gentle welcome.
“Just stand still, “ Slick nearly whispers as Benjamin snickers.
As
