Read Online Blood & Tacos #2 by Josh Stallings, Ray Banks, Andrew Nette, Frank Larnerd, Jimmy Callaway - Free Book Online Page A
Ads: Link
glow of street lights beyond the frosted windows. I put the light bulb in my
jacket pocket.
I knocked on the door. I didn’t worry about a peep-hole; there wasn’t
one.
The apartment door opened a crack. Behind the chain, I could see Charlie Brown’s
ugly bald head. The darkened hallway had the same effect as a police lineup;
in the dark, I could see him, but he couldn’t see me.
"Who’s there?"
I kicked the door as hard as I could.
The door chain splintered off the wall and the edge of the door flung back,
striking Charlie Brown between the eyes. He flopped backward and crumpled on
the floor, unconscious.
Sello and the kid with the 3-D glasses sat on a ratty couch. On the coffee
table in front of them were bags of white rocks and tall stacks of ones and
fives. On my right, the TV showed Pat Benatar shaking around like a hobo with
a case of the DTs. I didn’t see Mr. Bread anywhere.
I stepped over Charlie Brown and put a boot on the coffee table.
"I brought your gun back, Sello."
The greasy fuck grinned. "Why don’t you hand it here?"
I kicked over the coffee table, spilling their shit everywhere.
"Why don’t you come and take it?"
Sello brushed himself off and said, "I’m gonna let my man take
care of that."
Something smashed into the side of my face. I staggered back, bumping against
the TV, making the picture jump. I saw another white blur and pain exploded
through my skull. I dropped to my knees. Blood poured down my face and over
my eye, but I could still make out who hit me.
He was big, tan and adorned with flashy gold chains. The seams of his expensive
track suit strained against his massive shoulders. He was 6’4? and a solid
300 pounds. To me he looked like a Rottweiler with a pompadour.
In his hands was a toilet tank lid.
I said, "It’s nice to see you Stevie," as he hit me again.
When I came to, I was on my knees. My head pounded like a low-rider’s
blown speakers. I tried to move but found that my hands had been tied to my
ankles behind me. 3-D and Charlie Brown’s hightops were missing their
laces, so I figured that’s what they used.
In front of me was the toilet lid, a dark splash of blood smeared one end.
On the couch, Sello and his boys finished stowing their shit in green duffel
bags. Stevie sat on the couch’s arm, dabbing at drops of blood on his
sleeve with a wet rag. My nunchucks hung around his massive neck; the revolver
was stuck in his waistband. Once he noticed I was awake, he threw the rag down.
"I knew we’d meet up someday," Stevie said. "I almost
didn’t recognize you. Your hair looks fuckin’ stupid."
I spit a tooth onto the carpet. "Fuck you, Stevie."
"People call me Mr. Bread now."
"Why?" I said. "You fucking the Pillsbury Doughboy?"
Stevie kicked me with his giant Air Jordan and dark spots swam through my vision.
I fell on my side and felt the light bulb in my pocket pop.
"They call me Mr. Bread ’cause I make money. This town is mine.
See these little pussies? They’re mine, too! That shit you spilled, that
was mine. I was gonna turn that rock into six grand. Now I’m gonna take
it out of you."
Charlie Brown laughed as Stevie grabbed my Mohawk and pulled me upright. Smiling,
he held out his hand to Sello.
"Give me your blade."
Sello passed him the switchblade without a word. Stevie held it up so I could
watch it snap open.
"You still like to play?"
He dug the blade’s point into my skin and carved a long line diagonally
across my chest. He watched my eyes for any sign of pain. I didn’t show
him any; he had taught me too well.
"Damn, Mr. Bread!" 3-D said.
Stevie sliced me again, peeling a large, bloody X on my chest. I didn’t
try to move away. I didn’t even blink. I just took the pain and pushed
it inside.
When we lived with the Junkman, Stevie was the tattletale. When we were punished,
he’d stand to the side and watch us cry. Once he was big enough, he started
jacket pocket.
I knocked on the door. I didn’t worry about a peep-hole; there wasn’t
one.
The apartment door opened a crack. Behind the chain, I could see Charlie Brown’s
ugly bald head. The darkened hallway had the same effect as a police lineup;
in the dark, I could see him, but he couldn’t see me.
"Who’s there?"
I kicked the door as hard as I could.
The door chain splintered off the wall and the edge of the door flung back,
striking Charlie Brown between the eyes. He flopped backward and crumpled on
the floor, unconscious.
Sello and the kid with the 3-D glasses sat on a ratty couch. On the coffee
table in front of them were bags of white rocks and tall stacks of ones and
fives. On my right, the TV showed Pat Benatar shaking around like a hobo with
a case of the DTs. I didn’t see Mr. Bread anywhere.
I stepped over Charlie Brown and put a boot on the coffee table.
"I brought your gun back, Sello."
The greasy fuck grinned. "Why don’t you hand it here?"
I kicked over the coffee table, spilling their shit everywhere.
"Why don’t you come and take it?"
Sello brushed himself off and said, "I’m gonna let my man take
care of that."
Something smashed into the side of my face. I staggered back, bumping against
the TV, making the picture jump. I saw another white blur and pain exploded
through my skull. I dropped to my knees. Blood poured down my face and over
my eye, but I could still make out who hit me.
He was big, tan and adorned with flashy gold chains. The seams of his expensive
track suit strained against his massive shoulders. He was 6’4? and a solid
300 pounds. To me he looked like a Rottweiler with a pompadour.
In his hands was a toilet tank lid.
I said, "It’s nice to see you Stevie," as he hit me again.
When I came to, I was on my knees. My head pounded like a low-rider’s
blown speakers. I tried to move but found that my hands had been tied to my
ankles behind me. 3-D and Charlie Brown’s hightops were missing their
laces, so I figured that’s what they used.
In front of me was the toilet lid, a dark splash of blood smeared one end.
On the couch, Sello and his boys finished stowing their shit in green duffel
bags. Stevie sat on the couch’s arm, dabbing at drops of blood on his
sleeve with a wet rag. My nunchucks hung around his massive neck; the revolver
was stuck in his waistband. Once he noticed I was awake, he threw the rag down.
"I knew we’d meet up someday," Stevie said. "I almost
didn’t recognize you. Your hair looks fuckin’ stupid."
I spit a tooth onto the carpet. "Fuck you, Stevie."
"People call me Mr. Bread now."
"Why?" I said. "You fucking the Pillsbury Doughboy?"
Stevie kicked me with his giant Air Jordan and dark spots swam through my vision.
I fell on my side and felt the light bulb in my pocket pop.
"They call me Mr. Bread ’cause I make money. This town is mine.
See these little pussies? They’re mine, too! That shit you spilled, that
was mine. I was gonna turn that rock into six grand. Now I’m gonna take
it out of you."
Charlie Brown laughed as Stevie grabbed my Mohawk and pulled me upright. Smiling,
he held out his hand to Sello.
"Give me your blade."
Sello passed him the switchblade without a word. Stevie held it up so I could
watch it snap open.
"You still like to play?"
He dug the blade’s point into my skin and carved a long line diagonally
across my chest. He watched my eyes for any sign of pain. I didn’t show
him any; he had taught me too well.
"Damn, Mr. Bread!" 3-D said.
Stevie sliced me again, peeling a large, bloody X on my chest. I didn’t
try to move away. I didn’t even blink. I just took the pain and pushed
it inside.
When we lived with the Junkman, Stevie was the tattletale. When we were punished,
he’d stand to the side and watch us cry. Once he was big enough, he started
Similar Books
