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Authors: Maasi Smith
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refrigerator. They
begin looking through the closets and drawers, piling up what they
plan to take and breaking whatever they don’t like. They show no
mercy for the delicate antiques. Silas is the worst of the three as he
urinates and defecates on the beds and clothing while humming
his favorite tune. Marty finds it amusing to stick his knife into
whatever he doesn’t like and rip it apart. He walks around, stuffing
little trinkets into his pockets while at the same time carving his
name into the mosaic furniture. Donald sits back nervously, sensing something is wrong. As if hearing a voice, his eyes widen and
his face fills with fear.
“I th-th-think we sh-sh-should g-g-get the s-stuff and g-g-go
n-n-now.”
“Look, man, shut the fuck up!” screams Marty, sticking his
blade directly to Donald’s throat. “I will stick you, you shit head,
do you understand me? I-will-stick-you, then kick your lifeless
body. Understand me, boy?!”
“O-o-o-k-k-kay, m-m-man.”
“Man, get the fuck outta here before I kill you!”
Donald wastes no time leaving as he wipes his perspiration
and runs out the apartment. Marty just smiles and lies back on
the couch amongst the stuffing he tore out. A minute later, Silas
strolls out of the back room with his belt undone and pants hanging by his thighs.
“Whacha been doing back there, Silas?” asks Marty.
“Markin’ my territory. Where’s Donald?”
“Man, he freaked out and ran,” answers Marty.
“What! You let him go?!”
“Yeah,” says Marty.
“Man, get yo white ass up and get him before he goes to the
cops or somethin’.”
Marty sighs, then reluctantly stands and looks at Silas.
“Don’t worry, relax, my brother. He ain’t gonna get too far,”
Marty says, folding the rusty blade, and then calmly strolls out
the door. Once outside the door, Marty hurries; the thought of
the police frightens him much more than the thought of retribution from Silas. In his mind, he knows he can always kill
Silas if he gets out of hand, but going back to prison isn’t in
his plans. As he sticks his head out the front door, he sees a
shadowy figure running up the street. Before Marty can scream
out to see if it is Donald, the sudden sound of someone running away from the building comes from around the corner. He
quickly runs to the side of the building to see another shadowy
figure walking toward the long since abandoned O’Keeffe and
Sons Sheet Metal Factory. He looks back as the other figure goes
beyond sight. Marty then turns back to the second figure, hoping
it’s Donald.
“Hey, Donald, is that you? Hey!”
“M-m-man, l-l-leave me alone!”
With a sigh of relief, Marty begins friendly tactics to get Donald closer.
“Look, dude, we need you to come back to carry some stuff.
You said you would help us out if we hooked you up with some
dope. We’ll keep our promise.” The figure slowly drifts away in
the large shadow cast by the huge factory. “Yo, man, don’t ignore
me! I’m just lookin’ out for you.” There’s no response. “Muthafucka, now I’m gonna kill you,” Marty mutters quietly, unfolding
his knife and giving chase.
The factory is a massive empty building that reeks of a foul stale
odor. There is shattered glass everywhere. The night wind sends
an eerie whistle throughout the complex. Empty beer cans and
bottles of cheap wine litter the concrete floor. The only light is
from the lonely full moon that peers through the dilapidated ceiling. A mist of dust travels the factory, settling on the old machinery. The air is thick and almost smothering. Makeshift newspaper
mattresses occupy dimly lit corners. Rats scatter as Marty storms
past their nest.
Boldly Marty chases after the figure into this dark dungeon-like
place, hunting the figure down. The moon makes an evil gleam in
his eyes.
“Donald, I know you’re in here!” he shouts. “Why don’t you
come out so we can talk about the dope we got for you. See, you
made me spoil the
begin looking through the closets and drawers, piling up what they
plan to take and breaking whatever they don’t like. They show no
mercy for the delicate antiques. Silas is the worst of the three as he
urinates and defecates on the beds and clothing while humming
his favorite tune. Marty finds it amusing to stick his knife into
whatever he doesn’t like and rip it apart. He walks around, stuffing
little trinkets into his pockets while at the same time carving his
name into the mosaic furniture. Donald sits back nervously, sensing something is wrong. As if hearing a voice, his eyes widen and
his face fills with fear.
“I th-th-think we sh-sh-should g-g-get the s-stuff and g-g-go
n-n-now.”
“Look, man, shut the fuck up!” screams Marty, sticking his
blade directly to Donald’s throat. “I will stick you, you shit head,
do you understand me? I-will-stick-you, then kick your lifeless
body. Understand me, boy?!”
“O-o-o-k-k-kay, m-m-man.”
“Man, get the fuck outta here before I kill you!”
Donald wastes no time leaving as he wipes his perspiration
and runs out the apartment. Marty just smiles and lies back on
the couch amongst the stuffing he tore out. A minute later, Silas
strolls out of the back room with his belt undone and pants hanging by his thighs.
“Whacha been doing back there, Silas?” asks Marty.
“Markin’ my territory. Where’s Donald?”
“Man, he freaked out and ran,” answers Marty.
“What! You let him go?!”
“Yeah,” says Marty.
“Man, get yo white ass up and get him before he goes to the
cops or somethin’.”
Marty sighs, then reluctantly stands and looks at Silas.
“Don’t worry, relax, my brother. He ain’t gonna get too far,”
Marty says, folding the rusty blade, and then calmly strolls out
the door. Once outside the door, Marty hurries; the thought of
the police frightens him much more than the thought of retribution from Silas. In his mind, he knows he can always kill
Silas if he gets out of hand, but going back to prison isn’t in
his plans. As he sticks his head out the front door, he sees a
shadowy figure running up the street. Before Marty can scream
out to see if it is Donald, the sudden sound of someone running away from the building comes from around the corner. He
quickly runs to the side of the building to see another shadowy
figure walking toward the long since abandoned O’Keeffe and
Sons Sheet Metal Factory. He looks back as the other figure goes
beyond sight. Marty then turns back to the second figure, hoping
it’s Donald.
“Hey, Donald, is that you? Hey!”
“M-m-man, l-l-leave me alone!”
With a sigh of relief, Marty begins friendly tactics to get Donald closer.
“Look, dude, we need you to come back to carry some stuff.
You said you would help us out if we hooked you up with some
dope. We’ll keep our promise.” The figure slowly drifts away in
the large shadow cast by the huge factory. “Yo, man, don’t ignore
me! I’m just lookin’ out for you.” There’s no response. “Muthafucka, now I’m gonna kill you,” Marty mutters quietly, unfolding
his knife and giving chase.
The factory is a massive empty building that reeks of a foul stale
odor. There is shattered glass everywhere. The night wind sends
an eerie whistle throughout the complex. Empty beer cans and
bottles of cheap wine litter the concrete floor. The only light is
from the lonely full moon that peers through the dilapidated ceiling. A mist of dust travels the factory, settling on the old machinery. The air is thick and almost smothering. Makeshift newspaper
mattresses occupy dimly lit corners. Rats scatter as Marty storms
past their nest.
Boldly Marty chases after the figure into this dark dungeon-like
place, hunting the figure down. The moon makes an evil gleam in
his eyes.
“Donald, I know you’re in here!” he shouts. “Why don’t you
come out so we can talk about the dope we got for you. See, you
made me spoil the
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