stretched
out his legs, hitting the opposite wall, and leaned back. A pistol in one hand,
he stroked it with the other, waiting to hear Charlene’s sweet voice over the
receiver from the bug he’d planted in the kitchen and bedroom of her house, and
contemplated murder.
The
taste to kill a man hadn’t hit him until big fuzz got in the way of what he
wanted.
His
mind flashed back to Washington, D.C. One evening at a bar, he met a guy named Razor,
wearing a brown leather jacket, a couple tear drops tattooed on his face. The
man intrigued him. They talked for hours. Razor told him, “Once you get the
taste of taking a life, you’ll crave more.”
Mathews
looked forward to the day he could proudly wear the symbol on his cheek,
letting the world know he was one bad motherfucker.
He
aimed his gun at a picture thumbtacked to the wall of the person whose actions
aided in defining the new him, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He bent
his arm at the elbow and blew across the top of the barrel as if smoke drifted
out.
Soon,
he’d earn two teardrops.
Not
only would two less assholes clutter the world, but the peons, who dumbly
called themselves the Impalers, who thought they could manufacture marijuana on
Greenwood Manor without giving him his fair cut, were in for a surprise.
A
single phone call a moment earlier now put his plans into motion, cementing his
initiation into the Black Scorpions and giving him the respect he deserved on
the manor. Ever since Sanjar, the Black Scorpions’ leader, was murdered, word
had spread. If anyone could find the whereabouts of his killer they’d be
inducted into the gang.
As
lucrative as belonging to the gang would be, he needed something in return for
him to give up such valuable information. His deal: the whereabouts of Jake
Gibson in exchange for the ‘top dawg’ position at Greenwood Manor’s
manufacturing circuit. Once the Black Scorpions arrived, they’d take over the
operation and give him the position. No one argued with the ruthless gang
Mathews
lowered the gun to his lap and tossed the godforsaken hat he had to wear as a
symbol that he worked with the Impalers onto the floor and ruffled his oily
hair. Soon, he’d wear the brown leather jacket with the Scorpion insignia on
the back, and his gang name stitched on the front. He’d have to think of a
moniker, like Bruno or Rockon.
He
stared at Agent Gibson’s wedding picture he’d cut out from the local newspaper.
Why hadn’t the agent left the area? Staying, Gibson was a sitting duck. Damn,
how’d a nitwit take down a Monarch? If Mathews had done such a thing, he’d run
like hell. No way would he parade around the city as if he owned it.
Rage
flowed through his veins. “Gibson and that Band of Fuckers turned Charlene
against me.” He petted his gun as if a beloved pet. “That’s okay. Payback was
coming.” For several months, he’d prepared by target practicing in the back
fields every day.
Jed
Bradley hiring him to oversee the restoring of the six-hundred acre farm fit
perfectly into his plans.
All
he had to do was falsify his work history, have his good friend vouch for him,
and the old fart hired him at their first meeting. He hadn’t seen Bradley
since.
Mathews
thought it odd, but whatever.
He
shoved his gun in the corner behind the stack of boxes. Charlene must have
fallen asleep downstairs. All night, he only heard footsteps, the refrigerator
opening and closing, no signs if that red-headed fuckwad stayed. He’d plant
more bugs in the house soon. The two weren’t cutting it.
A
couple days ago when he sat in this very spot, he overheard Charlene’s
one-sided phone call that she’d plan to stay at Greenwood Manor on Halloween.
He had everything planned: the laced wine, a warm bed. Bile rose from his
stomach and perched in his throat. “Big fuzz…That cocksucker!” Mathews banged
his fist on the wall. His well-thought-out plan of getting Charlene to fall
into his arms had gone up in
out his legs, hitting the opposite wall, and leaned back. A pistol in one hand,
he stroked it with the other, waiting to hear Charlene’s sweet voice over the
receiver from the bug he’d planted in the kitchen and bedroom of her house, and
contemplated murder.
The
taste to kill a man hadn’t hit him until big fuzz got in the way of what he
wanted.
His
mind flashed back to Washington, D.C. One evening at a bar, he met a guy named Razor,
wearing a brown leather jacket, a couple tear drops tattooed on his face. The
man intrigued him. They talked for hours. Razor told him, “Once you get the
taste of taking a life, you’ll crave more.”
Mathews
looked forward to the day he could proudly wear the symbol on his cheek,
letting the world know he was one bad motherfucker.
He
aimed his gun at a picture thumbtacked to the wall of the person whose actions
aided in defining the new him, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He bent
his arm at the elbow and blew across the top of the barrel as if smoke drifted
out.
Soon,
he’d earn two teardrops.
Not
only would two less assholes clutter the world, but the peons, who dumbly
called themselves the Impalers, who thought they could manufacture marijuana on
Greenwood Manor without giving him his fair cut, were in for a surprise.
A
single phone call a moment earlier now put his plans into motion, cementing his
initiation into the Black Scorpions and giving him the respect he deserved on
the manor. Ever since Sanjar, the Black Scorpions’ leader, was murdered, word
had spread. If anyone could find the whereabouts of his killer they’d be
inducted into the gang.
As
lucrative as belonging to the gang would be, he needed something in return for
him to give up such valuable information. His deal: the whereabouts of Jake
Gibson in exchange for the ‘top dawg’ position at Greenwood Manor’s
manufacturing circuit. Once the Black Scorpions arrived, they’d take over the
operation and give him the position. No one argued with the ruthless gang
Mathews
lowered the gun to his lap and tossed the godforsaken hat he had to wear as a
symbol that he worked with the Impalers onto the floor and ruffled his oily
hair. Soon, he’d wear the brown leather jacket with the Scorpion insignia on
the back, and his gang name stitched on the front. He’d have to think of a
moniker, like Bruno or Rockon.
He
stared at Agent Gibson’s wedding picture he’d cut out from the local newspaper.
Why hadn’t the agent left the area? Staying, Gibson was a sitting duck. Damn,
how’d a nitwit take down a Monarch? If Mathews had done such a thing, he’d run
like hell. No way would he parade around the city as if he owned it.
Rage
flowed through his veins. “Gibson and that Band of Fuckers turned Charlene
against me.” He petted his gun as if a beloved pet. “That’s okay. Payback was
coming.” For several months, he’d prepared by target practicing in the back
fields every day.
Jed
Bradley hiring him to oversee the restoring of the six-hundred acre farm fit
perfectly into his plans.
All
he had to do was falsify his work history, have his good friend vouch for him,
and the old fart hired him at their first meeting. He hadn’t seen Bradley
since.
Mathews
thought it odd, but whatever.
He
shoved his gun in the corner behind the stack of boxes. Charlene must have
fallen asleep downstairs. All night, he only heard footsteps, the refrigerator
opening and closing, no signs if that red-headed fuckwad stayed. He’d plant
more bugs in the house soon. The two weren’t cutting it.
A
couple days ago when he sat in this very spot, he overheard Charlene’s
one-sided phone call that she’d plan to stay at Greenwood Manor on Halloween.
He had everything planned: the laced wine, a warm bed. Bile rose from his
stomach and perched in his throat. “Big fuzz…That cocksucker!” Mathews banged
his fist on the wall. His well-thought-out plan of getting Charlene to fall
into his arms had gone up in
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