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A Change Is Gonna Come
The thunder is rambunctious and powerful, clapping overhead as if God himself has found the devil, beating his eternal archenemy to a pulp. A well deserved pummel indeed.
The surrounding woods are silent except for thunder and loneliness. Night and rain shrouding everything in wet slick misery.
In a small house, built and rebuilt, simple in its humble style, a man sits alone.
In the one room shack, neat and orderly; one bed, a night table, a breakfast nook, as well as a wood burning stove, the young man smiles at his own solitude.
As he sits alone, drinking down another shot of whiskey, the stranger looks to his right. Catching his reflection in makeshift mirror.
Brown skinned and handsome, his fine hair combed back, wet from a tub bath. The young thug seems to be mesmerized by his own reflection, though his mind is on other things.
“Sexy negro,”he smiles.
Amused, glad for the peace, the young mulatto man pours another shot of relief. Downing the alcohol with a wince, he feels the whisky burn its way to a gut already filled with hot food from a woman whom has just left.
Pleased with himself, hands falling between his legs, leading down. The hustler feels his own healthy heavy sexual ambition through his boxers. Half limp yet still throbbing. The creole is still fixated on the sex he just had.
Rising, buzzed with liquor and good love, the young man makes his way over to the heap of discarded clothes as rain pummels a window nearby. Scanning the days worth of laundry, the handsome thug spies a small delight.
Smiling, grinning ear to ear, the half naked roughen lifts a pair of silk undergarments to his nose, taking a long luxurious whiff of heaven.
“Sweet Pussy Sally,” the hunk smiles.
Instantly he feels his hard on jump, needing more attention.
“Naw-tha’ wasn't nuf’. Need mo' pussy,” the man grins.
Chuckling, the handsome hustler looks over to his makeshift closet. A hanging rack of finery that should be in the grandest of wardrobes.
“Bette's husband’s away on business.”
Thinking about the chocolate beauty and her particular gift, the creole grins as he takes another whiff of the panties.
“Yeah, she’ll do jus’ nice,” the young man grins.
Laughing softly, the sexy thug hears his own words.
“Benjamin Beaulieu, yo’ creole crazy ass gon' get shot up sum'thin fuck’in awful.”
"‘Specially if her limp dick’d husban’d find me all up in tha’ sweet pussy.”
Benjamin chuckles at his own thoughts, picturing the short men catching him in mid-stroke. Bette moaning to the high heavens. The thug instantly wonders what he would do as he laughs out loud.
Taking another whiff of the pink panties, purposely left of course by a woman whom sees the killer as a sure fascination, even a death wish. Benjamin laughs.
“Damn-dat’ woman is gon’ git me kill’d yeah ....shiiiiit.”
“Not if otha’s get thu’r blade in mi’ first.”
Needing another shot as his fine silk boxers tent forth, Benjamin drops the panties on the heap of clothes. The creole looks over to his right, seeing a suit and a pair of fine shoes. On the right wall sits two stylish fedoras.
“Perfect,” Benjamin grins.
Suddenly, a loud knock booms through the shack, shaking the air drying stud to his core. Ominous and unexpected.
Especially since nobody knows of is his 'love shack', but his lovers.
“Who tha’ fuck is that?,” Benjamin almost whispers, not moving a step, realizing that the old floors creak.
Suddenly, louder than before, another loud knock nearly beats the door in. This time more demanding.
“Damn neighbors. Must be one of thu’r kinfolk,” Benjamin whispers to himself.
For a few minutes the small shack is silent. The young hired killer is rooted to his spot, shot glass in hand, not moving an inch. As if playing possum.
Suddenly another forceful knock is heard, this time a thunderous. As if knocking the old door from its hinges,
“Benjamin, I kno’ ya’ red ass is in thu'r son!,” can be heard behind the door.
His eyes darting around the room, the creole is shocked. As his eyes shoot across the room, the hustler sees his straight blade and gun a few feet away.
“Yeah .... So wh’ut tha’ fuck of it naw....?,”
“Who tha’ fuck is d'at-knock'in on my doe’ like tha’ devil himself?,” Benjamin yells. No need to play dead. Especially since he just may be in a few minutes.
“Open tha’ damn door mane’. Find tha’ fuck out!,” the male voice booms from behind the cheap wooden door.
“Or I cu’d just kick this fuck’a down!”
Quickly, Benjamin looks to his gun. It would only take a few moves and he would have his hands wrapped around judgment and glory.
Fast and sound, tumbling over, head to feet, landing skillfully 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,