again.
Benjamin instantly smiles, remembering a night both men were drunk on good moonshine. Their pockets were filled with $1,000 a piece. The brothers were looking looking for sweetest trouble a man slide get into.
Loosening the grip on his gun grip, the creole thinks.
“Oh yeah. Dorothy. She sho’can guzzle some dick. Can she?,” he yells.
A test.
Benjamin hears nothing but rain, thunder clapping overhead outside.
“Who tha’ fuck is Dorothy? ........,” is said on the other side.
“We’s talk'in bout’ Mary nigga. We both don' fucked her ....” the voice yells.
Suddenly, Benjamin laughs out loud.
His gun falls to his side.
The creole is secretly relieved as he walks to the door.
Unlatching the old door, creaking it open with a big grin, the thug’s face suddenly melts into a agitated deadpan expression.
He is staring down the barrel of a Luger pistol.
Cocky, the creole snickers, seeing past the cold black steel into bright blue eyes, even in the dark night. Eyes of the best friend he has in all of creation.
“Ya’ still go’ tha’ ugly ass gun?,” Benjamin smirks.
“Matt’as fuck’in not muth’a-fuck’a,” the young white mane growls gently.
“Im hu’r ta’ make so’ ya’ meet ya’ mak’a tonight,” Slick smiles deviously.
“So who hire’d ya’ no shoot'in ass?,” Benjamin says with a fixed smile. He knows humor is Slick's weakness.
“Especially wit’ tha’ grand daddy gun.”
“Ya’ a body lay'a. Git’ ya’ so'mthin sexy.”
Short in stature, yet powerfully built, Slick’s blonde hair is wet, as is his well made suit. Drenched to the bone. The gun stilled inches from a face that he has known all his life, the contract killer’s aim would be true. Though his heart would not in it.
“Shut tha’ fuck up negro.”
“I shu’d jus’ shoot ya’ yella' ass fo’ all d'em’ men who's wives ya’ don’ fuck’d,” the blue eyed hustler laughs.
Seeing the steel barrel waver from his forehead, Benjamin's hair is getting wet, his well built chest nearly slick wet. “Like ya’ aint fuck’d anoth’a man's pussy- sssssshhhhh--it,” he laughs,
“Look’a hur’. Come inside. Got some whiskey.”
“Naw-got my own mutha'-fuck'a',” Slick snarls. His focus made strong and true. He has job to do.
Benjamin’s patience has been spent. He is getting irritated.
“Then kill me then fucka!”
“What tha' fuck you wait'in for honkey!”
“Blow tha’ trigga nigga!,” the hit man yells, ready to meet his end.
As the two men stand off, there seems to be a stillness all around everything as rain pelts the dark night. Thunder bellowing further and further away.
Benjamin suddenly chuckles as a thought comes to his mind.
“Nigga. Kelly Anne gon’ kick ya ass up and down Columbia muth’a - fuck’a.”
“Wait till I tell hu’r ya’ stuck’a gun in my face. Ya’ dead meat nigga,” the killer
smirks.
Suddenly Slick laughs loudly, a belly chuckle.
The gun falls to his hips.
Benjamin is instantly relieved.
"I’s gon’ tell hur’ too,” the creole laughs out loud, opening the door wider.
“And ya’ gon’ stop call’in me a negro too. Its ‘colored’ now days ya ig’norunt asshole.
Slick chuckles loudly, shaking his shoulder length hair free from rain water. Benjamin opens the door wider. Glad to see his baby brother.
“Negro please-yo’ in mo' black pussy than me,” the creole continues.
“I cut that white skin of yu’rs. All I’mma find is black-ass skin.”
“Why is ya’ masquerad’in as a white man negro?”
Suddenly Slick buckles over, a heart felt laugh. He can not take any more. “Its tha skin col’a. White folk be confus’d,” he snickers.
“And them devil eyes .....,” Benjamin laughs, welcoming the young man in.
Slick walks right in. Glad for the warmth of the shack.
“Naw, baby boi.”
“These hu’r blue babies git all tha’ sweet pussy I can swim in,” Slick snickers.
“Black’o white.”
Inside, Benjamin pulls up a seat to a makeshift table, slamming down two shot glasses. Steadily watching his half brother, especially the gun that Slick has just placed on the shanty table between them. The creole wonders.
“So yo’ was hired to kill me?,” he asks, pouring.
“Two in tha’ head of ya’ greasy mongrel hair. Three ta’ be safe,” Slick snickers.
“Who hir’d ya’ ?,” Benjamin asks, downing his first shot.
“Who else. Ole Man Fitzgarald,” Slick comments, glad for the whiskey.
Benjamin glares up at the young man seriously. “Yo’ gon' do it ?” he asks.
“Maybe,” Slick laughs.
Seeing Benjamin reaction, the thug’s smile melts from his lips.
“Yo’ a ly’in mutha'fucka'.” Benjamin laughs, downing another shot.
“As sho' as my birth muth'a’ was a saint,” Slick laughs.
“Yo’ mama was no damn saint nigga.”
“My daddy fuck’d hu’r three ways from Sunday. Then made up fo’ Monday- Tuesday and Friday,” Benjamin laughs, downing another shot.
“Yo’ talk'in bout’ my mama,” Slick sneers, almost laughing.
“So....?,” Benjamin grins.
Finally, the gun pushed away, both men chuckle at each other. Occasionally eyeing the pistol. Benjamin and Slick relax. About as relaxed as two contract killers can get in front of each other. Especially when one is hired to kill the other.
Benjamin pours another shot. “How much tha’ racist pig paid’ya’ ?,” he asks.
Smiling, his brother accepts the shot. “Two thousn’d,” Slick grins.
Benjamin pours another shot for himself. “Damn-he want’d my black ass dead real bad.”
“Bout’ as bad as he lies ‘bout not fuck’in tha’ pretty black maid he got,” Slick laughs, eyeing his gun.
The creole relaxes back as he eyes his brother.
“Ya’ mean tha’ one I fuck’d.