would look back, he would see nothing. The talented killer is completely camouflaged. Melting into the dark night as if a ghost.
Benjamin is so close to the hit man, he can almost hear the man’s heartbeat. Only a few feet away, the killer can even smell the gun man’s cheap after shave over the smell of earth and rain water.
Slower and slower, closer and closer, the killer reaches down, blade in hand. Benjamin glides inch by inch till at the gunman's back. The hood’s body heat, right against Benjiman’s bare chest, feels like a soft glow that attracts something deep and dark in the killer’s imagination.
On his knees, right behind the hired gun, benjiman is as silent and motionless. Closing his eyes, the killer feels a thrill in his soul that borders on pure bliss. Opening his eyes, feeling his spirit burn hot and dark the creole strikes faster than a viper.
Fast and powerful, Benjamin grabs a hold of the henchman so fast, the man barely struggles as his riffle falls to the mud.
Powerfully gripping the writhing man by his head in a sleeper hold. The creole grins as his well toned biceps become hard as steel. Squeezing tighter and tighter.
“Hello my lil piggy,” Benjamin growls, gripping the man tighter and tighter.
“I’m tha’ fuck’in nigga ya’ was speak’in off .”
The urgent moment is sweet for Benjamin, feeling the young man struggle for his life, though no match. Squirming helplessly, the henchman’s body heat can be felt through his cheap suit as Benjamin revels in the sweet goodness of it all. Tightening his grip around the man’s neck, like a python with a new kill, the creole whiffs at the man’s skin, smelling fear.
Subtle but pungently sweet, the killer presses hsi nose into the henchman’s neck, growing more and more intoxicated.
Gripping tighter, feeling the man fighter harder, Benjamin smiles. He feels a certain ecstasy that only a killer can understand. In his veins pumps a heart that is full of zeal and lust, wanting the sweetness of death’s succulent fruit.
Squeezing harder, the murderous killer finally raises his shiny gleaming blade as fear makes his victim’s body almost fluid, struggling more and more.
Suddenly, as a last effort to get free, the shooter’s arms reach back, each pinned down instantly. As the young man tries to scream through a chocked throat, the creole prolongs his victim’s terror, enjoying the slight gurgles struggling from the man’s throat. Benjamin is much too strong for the man’s futile attempts. A lean linebackers build is no match for spaghetti eating pudgy dough.
His mouth finally free, the young mans snarls. “Get ya’ mongrel hands of mi’ naw’ nigga,” the he strains to say, struggling against Benjamin’s powerful body.
Feeling sheer explosive bliss, benjamin’s anger and rage has no place in this moment. The creole squeezes harder, his eyes red, heady, as if glowing with blissful energy. Bending closer, the killer takes a certain erotic lust in the man’s hateful last words, his face close to the hood hate-filled lips.
“Imma take ya’ soul naw’ mutha’- fucka'.”
“When I git ta’ hell, we gon’ settle this once and fo’ all,” the creole whispers lavishly slow.
Quick, fast and silent, the lone gunman starts to gurgle.
Benjamin's grip instantly loosens his vice grip, setting the man finally free.
The creole’s blade had found its mark, slicing through flesh like a hot knife through butter.
Benjamin watches with a crazed zeal, still crouched as the man stumbles back. Tasting some of the man’s blood on his mud laden lips, the creole licks greedily, sucking in the red warm treat for his efforts. As the creole watches in delight, the man finally falls.
The hood stares off into hell, dropping to his knees. Then to his belly, looking up to whom took his life.
Blinking back the cold grip of eternal darkness, the hood looks up. The last thing the man sees on earth is a Benjiman standing over him.
In the dark of night the tall hunk is caked in mud, head to feet. The killer’s eyes gleam brightly as a blood drenched smile sends the man to his death. A sheer vision of hell’s delights awaiting his soul.
Finally a thick wet thud and splash is heard. The man drops face forward into the mud.
Gone.
Rising, looking around, Benjamin comes to his senses, his blood lust haze evaporating quickly.
Still tasting his victim’s life essence on his tongue, feeling a strange peace and serenity, benjamin lets out a heavy sigh. He feels as if he is dark angel, pleased in all of his twisted omnipotence. Seen in the headlights, the killer looks down to his right hand. Dripping with red life, the creole grins at the treat to be had.
As a sweet dark breeze blows through the night air, Benjamin raises the bloody hand to his lips, careful for mud, sliding his thick tongue along the small stream of metallic warm joy.
Instantly, the creole’s mouth fills with sensual life, metallic and coveted. Benjamin grins with a dark joy, licking the rest of his fingers clean.
A strange ritual the killer has come to enjoy, a prize for a job well done.
Gently, like a lover he has never known, the gris-gris that rest against Benjamin’s chest begins to throb. The mojo starts to radiate a soft bliss through the hustler’s body. Intoxicating and glorious.
On back to the shack, the hustler is feels a type of serenity as his bare feet sink in the cool mud. Finally arriving at the rickety front porch, the hustler turns as he feels a new rain fall.
The creole looks back at the dead bodies. “Its so fuck’in good ta’ be a killer,” Benjamin smiles with red smeared lips.
Back in the old shack, his fit body smeared in wet earth, the creole is glad to see his brother.
“Ya feed tha blade?,” Slick ask, still sitting in the iron cubby.
Benjamin smiles, taking off his muddy boxers. “ Right cross tha’ fuck’in throat,” he replies.
Slick rises, dusting off his trousers. He watches as his partner in crime washes off with a pail of water and old wash cloth. As muddy water makes it way near dirty clothes on the shack floor, the creole grins. He continues to consider about what they had just discussed.
Slick beams a big smile as Benjamin dries off. “Ya’ wanna get hur’ wet again?”
“My blade. Yeah, why tha’ fuck not?,” the damp killer grins, looking at his gun.
“I was jok'in,” Slick deadpans.
The blue-eyed hustler brings out a silver flask from his jacket pocket, right as Benjamin snatches it. The killer downs it all with a healthy growl. All mixing well in his gut, along with his strange new fetish.
“We have tha’ money negro. He done paid fu’r his own one way trip ta’ hell fucka’. Why wait till two weeks ?”
“Do this thing fuck’in tonight playa’,” Benjamin laughs excitedly. as Slick‘s eyes light up.
The handsome creole assassin looks around his crash shack. A safe haven for when he wants to stay hidden, every gun-for-hire has one. Sometimes two.
Leaving the table, liquor rushing through his senses, the need to kill in his heart, Benjamin looks to a black raincoat, a suit of the same color, as well as a a pair of ‘ducks’.
Considering, he looks around the small shack. The creole has grown tired of it already. Time to move on, and the dead bodies