“This rat shack got height. Can ya’ get und’a it?,” Slick whispers.
Benjamin nods, looking to the floor. He sees holes in the well worn wood, wondering if anyone is looking back.
The men wait, not moving a muscle. Listening, hearing the slightest of movement right beneath them directly below. Slick has an idea.
Quickly, his mind thinking faster than a blinking eye, Benjamin looks around as he smiles to himself. He feels the security of cold hard steel under his bare feet.
The men have crawled into what Benjamin calls his ‘caste iron cubby’.
In the dark corner the men are crouched in, their feet and back rest upon two inch solid iron that is two inches thick.
Benjamin had the small protective box built just for this reason.
Usually big enough to fit only two men, resembling a small short walk-in closet, the wrought iron mechanisms are essential for peace of mind.
Every gangster has a protective corner cubby, especially in the south since most homes are made of wood and plaster. None of which can stop determined bullets.
Quickly Slick looks over through the darkness, seeing a smile on his half brother’s face as he instantly feels a coolness under his wet socked feet. “Ya sly fucka’,” he grins.
“What's in tha back?”
“Tha’ woods is thick as day ole gumbo - snakes and shit,” Benjamin whispers back, leaning against cold metal.
Quickly, fast as lightening, Slick cocks his gun.
Suddenly a thunderous boom fills the old shack. Loud as thunder.
The trained killer has shot through the wooden floor.
His ears ringing, the blue eyed hustler grins. “Ready fucka’!?”
“Ya cu’d have warn’d me fuck’in fu’rst asshole!,” the creole grins, his ears ringing .
Directly below the brothers, the men hear moaning. Finally a strange silence. Suddenly there is cursing and fumbled movements from under the house. Both hear feet scampering through water and mud. Out to the north of the old shack.
“Get ya’ nigger ass out’cha hur!,” a man suddenly says outfront.
Grinning silently, the brothers look to each other like two mischievous boys. Huddling close like they use to on the cold hard streets of South Carolina as kids, the men are armed with a no fear attitude. Slick feels the heat from his discharged gun, smelling the gun powder. He is ready for more as his heart beats in his ears.
Benjamin listens intently as more running feet splash through wet mud on the outside. Sounds like two other men.
“Anybody follw’d ya?” he snickers to his huddled up brother.
“Hell naw nigga. I aint stupid ya’ kno’,” Slick answers, listening intently.
Suddenly, bracing themselves as they back away from the cold bullet proof cubby’s surface, the men hear several guns cock.
“Ya asshole. Ya lead’a damn bread crumb fuck’in trail to my ‘shack-up’ shack,” Benjamin whispers, his eyes squinted shut.
Before the brothers can take in another breathe, fast and powerful, the room is suddenly blazed in ringing sounds. Powerful and explosive.
Bullets whiz all throughout the small hovel as Benjamin and Slick cower against steel.
Peering through their hands, shielding their eyes, the men watch as the whisky shot glasses they just used.Suddenly obliterated, blown into thousands of tiny shards. To his right, the creole can see his fine suit. Just cleaned, the garment comes to life, writhing on Benjamin’s bed as live bullets shoot through the fabric.
Headboards, tables, chairs, everything is decimated with quick order. As if melting violently, chunks blown off, till no more. Shoes dance with no feet, silk boxers seem to rise up and down.
Cowering with their hands over their ears, the men feel dozen upon dozens of bullets hit their caste iron cubby through the wood from the outside of the house. Each bullet seems to ring through Slick and Benjamin's bones. Instantly ricocheting through the air like deadly metallic wasps.
Suddenly, as quick and profound as it all started. The shooting stops.
The silence is deafening.
“Niggers and nigger lova’s .....,” a man yells outside.
“If ya’ aint fuck’in swiss cheese, step tha fuck out’cha house. Now!”
The creole looks to his partner, grinning. “Is he fuck’in serious?”
Slick smirks as he hurridly reloades his gun. “Like herpes fru’m a street ho’.” Quick, the killer rises fast, over the edges of the cubby, shooting through a large hole made by several exploding bullets. With a fierce determination, Slick moves faster than angry wind, seeming to shoot in several directions all at once.
Instantly, moans can be heard.
Two down out of four. One already killed under the house.
“Shit get’in real fo’ ya’ yet!,” Slick yells as he bends back into the safety of the iron cubby.
He hears nothing but rain.
Gingerly, the hustler rise, looking through bullet holes, seeing into darkness.
All Slick sees is car headlights as a single man hides behind a car doors. The hustler leans close against a wall filled with holes. He sees the outline of a gun.
The hired gun is determined to kill the brothers.
Moving fast, looking behind him, benjamin has kept up with the body count as well. The creole suddenly remembers that there is a rarely used door that leads to the outhouse. “Save him fo' me?,” the creole smirks as he moves quickly.
Slick nods, ready to shoot if he has too.
“Keep that fuck’a talk’in,” the creole grins.
Looking back, nearly to his belly, dressed only in boxers and sheer blood lust, the young contract killer makes his ways across the bullet riddled floor. Finally out the back door. Before exiting, the creole looks back to his half brother. A single wink. A signature. Happy time to be had.
Outside, the air is moist, heavy with the scent of earth and rain.
Benjamin moves slow and patient, making his way down the back steps. Quickly, the killer’s feet lands in cold mud that squishes between his toes. In the shack, the creole can hear Slick curse, tainting the lone shooter.
On hands and knees, as if a warm blooded serpent, benjamin smiles to himself.
Almost chuckling inside, hearing his half brother insult the man. Benjamin can see Slick crouch even lower in the cubby, his eyes and gun aimed, ready to shoot.
On his way, low to the wet earth as mud clings to the Benjamin’s arms, feet and legs, the creole is hungry for blood. Slowly, knees sinking in the muck, the killer crawls forward as he hears Slick’s insults. Slick’s voice getting further and further away.
Slowly onwards, yards from the shack, Benjamin can finally see the lone gunman. The hired gun is crouched like a tiger, listening to Slick. The hired gun’s body is lite up by car lights.
Closer and closer, Benjamin lowers himself, nearly on his belly. Training his breathing, an old trick taught to him, Benjamin