Memphis Streets 4: Skeletons

Chapter 36- Lucifer

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" I pound my fist onto the dashboard.

"I knew it! I knew it! Why didn't I listen to myself ?" Mason scowls.

"Wait! We were making this deal on your fuckin' word. You said those crazy-ass crackers were good for this shit. Now you're gonna tell me you weren't feeling it?"

"Back off!" The last thing I need is for his ass to ride my nerves.

"We gotta deal with that lying, double-crossing, redneck muthafucka."

"What do you want to do?" he asks.

"What the fuck you think?" I snap.

"Go at his ass. Hard!"

"You want to turn up on the good ol' boys?"

"You damn right! No muthafucka plays me. They got me twisted." I'm so heated, I can't think straight.

Mason lets that shit hang in the air for a second and then reaches for his phone. "Tombstone, change of plans."

I nod with my trigger finger itchy as hell. No way these muthafuckas think we have the balls to jump off some racial shit, but I'm about to show them how low my steel balls sag. We rumble back off that beaten path, locked and loaded. That god-awful country twang assaults the night. Our four Escalades don't even ease off the accelerator when we approach a line of HarleyDavidsons parked outside.

Mason mows over that shit with no remorse. The front door of the club explodes open, but when the first wave of angry rednecks spill out, I slap in another magazine into the Bushmaster and hop onto the ledge of my open window to mow those wiggas down.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT.

The second wave of stupid hillbillies comes running with handguns and a couple twelve-gauges, but they're unable to even fire off a shot before Tombstone plows straight into the club, busting through the front door and a panel of windows.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT.

I spring out of the vehicle and hold tight to my weapon during recoil after recoil. Half-naked bitches are screaming everywhere while we aim at everything with leather jackets. Shit gets nastier when more rednecks pour from the back room, most of them rocking with twelve gauges and fucking up the grills and front hoods of our cars. But my ass ain't playing tonight. I pick their drunk asses off one by one.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT

Exchanging cartridges, I look for Thor's ass among the dead and wounded. When I don't find him, I grab's Stony by the back of the head and jerk his mat of bloody hair up off the floor. "Where is he?"

"Fuck you, you black bitch!"

BAM!

I slam the butt of my gun against the back of his head and then lifted that fucker back up. "I'm the wrong black bitch to fuck with, you cousin-fuckin' half breed. Now, where the fuck is he?" I'm listening to his ass choke on his own blood when I hear Thor's ominous voice speak above me.

"I'm right here, bitch." I glance up into the barrel of a twelve-gauge.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT. RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT.

Thor drops his weapon as he's lifted into the air and blown back a good five feet. When he finally hits the floor, his body is riddled with bullets. Rising up, I glare at the dead redneck while Mason walks over broken glass behind me.

"Are you all right?" he asks, panting with fear reflecting in his eyes.

Had he not taken Thor out, I wouldn't be standing here right now. Stony grunts at my feet. I look down, aim my weapon at the back of his head, and tap the trigger.

RAT-A-TAT.

Stony's head explodes open, drenching my new black Timberlands.

"Yeah. I feel much better now."