criminal element

In memory of -

My brothers Waydon De Bique and Vernold 'Dookie' De Bique Jr. and good friend Marlon Haywood. Lives cut short still, how it lived and who cherishes you in their hearts that counts.

Savants claim you are disposed from birth, naysayers reject on the assertion physiological differences are not responsible.

Man's determination to do crime.

Sin himself. The naysayers can say you are disposed from birth with a moral compass. No guarantee it will come to use.

Whatever side you take religious, secular and anything else, crime - the irresistible poison even so convinces himself to consume it knowing sickens not only a committer's own body and mind but fellow men.

Chapter 1

A little known state in the U.S.

High beams on, a Subaru car drives an empty road at night.

Enclosed in a small store, a half dozen customers browse to and fro, owner at the counter. A Spanish looking patron walks up to the owner placing purchases on the counter top: gum, biscuit, floss, underarm spray. Taking money out her purse, her eyes illuminate something and points a finger. The owner reaches and takes it down from the side, resting a condom with the purchases on the counter. She passes bills beneath the burglar proofing to the owner.

He boasts, 'That rubber's real good. Will feel like there's nothin' between you and your man tonight. Gah, heh.'

Suddenly a loud bang that would be the door bursting open. Armed individuals rush in; ski mask wearing. One average height and the next big and muscular. All baggy clothed, under right circumstances makes it hard to tell body proportions. The third was clearly short in that baggy attire. Don't let it fool you.

Screaming viciously, 'Move, yuh dead! Gimme the money!'

Surprised, all stop mid-business, body movements near standstill. The trio move deeper into the store. The owner sees the short one walk briskly to them.

The average height one presented a calm, efficient and accented voice. He sounds male. 'This is no holdup; let us make a withdrawal'. The owner whips out a pistol from under their clothing. It was magazine loaded and silver.

A stand off.

The short man some feet away laces words menacingly and vicious, 'Hand it over now ol' man!'

'No!' he retorts angrily, 'Buss my tail here. Ain' see me twenty years ago strugglin' from nothin'. Only the present when I got somethin'.'

The calm voice again from out the mask. 'Put it down. Nothing will happen to you.' Yet its every bit a deadly game of wills. Supporting that he aims expertly an elevated Uzi machine gun at his chest, both hands grip it, finger off the trigger guard and on the trigger. The short man holds up a cutlass ready to swing. Edgily the arm making slight jerked movements cobra like. A full swing materializes, but the blade too far is only a threat, for now.

Tension took hold. Customers meanwhile nervously watch. 'We require nothing of you and this shop,' said the calm voice. Their faces turn to horror when the third, large man points his shotgun not at the opposition, but their way. Specifically the Spanish woman. Baggy clothes unable to hide the huge bulk.

Calm as opposed to the customer's terror spoke. 'You have something to live for. Them too. Worth the weight on your conscience?'

The owner grumbles, 'Comin' robbin' like this! No feelin' at all. All I scarified for.' He lowers his head and gun disappointed. The average stature calmness in the face of adversity won the night. With one epilogue.