Phage

PHAGE

                                       

A cold wind scraped over the depressed urban landscape. Oblong structures stood in neat rows at mock attention. The buildings themselves were sparsely illuminated by naked light bulbs, each revealing a silhouette of despair. The facades were haggard with disrepair, the exterior lights casting a malevolent glow. The structures themselves were created by the labor of a caring and compassionate society. Materials such as concrete and steel were used to construct these dwellings. What was once bonded with mortar and brick were now held fast with lawlessness and ingratitude. Societal mutiny had taken root, and it had flourished. Within this feral microcosm anarchy was adorned with a golden crown.

Darren exited his apartment, slamming the heavy metal door into its frame. When he was younger this would always lead to a symphony of curses and groans from his neighbors apartments. Not now. Darren had forged his reputation through senseless acts of random violence. At three inches above six feet and with a lithesome athletic body Darren had the physical attributes to augment his vicious lifestyle. He moved with a predatory swagger, every action deliberate. His eyes constantly scanning, greedily imbibing all the visual input he could ingest. Darren carried his hate and indifference to others as some would display their children, with beaming pride and for all to see.
Darren reached into his right pants pocket using his fingers to secure his bounty. He pulled from his pocket a clear plastic bag, inside there were forty five small bits of crack cocaine. These small bits were themselves wrapped in plastic and twisted off at the top. Darren shoved the bag deep into his pocket, pulled his hood up and headed up to the roof. If he was heading outside onto the street the routine would have been different. Darren slowly made his way up the stairwell. On the fifteenth floor two younger kids were coming down the stairs. At the sight of Darren both kids parted like the red sea, as instinctively as you would pull your hand from an open flame. Darren walked through the kids like a farmer through a wheat field. Darren knew what he was, and he wore his tyrants cloak proudly.

Darren opened the door leading to the roof, ignoring the rusted sign reading “No Exit”. He quickly scanned the roof; all was quiet except for the wind rustling some empty beer cans and newspapers.  Darren walked to the edge to the roof and placed both his hands on the railing. He looked down and saw his two soldiers posted in front of the entrance. He watched them for a few more seconds and then fixed his gaze on the park benches. Darren loved this spot, especially when he was alone. After all this was where he defined himself.

Two years before Darren was a handler for an older player named “Six Shooter”. They called him that because he carried this big chrome revolver wherever he went. They also called him that because he shot a lot of fucking people. Darren worked for “Six” in the buildings shuttling cocaine and guns around. Darren learned the basics of making money in the drug game. He learned how to cook, cut and package crack. Darren also had a knack for the money side of things and knew when the count was fucked up. Darren knew how to “negotiate” in his chosen vocation. One time this crazy kid Bazo walked up to him and told to get the fuck off his corner. Darren with the grace of a jungle cat reached into the crotch of his oversized jeans and pulled out his first gun. It was an old .25 caliber Jennings semi automatic that he cleaned with WD-40. He put that gun right to Bazos face and pulled the trigger three times. The first bullet ripped through his jaw and the second glanced off his ear. On the third pull the gun jammed. Darren played with the slide, calmly racking it back and forth trying to clear the malfunction. Bazo on the other hand was lying on the floor, his shattered jaws a slurry of blood, saliva and bone. Bazo got to his feet and staggered a few steps. He was still attempting to fix the gun when he noticed Bazo trying to get away. Violently and as gracefully he took three quick steps and pushed Bazo to the floor. He began to strike Bazo in the head with the gun, but it was too small to cause significant damage. He simply put the gun in his pocket, turned Bazo over and slammed his head into the concrete sidewalk until he was winded from the exertion. Darren felt a euphoric rush wash over him as he felt the moist pulp of flesh; bone and blood disassemble in his hands. As he rose to catch his breath he heard police sirens in the distance. He felt neither panic nor fear. He began a brisk walk through the housing development towards his apartment. With every step he took he felt larger, more solidified. A titan forced to live among mortals. As he entered the lobby he noticed his t-shirt was streaked with blood. He stripped it off, rolled it into a ball and walked to the garbage chute.  He was about to discard it when something caused him to pause. He carefully held it out in front of him, his fingers holding the right and left sleeves. The shirt fell open revealing the random streaks and splatters of blood. Darren’s eyes consumed the sanguinary sight before him. The shirt was his canvass, the blood his paint, and the pulverized warm corpse outside was his masterpiece. Approaching police sirens ripped him from his thoughts. He opened the door to the garbage chute and tossed the shirt inside. Darren looked at the elevator, decided against it and made his way to the “A” stairwell. He calmly began his ascent to his 10th floor apartment. He walked and kept an attentive ear out for the crackle of police radios. Darren opened the door to the 10th floor and walked toward his apartment. As he inserted the key into the lock he noticed something. Silence. He had lived here all his life and had constantly been immersed in an auditory blitz of radios, screams and gunshots. He turned the key into the tumbler and the door opened but he did not enter. He stood in the hallway basking in the freshly minted stillness. If he could silence this fucking place he thought, what else could he do?

Darren again shifted his gaze toward the street. People were huddled in tight groups along the perimeter of the housing development. Young boys stood in urban platoons like soldiers. There uniforms comprised of bubble jackets, designer sneakers, tilted baseball hats and oversized t-shirts. The sounds of motorcycle engines and car stereos made their way to his ears. The evening air was cool and crisp. Darren anticipated a busy night ahead of him. He turned from the railing and made his way to the maintenance shed.
The shed was roughly four feet off the ground and supported by concrete blocks. A small set of metal stairs led to a broken wooden door. The maintenance shed was 15 feet by 12 feet and was constructed of aluminum. Its original purpose was to store tools and minor buildings supply for the municipal workers who made almost daily repairs to buildings of this size. The idea was to have smaller tools and relatively inexpensive building supplies on hand so the maintenance crews would spend less time on the road and more time working. The problem was that after the contents were stolen the shed had soon morphed into a sort of brothel, shooting range and hang out. The aluminum walls were pock marked with bullet holes of varying calibers. The loosely grouped holes from an assortment of handguns rounds mingled with the tight crescent sweeps from fully automatic rifle fire. The floor of the shed was stained with the remains of countless sexual encounters. Some were consensual others not. Graffiti covered the sheds exterior creating an amalgam of urban war paint. Darren walked up the stairs and disregarding the sign that read “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” pushed open the door and went inside.

Darren stepped inside and drew a breath of stale air reaching in the darkness for the light switch. His fingers found the metal chain and pulled. A naked white bulb ignited, bathing the room in ivory light. The bulb rocked back and forth causing the light to swim laterally on the walls casting shadows in odd directions. He watched his shadow nimbly pitch from side to side. Darren enjoyed the effect, savoring the slowing motion of the light. When the light finally settled Darren went about his work. He first began moving stacks of wood that were piled in the corner of the shed. The wood was placed next to an ancient metal storage box that was battered with nicks and dents. The drawers of the box were either missing or damaged, like the smile of an aging hockey player. The box had sharp rusted edges and ripped more than a few of Darren’s shirts in the past. On the floor in the rear of the shed was a small steel box. He had bolted it into the floor himself over a year ago. He kneeled down and reached into his sock. He pulled out a single silver key with a square head. He kept the key in there because the police were much less likely to go searching in some project niggers socks than his jacket or jeans. These motherfuckers around here were mostly about the pistols anyway. He inserted the key into the lock creating a metallic grinding sound. Darren turned the key to the left and heard the lock tumblers release. He stood up and reached into his pants pocket pulling out the plastic bag with the crack. He kneeled again opening the box and quickly inventoried his wares. Inside the box Darren had an additional sixty twists of crack. He reached down and removed the bag revealing a black .40 caliber Browning semi automatic handgun. Darren picked the weapon up and gently cradled it with both hands. He paid fourteen hundred for it, brand new out of the box. The words “BROWNING” ran in bold letters along the slide from front to back. The serial numbers were in place, no drilling or scraping for this beauty. This gun was clean and it was his. Forty calibers were highly coveted weapons because they were bigger than those bullshit nines the cops carried and much more expensive. He stood and placed the weapon in the small of his back. At first the size of the weapon made it uncomfortable to carry this way. He was used to carrying .25 and .380 caliber handguns that were much lighter and smaller. He was unsure if he was satisfied with the weapon until he fired it for the first time. After he squeezed the trigger he felt a wave of intoxication wash over him. The sound of the firm report coupled with the controlled recoil that vibrated up his arm seduced him. Darren placed both bags in the box and closed and locked it. He placed a few pieces of loose wood over it and quickly scanned the room. Everything seemed normal, no signs of intruders. He had only had one problem with that since he started storing his shit in the shed.

A few months back he had come up here to take thirty twists down to the lobby to re-up the third floor stash. He entered the shed, snapped on the light and could immediately tell that someone had been inside. The wood was haphazardly placed around the shed. Cardboard boxes were overturned, even old packs of cigarettes had the tops ripped off and were scattered on the floor. Darren felt hot flashes of rage cascade throughout his body. He stood and imagined what delicious terrors he would inflict on the intruder. As his mind displayed an array of arcane tortures at light speeds a sound snapped him from his vision. He raced outside and saw a girl, wearing wretched clothing lying facedown. She fumbled to get to her feet but lost her footing on the gravel that littered the rooftops surface. Darren’s eyes locked on her and greedily devoured the image. She was about twenty three, long scraggly hair and dirty fingernails. Her clothes were ill fitting and soiled. The soles of her shoes, one different from the other were worn and imbedded with bottle caps and cigarette stubs. She wore a waist length jacket with a large tear under the left arm.  “Fucking junkie bitch” he thought as his anger elevated to near atomic levels. The girl, franticly trying to regain her footing slipped again, crashing to the ground below. She used her arms and pushed her upper body off the ground. Her legs were flat and her knees were still grinding into the gravel. She turned her head to the left and saw Darren watching her with his predators glance. Icy waves of horror circulated throughout her body. Panic engulfed her in titanic quantities. Darren closed the distance between them in four carnivorous strides. He grabbed her hair in a fist so tight his fingernails cut angry red half moons into his palm. Effortlessly he dragged her to the stairs leading into the shed. She grabbed his fist with both of her hands trying to relieve some of the searing pain cutting into her scalp. When he reached the staircase he dropped her and quickly grabbed two large strands of her matted hair in either hand. He stood behind her pulling her hair onto either side of the metal staircase railing. Her head made a sickening sound as it crashed into the metal. Darren began to take both pieces of the filthy hair and tie them together into a grotesque knot. He twisted and worked her hair furiously binding her to the railing. Her neck was arched back, her face looking skyward screaming not from the pain but the anticipation of what was to come.

Darren gave a final tug securing the girl by her hair to the metal railing.  The knot was snug but given enough time he knew she could eventually free herself. He slowly walked past the girl and entered the shed. He looked around the room and decided how he would begin. In the corner of the shed he saw a dusty heap of wooden planks. He began to handle each one checking for the proper grip and weight. On the forth try he found his choice. Darren clasped his hands around the plank and raised it to chest level. He stepped back and took three mock swings at varying trajectories. This was the one.
The girl was trying to pull her head free of the railing. When she saw him walk in the shed a shimmer of hope washed over her. She began to franticly pull at the knot with her fingers, but she was arched back and kept on losing her balance. She started to pull her head away from the railing in violent bursts. The pain was blinding, she could feel blood oozing from her scalp. On the fourth pull the knot loosened enough for her to feel she would actually get away. Then she heard the sound of the wooden planks being tested inside. The sounds entered her ears, traveling through her auditory conduits delivering a tempest of renewed panic. She began a series of fresh pulls, the muscles of her neck burning with the strain. Her head ached, her vision was blurry, and her breath came out in gasps. The girl was trying to untie the knot, but her fingers were slick with sweat and blood. She was still trying to disentangle herself when she saw him walk back out.
Darren stood at the top of the staircase, the plank in his right hand. He looked at the girl. She was motionless, her head still held fast to the railing. He noticed the blood seeping out of her scalp, her hair a tangled mess. He walked down the stairs and stood about three feet in front of her. The girl began a series of frenzied screams. Darren listened for a few moments and raised the plank. The girl, utterly exhausted and pitiful knew what was coming. She instinctively raised her arms, protecting her face and neck. Darren swung the plank, crashing it home into the girls forearm. The sickening snap of her right arm was delicious to him. The girl screamed, but this time it was more muted and delayed. He thought perhaps her screams differed from the varying types of pain he was inflicting. Darren raised the plank again; the girl raised her left arm to shield her face. He noticed how feeble her right arm looked as it limply hung at her side. He swung away striking her again in her right arm. Her legs buckled, but the pain from her scalp caused her legs to find new energy and she up righted herself. The girl arched back again, this time her shirt and jacket rode upward revealing her stomach. Darren noticed a small bump and how here stomach was slightly distended. Darren grinned to himself, she was pregnant.
Darren deliberately made eye contact with the girl. She was cowering, her one arm providing a futile defense to his onslaught. Her eyes were slammed shut, her body tense awaiting the next barrage. After a few moments the girl weakly opened her eyes. She used her left hand to wipe the blood and grime from them and cleared her vision. She saw him staring at her. She faintly hoped the worst was behind her. He had destroyed her arm perhaps that would be her penance. She looked into his eyes and knew she was a fool. His eyes looked into hers and then slowly made there way down to her exposed belly. He held his gaze upon her womb and quickly returned them to hers. “He knows” she thought, “my God” he knows. Darren swung the plank in a straight arc and buried it into the girls exposed stomach, the rough edge driving deep into her body. The girls head flung forward, ripping the hair from the scalp. The girl began to fall forward, but he used the plank to hold her in place. Darren forced the girl back onto the railing and swung again striking her in the stomach. This time the girl rocked forward vomiting a broth of blood and bile. Darren again forced her back onto the railing with the plank. He adjusted his grip on the plank and brought a mammoth blow across her shins. The girl tried to scream, instead she gurgled a series of pitiful whimpers. Darren took a deep breath and besieged the girl with an array of bone shattering blows. He only stopped when his lungs ached for air. He caught his breath and looked at the girl. Her body was pulverized, appendages twisted in impossible directions. Her sternum was a collection of broken bones. Her breathing sounded like a bag of broken glass tossing in the surf. Blood seemed to ooze through her clothing like an ominous spring. He was surprised she was still breathing. Darren walked to the ledge railing and looked over. Groups of people were standing in tight groups talking and looking up towards the roof.  He walked back over to the girl, grabbing her by the top of her jeans and by her jacket collar. She let out a low tedious groan as he lifted her off the ground. Her eyes opened weekly as Darren walked to the edge. In one controlled motion Darren hoisted the girl up over his head and held her in place. Darren looked up and once again peered into the girls eyes. The girl, delirious with pain had realized she was being moved. Shards of existence ending agony overcame her when he lifted her off the ground. Her mind cleared and all at once she saw him, his spiritless eyes fixed on hers.  The girl eyes slowly focused and she saw her end. Darren took two steady steps forward and flung the girl over the railing. He watched as her broken body plunged twenty stories to the ground below. The sound of the impact surprised him. It was not a loud boom but rather a sickening thud. It sounded like someone snapping chicken bones under water. Darren anxiously anticipated the reaction of the crowds below. He was instantly rewarded with a consonance of screams.

Darren exited the shed, pulling the door shut behind him. It was done more out of habit than for security. There wasn’t a fucking soul who would even look at that shed now. He reached back into his sock and pulled out the square headed key. He slipped the key into a plastic sleeve with a magnetic backing. The words “HIDE-A-KEY” were engraved on the front. Darren then walked to the rear of the shed and placed the magnetic sleeve underneath. He heard the snap as the magnetic strip and the shed made contact. He lowered himself and checked the connection. He had been using this system for a while and was pleased. In the past the cops had found keys on him and either kept them or threw them in the sewer. Satisfied he made his way to the down stairwell and headed to the lobby.

Darren started his descent down the narrow stairwell. The walls were covered in varying types of graffiti. Some of it from felt pens, others aerosol spray cans. On the ceilings most of the writing was “burned in” with .99 cent lighters. The stairwell smelled of garbage and urine. Every floor down he would hear loud radios and hallway conversations. As he progressed to the next floor the sounds would bleed into one other. He always took the stairs, elevators were too confining. On the stairs you could hear everything above and below you. The cops made a lot of noise.  Most of the uniforms were young white kids who were easy to avoid or fool. Their radios were turned up; their keys jingle jangled as they walked and they had big fucking mouths. The plainclothes ones were tougher. They were usually older, smarter and much more quiet. They would enter the building and hide out for hours watching, documenting who the players were. They would even park their cars blocks away and try to sneak into the building undetected. But he had people all over, and was always a step ahead of those motherfuckers.

Darren reached the first level, exited and walked through the lobby making his way to the front of the building. He pushed the glass door open and saw his two soldiers. When his boys saw him their demeanors immediately changed. Smiles melted, cell phones snapped shut, and hands were pulled from warm jacket pockets and spines straightened. Darren walked to the first boy; a husky kid named House and gave him a slight tilt of the head. House returned the nod and slowly walked off, understanding that he was subtly being told to go away. Darren then focused his attention on the other kid. Hassan was a slim kid with a baby face. He was sixteen years old and his presence was already known. His hair was kept in tight braids that complemented his angular features. Hassan had a stoic presence about him, a confidence that Darren immediately recognized.
Hassan extended his hand and Darren clasped it firmly. 

“What up Dee” Hassan said. Darren tilted his head signaling for them to walk and speak at the same time.

“You all set for tonight, the key is under the shed near the back”. “You got eighty five twists, all dimes. Hassan understood, all the twists would sell for ten dollars. Darren continued, “When you out you hit me on the point to point”. He held out his cellular phone. It was equipped with a radio feature that made a chirping sound when engaged. “Don’t say shit, just chirp me four times”.” I’ll meet you up top and re up you, understand?”
Hassan nodded and made his way back towards the front of the building. Darren looked over and saw House walking back over to Hassan. These two were working out well. House was the steerer; he would post up outside and guide all the buyers to where they were pitching that night. He held neither money nor drugs. Hassan would be on the third floor looking down at House from the hallway window. The buyers would make there way to Hassan who met them on the second floor. Hassan would take the order and the money and tell them to stay put. He would then go to whatever location they were using that night. Tonight they had an apartment on the third floor that belonged to an old man in a wheel chair. It was easy enough, they busted in told the motherfucker what’s what, and set up. The old man was a crack head anyway so they paid him in product. He was fucked up in his chair most of the time, drooling and babbling to himself. They kept only meager amounts of product in the apartment. If they used a location for too long of a time the cops would get wind of it and break the door down.

Darren walked out of the development, crossed the street and made his way to the store on the corner. As he walked he was greeted with a series of nods and hand signals. Some he returned most were unanswered. He entered the store and walked to the counter. The store was filled with posters and ads for every type of malt liquor made. Pictures of beautiful women on exotic beaches clutching bottles of beer adorned the walls. Bright pink and green billboards that read “SALE” were affixed to all the alcohol and cigarette displays in the store. The clerk, a Puerto Rican man Alex asked Darren what he wanted. He slowly pointed to a green pack of Newport cigarettes. Alex quickly produced the cigarettes and slid them on the counter towards Darren. He was obviously uncomfortable and trying to end this encounter as soon as possible. Darren stared at the pack and then at the clerk. Alex’s discomfort was growing, every time this guy came in the store he felt like he was walking through a mind field with snow shoes on. Alex cleared his throat and asked “anything else?

Darren held his gaze on the clerk until he understood. Alex nervously placed a book of matches on top of the cigarettes, hoping this was almost over and said “that’s $7.80 please” in his thick Spanish accent.  Darren took a slow step backward and took the cigarettes in his left hand leaving the matches on the counter. He ripped the plastic off the cover of the pack and threw it on the floor. He slowly took a cigarette from the pack and ripped off the filter. He then placed it in his mouth. He reached into his right jacket pocket and pulled out a lighter. The clerk watched him light the cigarette taking a deep pull making the ash glow a bright orange. Darren took two single dollar bills out of his money roll and threw them on the counter. The clerk hastily took the money and placed into the cash register. He took another deep pull on the cigarette and slowly walked out. Alex came from behind the counter and picked up the plastic wrapper from the cigarette box and the filter. He threw them into the trash can and placed the matchbook back with the others. He was just happy to have him gone. “One day” Alex thought “one day someone is gonna kill that motherfucker”.

Hassan was standing on the third floor, looking out the window. He saw House signal up to him that another buyer was on his way up. Hassan started walking towards the stairwell leading to the second floor and walked halfway down. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned on the wall. He heard the lobby door slam followed by the shuffle of footsteps making there way up to him. Hassan entertained himself by reading all the shit written on the wall. On the second floor landing was a large mural with the letters P.I.R.U etched in red and black paint. Piru was the Swahili word for blood. After all this was a “Blood” building. He and all his people were bloods. Hassan heard the footsteps draw closer and saw a man of about forty approaching. The man had a black “doo rag”, a white hooded sweatshirt with a black jacket and jeans on. Hassan looked at his face, it looked healthy, neither sunken nor sallow. His body was harder to tell under all the layers of clothes. The man walked over said “What’s good”. Hassan did not answer but continued to assess him. The man then said “Let me get two”.

You smoke crack? Said Hassan. The statement more accusation than question.

” Nah, nah” replied the man. “I got this fiend, she loves that shit”. “I don’t trust her to come and get it so I come instead”. “That bitch I’ll rob me if I give her my money!”

Hassan nodded and the man handed him a ten dollar bill and two five dollar bills. The bills were wrinkled and damp.

“Wait down here” Hassan said as he headed upstairs. He made his way to the apartment and knocked on the door. The light from the peep hole darkened meaning he was being looked at from the other side. The light returned and the door opened. Hassan walked in and made his way to the bedroom. He walked past a table with three boys listening to the radio. The boy’s nodded hello but he ignored them. He entered the bedroom and saw the man in the wheelchair pushed in the corner. The man’s face was pallid, his hair long and greasy. His eyes were half open, like drawn blinds in an old house. A yellow light spilled onto his face through the window. Hassan smiled and opened up one of the remaining drawers in the old mans dresser. Inside was a plastic bag with six twists of crack in it. Hassan took two and slammed the dresser shut. He walked out through the apartment and entered the hallway. He checked both directions and slowly started making his way back to the second floor. He looked out the window and saw House standing in front. Hassan made his way down to the man with the black “do-rag”. He extended his hand; in it were the two twists. The man understanding extended his hand and they shook. The twists were then passed from him to the buyer.  Hassan then turned around and went back to the third floor.

He reached the third floor window and looked for House. House stood in front of the building, Hassan waited a few seconds then wrapped on the window with his knuckles. House turned around and Hassan lightly tilted his head upwards meaning he was re supplying the stash. House understood and nodded once. House figured this would take about ten to fifteen minutes. He figured he could walk over to the store and gets some chips or something. Standing here in the cold was awful, but the money was right. House saw Hassan walk out of window view. He never knew where the stash was. Darren only told one maybe two guys at most. House figured it was so no one would rob him. “Who would rob that motherfucker anyway?” he thought as he walked off.
Darren’s phone went off. Four quick piercing chirps came out from the speakers on the rear of the phone. Darren stood up and walked over to the phone opening it up. Darren queried the menu and checked the point to point code numbers. These numbers were a series of ten characters comprised of numbers and star symbols. Darren never spoke business on the phone. Too many people were going away for years for shit they said on the phone. Conspiracy cases were made on wire taps and seized cellular phones. Darren checked the numbers and saw that it was from Hassan’s phone. He turned the phone over to check the time and saw only four hours had passed since their last conversation.

“No way had he sold all that shit” Darren said to himself still staring at the time display on the phone. Darren flipped the phone shut and shoved it into his jeans pocket. He walked to the bedroom and grabbed a hooded sweatshirt from a pile on the floor. He pulled the sweatshirt over his head and covered his thickly muscled torso with it. Darren then walked back into the living room and picked up his gun. He held it out admiring the sleek lines and gun metal finish. After a moment he lifted the back of his sweatshirt and placed the gun in the small of his back. He scanned the room and saw a jacket lying on the floor in the corner next to the television. “Fuck it” he thought “I won’t be out that long”.
House was just making it back over to the front of the building. He had a small yellow bag of hot fries in one hand and a bottle of strawberry soda tucked under his arm. As he neared the building he noticed two people, a man and woman standing in front of the lobby. House recognized these two as regular customers. As he approached the woman said “You up or not?”

“Yeah we up, calm the fuck down” House said between bites of hot fries. He stared at the two deflating any sense of urgency they may have had.

“It’s only, we went up and no one’s serving you know what I’m saying?”

House kept chewing his hot fries and peered up at the third floor window. No Hassan. House took the bag and grabbed it in both hands, one hand at the end and one at the opening. He raised the bag up to his mouth and tipped the remaining contents into it. That was always his favorite part. He then rubbed his hands together, ridding them of any crumbs. He opened the soda and took a long draft. The two looked annoyed and that was what he was waiting for. He loved seeing the customers come when they were dope sick. The urgency and pleading in their eyes.

“Come back in fifteen minutes” he said and walked in between the two of them still swilling the soda around in his mouth. The two scurried off into the darkness. House leaned against the railing and pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He was gone only fifteen minutes, were the fuck was Hassan?

Darren was making his way up the stairwell, different scenarios playing out in his mind. The first was Hassan had actually sold out and needed the re up early. That was good and Hassan was certainly capable of that, that’s why Darren had chosen him. The second one was always in the back of his mind. Maybe this motherfucker was setting him up. This was very unlikely but always on the frontlines of Darren’s psyche. He was brought up in a shark tank, one always preying on the next. He trusted no one and always looked for any signs of betrayal from all his people. Occasionally just to maintain discipline among his ranks he would sacrifice one of his own. Darren still thought this unlikely, as fierce as Hassan was he could not dethrone Darren. Not yet anyway. Darren would cultivate Hassan; shape him into a worthy soldier. Hassan wanted Darren to take him in his hands and knead him into a killing machine. His own arrogance began to erode his caution. Darren’s mind was a bit more at ease as he headed up the final landing to the roof.

Darren opened the door leading to the roof and was hit in the face with a blustery wind that thrust the door from his grasp. The temperature had dropped and he felt the chill cascade down his body. He started to walk towards the shed and began looking for Hassan. Darren noticed the shed had small embers of light escaping from the apertures. He walked to the stairs grabbing the railing and made his way up into the shed. He clutched the door handle, struggling a bit with it against the icy gusts of wind. As he entered the door swung wide open, pressing against the front of the shed. The sound of the wind deafened him. He took two steps inside and looked for Hassan.
Darren’s first thought was that he had been hit in the face. The pain in his head was blinding. He was suddenly aware of being down on the floor. Then white hot pain rippled outwards from his lower back. Darren struggled to get his bearings. His eyes swam in and out of focus. He felt the coppery taste of blood fill his mouth. He turned his head and spat, not to clear his throat but in disgust at being prostrate on the floor. His vision began to clear and his eyes began scanning the room, lusting after their adversary. Darren’s mind raced, trying to establish some continuity as to what had just happened. He started to get to his feet when a second blow came across his face, slamming him back onto the floor. He thought he was being hit with an object, a table leg or a pipe, something solid. Darren heard the metallic click of the light switch and knew the shed was now dark. He lay on the floor, the coolness of the aluminum floor feeling oddly refreshing to his face. Darren opened his eyes and saw the dark blue evening light through the open door. It was at an odd sideways angle that confused him. His ears were filled with the sound of the rushing wind colliding with the sheds exterior. Darren pressed off the ground with his hands and rose to his feet anticipating another blow. When the blow did not come his hands instinctively went to the small of his back for the weapon. He stood up on unstable legs, his body hunched over trying to get to it. His legs were kicked out from under him causing him to land on his face. He felt his right hand being seized at the wrist and bent upwards. Darren tried to upright himself but his erect arm acted as a fulcrum, keeping his body on the floor. He struggled to raise himself but a knee was forcefully slammed into the back of his neck pinning him back down. Darren then felt his first two fingers being seized in a vise like grip. All at once his fingers were bent downward causing a blaze of pain to shoot down his arm into his shoulder. Darren let out a scream that was surprising to him. It was not the pain that had caused him to scream, he had had that all of his life. It was the helplessness that was new and alien to him. He laid there unable to move, grunting and cursing with a faceless opponent holding him in place. Torrents of humiliation spilled over Darren driving him into a panicked frenzy. He felt the weight of his adversary shift and knew what he was about to do. Darren felt the gun being pulled from the small of his back. He tried to move his left arm but it was pinned under his body. He began a series of forceful spasms causing his body to shift underneath his invisible opponent. He figured this was the end, this motherfucker was going to shoot him in his fucking head and that was the end of it. Darren spat out the words “Fuck You” between clenched and bloodied teeth as he felt the gun clear the elastic of his boxer shorts. He waited for the end but the end did not come.

Darren heard the metallic clanking of the gun bouncing off the wall and hitting the floor of the shed. All at once his arm and broken fingers were released and the weight keeping him down rose off of his body. He raised his head and looked up at his opponent. In the dark he could barely make out any details of what he saw. It was a man he thought, casually walking away from him. His strides slow and purposeful. He made his way to the shed door and stepped one foot outside reaching for the handle. Darren heard the deafening “whoosh” from a blast of frozen wind driving against the shed. He turned and looked at Darren, and in one fluid motion pulled the door closed, sealing the room in a silent pitch. Darren’s heart began to race and he rose to his feet using his left hand to brace himself. Beads of fear filled sweat bled out of his brow. His fingers felt swollen and useless, but he forced his hand to make a fist. He waited eyes and ears acutely testing the darkness for movement. He heard a ruffling of clothing and heard a clicking sound cut the distance between them. The man was holding an open cellular phone. The blue from the screen washed against his face revealing an amorphous dark shape. Darren gazed at the face for a second until the light shifted and the phone was slowly lobbed in his direction. The blue light bounced off the aluminum wall and ceilings as the phone completed its arc bouncing off Darren’s chest. He used his damaged hand to pin the phone to his chest when the pain from his fingers rippled down his arm. He grabbed the phone with his left hand and immediately recognized it as Hassan’s. He looked at the screen and saw the window with the caption “All Calls” at the top. He looked down to the last phone number and saw the letter “D” followed by his phone number. Darren felt dread rising from his stomach like a putrid spring. The light from the phones screen dimmed so Darren hit the side volume key with his thumb to activate it again.  He turned the screen from the phone towards the man. Blue wisps of light glanced over his opponent’s body. Darren assessed his height and build. He seemed at least an inch or two shorter than Darren, but his width was difficult to gauge in the darkness. Darren stood straight up feeling a boost of confidence coming from his superior height. He watched the man and noticed he hardly seemed to breathe. The usual signs of respiration, the rising and falling of the chest were absent or barely detectable. Darren was still trying to regulate his breathing from the ambush, but he had not once heard the breath of his attacker. Darren’s eyes began to slowly adjust to the darkness around him. His pupils opened like spring orchids taking advantage of any ambient light available. He remembered the gun was in here, somewhere in the corner by the door. His eyes swam in the darkness trying to position where the gun now laid. He bladed his body and lowered himself into a fighting stance. From what he could see the figure before him did nothing. He raised his hands felt another arc of pain flash down his right arm. His fear was washed away and replaced with fresh rage. All at once he took two quick steps forward and lunged into the darkness.
         Darren closed the distance between them in less than a half second, and was rewarded with a series of phantom blows from multiple directions. The first blow struck him under the jaw, stopping his forward motion almost completely. The second was a strike to his stomach so hard that it doubled him over. As his head made its way down from the second blow it was met with another from below colliding with his nose. Darren stumbled back on rubbery legs his hands going to his face. His eye’s filled with thick tears and his nostrils released dual streams of tepid blood. He used his fingers to clear his eyes and nose, the pain in his hand a distant second to the new assault on his head and body. In frenzy Darren charged forward releasing a dirge like war cry. He felt his feet slamming into the ground below causing shutters to reverberate throughout the shed. He raised his arms, opened his fingers and bared his teeth. He was hit in his midsection and lifted off the ground, his momentum brought to a dead halt. Darren’s head rocked forward and felt his hands and arms follow. He was thrown across the shed, the small of his back crashing into the corner of the storage box. A thousand screams of pain clawed there way out of his throat. The flesh on his back was parted revealing a scarlet vertical grin. He placed the back of his hands on his back and felt blood running from the wound. He heard a quick series of footsteps and felt covered hands seize him by the neck. He was pulled to his feet; his body was immediately blanketed in pain from the abrupt movement. He grabbed the hands around his neck, not to remove them but simply to stabilize himself. His feet were toes down; the tops of his sneakers were snaking across the floor. He was being dragged to the side of the shed. SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! He was nearly unconscious from the blows when he felt the grip around his neck release and readjust. The first hand lowered and grabbed a hold of his shirt clenching cloth and flesh alike. The second grabbed Darren’s chin, the thumb and fingers firmly affixed to each side of his jaw. He was slowly dragged to the corner of the shed, the grip on his face tightening with every step. They stopped moving and he felt the arms he was clinging too tense up. He was launched off the floor upwards, his head crashed into the ceiling. His teeth were pressed together ripping away bits of cheek and tongue. He fell back to the floor and landed in a rumpled heap.

Darren felt fresh gouts of blood pool in the back of his throat. He rolled to the side and spat twice clearing his airway. The top of his head was ablaze in fresh pain. He rolled onto his stomach and felt his breath hitting the wall that now lay only inches from his face. He tried to get his bearings when he felt his ankles being grabbed and elevated. Darren was being dragged towards the center of the shed. He grasped in the darkness for something to hold on too.  Darren stopped moving and felt the phantom grip on his ankles tighten even further. All at once his body was whipped to the left and knew he was being launched across the shed. His body slammed into the far wall then bounced back to the floor. As he lay on the floor Darren was overcome with a flash of boiling rage. He rose to his feet and charged into the darkness. An arc of absolute power seized him by his throat, immediately ending the counterattack. His spine ached from the sudden end to his momentum. His hands reached forward trying to inflict some kind of damage. The gargantuan grip tightened even further and his hands withdrew, cradling the one around his neck. Darren’s throat felt as if it had the diameter of a sewing needle. His knees buckled and his eyes contorted to puffy slants. Darren was slowly losing consciousness as the blood flow to his brain was depleted. Darren squeezed the wrist of the hand around his neck, desperately trying to loosen it. He felt the grip on his neck adjust, and then tighten, then re adjust. He began to squirm more violently when he felt a blast of pain collide into his gut. A geyser of warm vomit spewed from Darren mouth, followed by another. The grip was released and Darren collapsed to the floor. He laid on his back, his body awash in fiery torment. He vomited a third time, a thin film of bile erupting from his throat. It oozed into his nostrils and down his cheeks. His breath made a thick slippery sound from the mix of air, bile and spewtum. He opened his eyes and felt the contents of his stomach spill into them. Darren squeezed his eyes shut then opened them, clearing his vision. He gazed upwards and made out the dark umbra of his attacker. For the first time in his life Darren felt true fear. Fear coupled with dread and humiliation. He continued to peer at the dark shape, the alpha to his omega.
Darren watched as the shape walked into the darkness of the corner. He laid on the floor, the simple act of breathing inflicting dozens of torments on him. He kept his ears in synch with the sounds of the footfalls. They stopped and Darren heard protracted movement. He tried to get off the ground but he was overcome with dizziness. His mind raced to find a way out of this when all at once he remembered the gun. It was still in here. He turned on his side and used his left hand to prop himself up. He still heard the figure a few feet to his right. Darren raised his head towards the direction of the sound and again tried to focus his eyes on the shape. He slid his right knee up, then his left and started to upright himself. As he put pressure on his knees to raise himself he stifled a grunt. The sounds from the corner stopped. Darren heard the figure turn around and knew he was being watched. Darren peered into the lightless corner and heard two footsteps followed by a quick grating sound that made its way toward him.

“He just kicked the gun at me” Darren thought

For a second they both remained motionless, peering into the darkness at one another. Darren broke the respite and lunged forward, extending his hands trying to find his salvation on the frozen metal floor. He slid both hands on the floor in frantic semi circles. He felt the heavy metal edge of the gun deflect off his right wrist. He fumbled in the darkness and brought both hands down on the gun. A comforting wave of relief washed over Darren as he felt it in his right hand. He tried to grip the pistol but his shattered fingers could no longer conform to the nomenclature of the weapon. He tried to shift the gun to his left hand, but heard the approaching and hasty footfalls draw closer. Darren was struck so hard in the face his body slid a full eight inches after his head hit the floor. His right eye socket was broken causing that side of his head to be bathed in a merciful numbness. Blood trickled from both his eyes and ears. Darren felt a terrible pressure resting on his left wrist and opened his eyes. The pressure on his wrist intensified; as a result Darren opened his hand and expanded his fingers and thumb. A burst of yellow light erupted onto the walls followed by a sinister hiss. Darren felt a thousand suns engulf his hand, his nostrils filled with the smell of butane and roasted flesh.

Darren was not aware of it but the flame from the handheld torch pirouetted in the glass of his panicked eyes. His hand was still held fast under the weight of his attacker and was alive with vibrant agony. The flame had receded into the metal tank and was reduced to a menacing nub of cobalt. The weighted lifted off his hand and he drew it towards his sternum, uselessly covering it with his right hand. He brought it closer to his face and the odor of scorched meat flooded his bloodied nostrils. He watched the menacing blue flame that was only inches away from him. He likened it to the swollen hood of a cobra. An indicator of an imminent and savage strike. The flame was slowly raised and fields of fresh fear bloomed throughout his body. The flame was extinguished and with it the rapid low hiss that was its harbinger. An icy and terrifying silence enveloped the room. He heard footfalls retreating away from him followed by