Week 3, Chapter 3 from Nathan Weaver.
Teen Wolf was to be his first stop; he was the Supplier. He started this mess. Teen Wolf lived in an enormous house that he bought with the gigantic addictions and losses he fermented. He was a dealer, but he didn’t deal to lowlifes on the streets in the outskirts. He was inner city, higher class scum than the teens The Rolling Stone had maimed in the convenient store. He wasn’t top of the crop, though. He bought from the innermost city scum dealers, then supplied it to the low life dealing scum in the outskirts. The lowlife dealers sold it to any Tom, Dick and Harry that walked the streets—or in this case, Wicked Annabelle.
The Rolling Stone met Wicked Annabelle in a bar on the edge of the outskirts; that is, not in the outskirts but just inside inner city. Before he knew it, they were seeing more of each other and before he knew it they were getting hitched. And then, he really got to know her—she was a junkie, a lowlife junkie. She bought from the lowlife dealers who bought from Teen Wolf who bought from Dr. Hook who worked for Big Fish Murphy. Before he knew it, Wicked Annabelle was prematurely birthing his damaged son. The last The Rolling Stone had seen of his son, things were looking rough for the four year-old. He was on tubes and all other manner of things that make one more robot than human. Wicked Annabelle’s addiction had made the boy’s life barely worth living.
Wicked Annabelle met Dr. Hook at a party; she showed up hanging off Teen Wolf. She was looking for some free hook-ups to things that could get her really flying. She desired to be high, high as a kite by then. The Rolling Stone didn’t know of this meeting, he was clueless. He was working the graveyard shift, as always. Dr. Hook took a liking to Wicked Annabelle, swaying to and fro in her perpetual midnight state. She was flying by the time Dr. Hook found her, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t after her mind or clever conversation.
She had a body a guy could appreciate, and she was willing to negotiate. Better yet, she was cheap. That is, cheap for a guy who already owns the jazz she’s wanting—he could get all the Wicked Annabelle he desired for nothing. Just a little this and a little that from his own stash. A little loss, but it paid off in the bedroom. Dr. Hook was getting up there, but when you’re rich the ladies don’t care how shriveled you may become. For Wicked Annabelle, though, it wasn’t about the money—it was about the drugs.
Teen Wolf was currently sitting home alone, smoking a piece of his own labor. On his television set Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In was showing. He took a huge puff and his head was becoming heavier, swaying away from his neck—out ward and down, then jerking it up to see Goldie Hawn doing her hippy dance.
“Goldie, baby.” He spoke, a look of concern became his face. “You poor girl. Look at you—you’re just a body, baby.” He sniffed long and hard. “It’s The Man Goldie, baby!” He tried to focus his eyes, looking at the glass-sliding doors before him. He leaned forward in the sofa, a small fireball could be seen through the glass. “The light Goldie, do you see the light, Goldie? I see it.” The fireball faded into black and then words appeared in the dark, coming closer. Squinting hard, he read. “Team Player? What’s it mean, Goldie?” Looking up, he saw a familiar face. “Eddie? Eddie Bruno?”
The glass shattered and the bullet traveled across the living room, it entered Teen Wolf’s right shoulder. Following through with the momentum, he flipped over backwards from sitting and went feet first over the back of the sofa. Landing on his knees, his forehead sliding across the back of the sofa—he jumped to his feet and began to run down the hallway behind him. “Run, Goldie, RUN!”
The next bullet came through his right shoulder from the back, exiting out the entrance of his first wound. He fell with it, his right side leading. He fell shoulder and head first into the staircase. He tried to grab the rail but his feet and hands betrayed him. He rolled all the way down the stairs; at the bottom his neck scrunched between the floor and wall. Looking up the stairs, he could see The Rolling Stone’s silhouette looking down at him.
Teen Wolf ran through the room, it was dark and he kicked something in the process. He could feel that a toe was broken—now limping, he ran towards a pair of French Doors. As he reached the doors, a bullet entered through his back—middle of the torso, just to the left of his spine. He flew forward, throwing his hands out as he did.
As he rolled across the concrete patio, he felt the glass shards cutting into his arms and legs—his heavily bearded face was riddled with shards as well. Teen Wolf jumped to his feet, landing in the grass. He turned and looked back to his house. “Eddie, stop! What do you want?! Just say it!”
The Rolling Stone stepped out of the shadow of the balcony above him—from which he had made his entrance—the risen moon lit his face. “One question.”
“Anything, Eddie, anything…”
“Where is she?”
“Who, Eddie?” The fourth bullet entered and exited his left foot. “Dr. Hook!”
“Yeah, Eddie.” Standing on one foot, Teen Wolf rubbed his bloody foot with the broken toe. “But you can forget it. Nobody uninvited enters The Compound.”
The fifth and final bullet drove through his skull, brain, and out the other side. The Rolling Stone stood over his latest victim, who squirmed and twitched involuntarily. Slowly the movements gave way, Teen Wolf’s eyes glowing with the reflection of the moon.
Inside Teen Wolf’s walk-in closet, The Rolling Stone browsed a much larger selection of clothing. He took his hands and pulled at the neck, dead and center, his Team Player shirt tore straight down the middle. He threw it on the floor, kicking off his loafers into a corner. He picked a golden, polyester button-up shirt. He slipped into some navy blue bell bottoms and completed the outfit with a brown, leather jacket. Fitting into some new, non-bloody socks, and loafers he stepped out of the closet.
As The Rolling Stone flagged down a cab, he knew what he had to face. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it, yet—but he was tired of toying around. No one had ever survived a fight with Hawn the Hammer. It was going to take all he had—and he had nothing.
“In most places, bad things come in threes…In Babylon they come in sevens.”
Bio: Nathan Weaver is a senior video production specialist, filmmaker, writer, and lyricist. He primarily writes crime, mystery and science fiction, but he often dabbles into other genres if there is a good story there to be had. You can read short stories and excerpts athttp://talesfrombabylon.com. You can download his novella Rose’s Thorn on Smashwords and the anthology Everything from Amazon, in which he contributed two short stories; both of these eBooks are $0.99. You can also purchase the collaborative crime novella FATAL FLAWS in paperback on Lulu, which he organized and wrote many of the chapters himself.
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