Well everyone, this chapter marks the second half of Nathan Weaver‘s epic story of The Rolling Stone & Wicked Annabelle. I hope everyone is enjoying it as much as I am. Only two chapters left, I can’t wait for the ending!
The Compound was innermost city territory, and was located fourteen blocks from Big Fish Murphy’s jive. The Compound housed Dr. Hook, his associates and all the goods were warehoused within its walls as well. It covered three city blocks, and from an outside perspective it could have been mistaken for a middle-eastern palace wall or a Hollywood studio. Wherever your references took you, one thing was undeniable about The Compound—it was secure.
Like heaven, The Compound was foursquare. Each wall had two large and heavy bronze gates in the center. He picked the east gate and rang the bell. He waited.
The gate slowly opened horizontally, just enough for Hawn the Hammer to step through. He was over seven foot tall, nearly four-hundred pounds of muscle, and had a blond crew cut. He had scars all over his face, and it appeared some facial reconstruction of sorts had taken place at one time. He was missing his left eyebrow, and his left eye appeared to be a fake. Rumor has it he had suffered a lot of damage to his face stopping an eighteen wheeler with his bare hands. In The Rolling Stone’s mind, Hawn the Hammer wasn’t much of a smart one, and figured that was working to his advantage. But he also figured that was the only advantage he had, if his body wasn’t fully recovered yet.
There was only one way to find out.
Hawn the Hammer opened his crooked mouth and spoke loud, stuttered and slurred. “You cannn’t-t-t-t commmmme ins-s-s-s-side.”
“But I’m asking real nice.”
Hawn the Hammer smiled a crooked smile that was half smile and half frown. “I-I-I-I-I-I k-k-ill you.”
The Rolling Stone pulled his gun, aimed at Hawn the Hammer’s face, but he grabbed the barrel and twisted it into a curve before he could pull the trigger. He was barely able to pull his finger loose, before it got caught and cut off.
Hawn the Hammer laughed and threw the gun to the ground.
The Rolling Stone charged the mountain of a man, throwing his hardest slug of a right hand into the man’s face. Upon impact he felt bones breaking in his hand, and he screeched in pain. He fell back, clasping his shattered hand. Hawn the Hammer’s head didn’t even budge and he laughed louder.
He ran at Hawn the Hammer, diving and planting his right knee in his chest. The blow moved him maybe an inch, and shattered The Rolling Stone’s kneecap. He fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Hawn the Hammer laughed so hard that a tear gingerly escaped his faux eye. He bent down and picked The Rolling Stone up and stretched him out horizontally. He spit in The Rolling Stone’s face, and then dropped him on his knee. His spine broke across Hawn the Hammer’s knee and his world suddenly became black and quiet.
Hawn the Hammer let the body drop to the sidewalk. He looked at him and wondered in his simple mind if the deed was done. The Rolling Stone’s eyes were glazed over and staring at the sky. “Are you d-d-d-ddead?”
And this satisfied the brute. He picked up the limp body, slung it over his shoulder and carried it off the streets and straight through the gate. He motioned to a man in a booth, and he used a lever to close the gate. He dropped the body on the ground.
“C-c-c-c-can you t-t-t-t-ake care ofh-of him?”
The man stepped out of his booth and nodded.
Hawn the Hammer started back to the house, but then the man called out to him. He turned around and saw The Rolling Stone slowly standing up. His back was turned to him, but once he got his feet planted he turned to face him.
“Finish the job, Hawn!” The man shouted and ran back into his booth, closing the door and securing it.
The Rolling Stone knew now he was ready. And he knew now what to do. He wiped the spit from his face. “I hate spit.” He charged Hawn the Hammer and climbed him, clutching his one good eye with his left hand and slowly worked it out of its socket.
Hawn the Hammer spun around feverishly, the little man hanging off of his head. He couldn’t get him off, like a spider’s web it just wouldn’t come release its prey. He fell to the floor and swung his arms around out in front of himself. But he was blind and couldn’t see what he was aiming at. The little man released his grip and he was left swinging at the air. By the time he decided to listen for his opponent, The Rolling Stone was long gone.
“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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