rejected lucky charms content

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

To underestimate the inky black of the night, to think only of shadows wrapped in trench coats wrapped in moral shit-gray of the movies, isn’t only life or death. Your life isn’t the steepest price to lose. They know that better than anyone.

"Still interested in my sister's underwear, little bird?"

"Whoawhoa...what kinda underwear we talkin bout? Granny panties? C'mon, she’s got better taste than that. At least commando...." A thoughtful, melancholy for what is lost, scrunch to his face.

"Bloomers,” is breathed with all the colors of the wind.

"HOLY FUCK! Bloomers? Like the girls used to wear in high school, you remember that right? JESUS fuck..."

"And with legs like that her tiny tits don't matter."

"....Dante. You?"

"Orpheus. Nice to meet you, my good man."

Wilson, having been privy to this conversation, can’t muster up the energy to sigh. He’s been through this one too many times, and it seems Dante is the only one actually humoring this guy the way he wants. The smuggler has found his soul mate.

“Now that the code words are out in the open, can we get on with this? Your boners are making me queasy.” This is what he gets for choosing this life.

The warehouse is filled to the brim with contraband; crates piled to the ceiling, furniture, a few cars scattered here and there. The duo attempt to avoid too much eye contact, better to play dumb than nosy when it comes to other people’s equally illegal dealings. They’re killers, not snitches.

Snitches wind up in stitches.

Orpheus finally brings them to another unassuming stack of crates with some fancy business company’s name stamped on the outside.

“If you’ll do the honors, Dante,” the smuggler orders with a demure look through platinum lashes, sweeping his arm through the air as if to impress.

Dante is impressed and wants to impress in turn, yanking a crowbar from his coat so he can proceed to open the container. Inside, beneath even more assuming packing peanuts, are an assortment of weapons, ammo, and other goodies. Wilson whistles,

“Aren’t you too kind. It isn’t even my birthday.”

“You know I love to please my little death mongerers,” Orpheus winks. Then waits expectantly.

Wilson casts a brief look into the container, skimming as best he can, and finds nothing amiss. An envelope plush with cash [because they aren’t the cliché fucks with brief cases full of money] is offered, the smuggler beams--

A loud crash remains the single warning before who Wilson can only assume are rivals bust in. One in particular—

“Is that motherfucker on a tractor?!” Is this one.

Orpheus appears to be in the midst of not choking on his own rage-vomit, but he’s distracted by Dante, who tosses the envelope in his general direction so he can duck away from a shower of lead.

“God, I was trying to have a moment and these assholes ruined it!” He whines from somewhere to Wilson’s left. What he has lost in smarts, couth and everything else, Dante makes up for in enthusiasm. He immediately returns fire, elbow locked to absorb the shocks, mouth a grim line.

Wilson, who can’t be assed, who will cheat at rock-paper-scissors next time to not get this detail with his particular asshole. He occupies himself with his back to a scalped out motorcycle while he counts down the moments between fire, between the screams.

“Who the hell do these kids think they are?” He knows who. Whippersnappers who have joined in the great career of killing for a living, who are enamored with the slick crime bosses and the syrupy rendition of cold stone murder on television.

Teeth grit so hard his jaw aches, he pops his head back up to squeeze another round off, knowing this is the fate he’s chosen. In the distance he hears a wild goose-ly call, knows that out of all the blood ties that bind people together, there’s nothing to compare to spilling blood for one another.