05-12-2015, 06:06 PM
Jorge Ospania
Three days passed and Jorge was beyond done with the shit-hole of a town. Every time he walked passed a woman's tear-streaked face or a battered and bloody man he thought to the future and how good it would feel when Ramirez had his fucking throat ripped out and his dogs pissed themselves and pleaded for their lives.
The scenarios that ran through his head in those three days sated his blood-lust to a point where he even managed to play buddies with a few of the less-bestial of the fuckers. Their deaths were quick and merciful in his head. They had just drawn a bad hand in life and paid in full.
Others though...
Late on the third night Jorge stood in the back-yard of the shitty little house he and Gregory occupied. Dane was content to have the crack-whore Martina chase him about and was probably in the middle of their annoying ritual of avoiding any kind of fucking fun. Strange that, he didn't figure Gregory was one for the ladies, but it looked like he loved the attention.
"Time's up,"
Jorge muttered to himself. It wasn't his fault if Gregory complained that he didn't get to fuck her. He knew the deadline as well as Jorge.
Jorge searched the night for his target. The digital compass guided his aim and was deposited into his jeans when he hit the jackpot. A tiny beam of light shone back in his direction. The town was surrounded then. Thank-fucking-god. If anyone was smart enough to investigate at this point, they would only hasten their deaths.
He fumbled a joint from his pocket. It was flattened and uneven. Too much shit in his pockets. He fished out his lighter and soon he felt warmth spread through his body as he inhaled. Jorge checked his watch.
Almost time.
He slipped the L.E.D torch from his pocket and paused to breath in the night air and a lungful of burning weed.
He held in his hand the lives of hundreds. Soon, they would live or die by his signal. A torch. A fucking torch. It was probably the deadliest weapon he had ever held.
But...Could he do it? Could he live with himself, knowing all that blood was on his hands? He had even grown to like some of his enemies.
Jorge chuckled under his breath. The night air stank like shit and misery above the smoke.
"Adios, motherfuckers."
The beam of his torchlight lit the night, and for a brief moment he held his breath in anticipation before the sound of guns shattered the uneasy peace. Jorge drew in another breath.
About time.
Shouts erupted all around and chaos ensued as Jorge turned his back on the night. Time for Gregory to do his work.
He was so preoccupied with the battle that had begun outside he did not notice the screams for what they were until he had reached Gregory's room.
Shit.
A hand went to his face in disgust at the scene that burned itself into his eyes.
The fuck? Was he that high? Surely not.
"Gregory,"
he shouted over the cacophony. "Fucking hell man, GREGORY!"
He shouted a little louder as the man continued, oblivious.
Martina lay motionless by the time Gregory noticed him. Jorge was stunned. He still wasn't sure if he had been shot in the face and now lived in some fucked-up nightmare.
"What in the name of fucking hell are you doing?"
He didn't give a shit about Gregory's response. His mind howled. Was he insane? The girl was laying there all cut--
Jesus Christ.
No. He didn't have time for that shit. Maybe she was a spy. Maybe this was a part of Gregory's task. She could have blown their cover. But fuck...Not like that...
"Let's go,"
Jorge said, numb. "Time to do your thing."
Whatever the case was, Gregory was a dangerous son of a bitch. Jorge would save his judgement for Oakland once he had learned the truth.
Three days passed and Jorge was beyond done with the shit-hole of a town. Every time he walked passed a woman's tear-streaked face or a battered and bloody man he thought to the future and how good it would feel when Ramirez had his fucking throat ripped out and his dogs pissed themselves and pleaded for their lives.
The scenarios that ran through his head in those three days sated his blood-lust to a point where he even managed to play buddies with a few of the less-bestial of the fuckers. Their deaths were quick and merciful in his head. They had just drawn a bad hand in life and paid in full.
Others though...
Late on the third night Jorge stood in the back-yard of the shitty little house he and Gregory occupied. Dane was content to have the crack-whore Martina chase him about and was probably in the middle of their annoying ritual of avoiding any kind of fucking fun. Strange that, he didn't figure Gregory was one for the ladies, but it looked like he loved the attention.
"Time's up,"
Jorge muttered to himself. It wasn't his fault if Gregory complained that he didn't get to fuck her. He knew the deadline as well as Jorge.
Jorge searched the night for his target. The digital compass guided his aim and was deposited into his jeans when he hit the jackpot. A tiny beam of light shone back in his direction. The town was surrounded then. Thank-fucking-god. If anyone was smart enough to investigate at this point, they would only hasten their deaths.
He fumbled a joint from his pocket. It was flattened and uneven. Too much shit in his pockets. He fished out his lighter and soon he felt warmth spread through his body as he inhaled. Jorge checked his watch.
Almost time.
He slipped the L.E.D torch from his pocket and paused to breath in the night air and a lungful of burning weed.
He held in his hand the lives of hundreds. Soon, they would live or die by his signal. A torch. A fucking torch. It was probably the deadliest weapon he had ever held.
But...Could he do it? Could he live with himself, knowing all that blood was on his hands? He had even grown to like some of his enemies.
Jorge chuckled under his breath. The night air stank like shit and misery above the smoke.
"Adios, motherfuckers."
The beam of his torchlight lit the night, and for a brief moment he held his breath in anticipation before the sound of guns shattered the uneasy peace. Jorge drew in another breath.
About time.
Shouts erupted all around and chaos ensued as Jorge turned his back on the night. Time for Gregory to do his work.
He was so preoccupied with the battle that had begun outside he did not notice the screams for what they were until he had reached Gregory's room.
Shit.
A hand went to his face in disgust at the scene that burned itself into his eyes.
The fuck? Was he that high? Surely not.
"Gregory,"
he shouted over the cacophony. "Fucking hell man, GREGORY!"
He shouted a little louder as the man continued, oblivious.
Martina lay motionless by the time Gregory noticed him. Jorge was stunned. He still wasn't sure if he had been shot in the face and now lived in some fucked-up nightmare.
"What in the name of fucking hell are you doing?"
He didn't give a shit about Gregory's response. His mind howled. Was he insane? The girl was laying there all cut--
Jesus Christ.
No. He didn't have time for that shit. Maybe she was a spy. Maybe this was a part of Gregory's task. She could have blown their cover. But fuck...Not like that...
"Let's go,"
Jorge said, numb. "Time to do your thing."
Whatever the case was, Gregory was a dangerous son of a bitch. Jorge would save his judgement for Oakland once he had learned the truth.