with the woman, caught them by surprise and threw a little payback on their asses. God knew they had some paying back to do. Dub sure as shit knew it. He just wished he could have sniffed out their hiding spot while he and the boys were inspecting the carnage. Somewhere close, he was sure of it. They hadn’t time enough to get very far—the blood was too fresh, the invigorating scent of death too new. Too bad the midget wasn’t around to give ‘em away. Give ‘em away like he’d given that woman up—sure as hell served her up when his balls were on the line. Served her up and Dub kept his word and let him walk away.
This time.
Four less in the army of Dub, the warrior king of The Devil’s Own, fresh off a seven-year-stretch when the shit hit the fan. Thank God for that day—or the Devil. Whichever of those cocksuckers tossed down the fire sure did Dub a favor. A huge goddamn favor. Seven years into Life-without, the doors popped open and out walked Dub. Hell on earth, baby. Dog eat dog and the strong survive, the winner gets the spoils and the meek fall to the back of the line for a good old fashioned ass-fucking.
If they’re lucky, that’s all they get.
No more shuckin’ and jivin’, hiding their activities from the cops. Hell, the cops were on their side now. What was left of them. What happened and why, he didn’t know and didn’t give a shit. He was glad all those people disappeared, and couldn’t have cared less where they’d gone, or who had taken them. God? More power to ya. The Devil? Muchas gracias, baby!
Out of the slammer and into the seat of power he’d left when that rat-bastard Sammy Figgs fingered him for those kids. Two college-boy motherfuckers too smart for their own good, who happened to have some high-powered ambulance chaser’s daughter along when Dub finally caught up to their asses, long after the blow and the money had run out.
Dub’s blow.
Dub’s money.
Dub and Figgsy and Rock-steady Teddy, and three punk-ass kids in the middle of the woods on a cold December night—a Crème Brulee torch and a razor-sharp knife, a shovel and a chainsaw and a Colt ’45, all combined to give those rip-off bastards a night they’d never forget. If they lived through it, which they didn’t. Who could’ve lived through something like that?
Dub took a hit off the whiskey bottle one of the boys had left tightly nestled in the inverted V below the corpse’s burnt patch of pubic mound, shaking his head at two of his men about to come to blows over a piece of ass—a blackened hunk of ass, to be precise. Bert and Ernie, whose names were not Bert and Ernie but were as empty as the two Sesame Street Muppets, moving aimlessly along until they found the hand of God shoved up their asses, propelling them forward with a dutiful purpose.
Dub’s hand.
Dub looked up at the same cold grey sky he’d seen every day for damn near as long as he could remember—no sun, no moon, no blue sky or fluffy white clouds, or stars at night. Nothing but that dreary grey haze settling over them like a death shroud. For the umpteenth time, he wondered what exactly had happened, what had caused this mysterious phenomenon.
When the cell doors flew open, half the screws up and disappeared. Those who didn’t were torn to shreds by the shrieking masses of inhumanity pouring forth from their six-by-ten cages. Dub didn’t hang around for any of that shit. The doors clanged open and the riots started, and Dub walked his ass straight out of D-block, down the corridor past damn near every act of depravity known to man as he made his way through several wide-open, unmanned checkpoints, stopping only long enough to run a sharp-ended piece of metal flange through the eyeball of Ike Forsham, a particularly nasty guard who’d taken it on himself to make Dub’s life a living hell. (Like it wasn’t already.) Too bad for Ike he didn’t vanish with the others. Too bad for Ike somebody strung him up naked, upside-down with his
This time.
Four less in the army of Dub, the warrior king of The Devil’s Own, fresh off a seven-year-stretch when the shit hit the fan. Thank God for that day—or the Devil. Whichever of those cocksuckers tossed down the fire sure did Dub a favor. A huge goddamn favor. Seven years into Life-without, the doors popped open and out walked Dub. Hell on earth, baby. Dog eat dog and the strong survive, the winner gets the spoils and the meek fall to the back of the line for a good old fashioned ass-fucking.
If they’re lucky, that’s all they get.
No more shuckin’ and jivin’, hiding their activities from the cops. Hell, the cops were on their side now. What was left of them. What happened and why, he didn’t know and didn’t give a shit. He was glad all those people disappeared, and couldn’t have cared less where they’d gone, or who had taken them. God? More power to ya. The Devil? Muchas gracias, baby!
Out of the slammer and into the seat of power he’d left when that rat-bastard Sammy Figgs fingered him for those kids. Two college-boy motherfuckers too smart for their own good, who happened to have some high-powered ambulance chaser’s daughter along when Dub finally caught up to their asses, long after the blow and the money had run out.
Dub’s blow.
Dub’s money.
Dub and Figgsy and Rock-steady Teddy, and three punk-ass kids in the middle of the woods on a cold December night—a Crème Brulee torch and a razor-sharp knife, a shovel and a chainsaw and a Colt ’45, all combined to give those rip-off bastards a night they’d never forget. If they lived through it, which they didn’t. Who could’ve lived through something like that?
Dub took a hit off the whiskey bottle one of the boys had left tightly nestled in the inverted V below the corpse’s burnt patch of pubic mound, shaking his head at two of his men about to come to blows over a piece of ass—a blackened hunk of ass, to be precise. Bert and Ernie, whose names were not Bert and Ernie but were as empty as the two Sesame Street Muppets, moving aimlessly along until they found the hand of God shoved up their asses, propelling them forward with a dutiful purpose.
Dub’s hand.
Dub looked up at the same cold grey sky he’d seen every day for damn near as long as he could remember—no sun, no moon, no blue sky or fluffy white clouds, or stars at night. Nothing but that dreary grey haze settling over them like a death shroud. For the umpteenth time, he wondered what exactly had happened, what had caused this mysterious phenomenon.
When the cell doors flew open, half the screws up and disappeared. Those who didn’t were torn to shreds by the shrieking masses of inhumanity pouring forth from their six-by-ten cages. Dub didn’t hang around for any of that shit. The doors clanged open and the riots started, and Dub walked his ass straight out of D-block, down the corridor past damn near every act of depravity known to man as he made his way through several wide-open, unmanned checkpoints, stopping only long enough to run a sharp-ended piece of metal flange through the eyeball of Ike Forsham, a particularly nasty guard who’d taken it on himself to make Dub’s life a living hell. (Like it wasn’t already.) Too bad for Ike he didn’t vanish with the others. Too bad for Ike somebody strung him up naked, upside-down with his
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