Got Him

      He was only 7, but he'd seen enough episodes of the Sopranos to know how to pull a trigger. His dad had left the gun in the attic, right above the bedroom where he'd left his wife and son. That was nine months ago.

   Tommy had seen the gun before. One time his dad had come home late, smelling funny and yelling nonsense at his mom. After she slapped him, he stormed up the stairs, grabbed the gun, and went to sit on the back deck to shoot beer cans off their fence, naked. 

  

   Tommy remembered the gun in a dream. When he woke up, he decided to explore. The gun was much heavier than he expected. He took it out to the backyard and pulled the trigger. 

   The noise frightened him so much that he ran. Gun in hand, he ran as fast as he could to the safest hiding place he knew. He and his dad had built the hideout years ago, and they'd been coming back every summer to listen to Braves games on the radio while making camp fires, grilling burgers, and desserting on s'mores. Of course, that was before he left. 

   As it turned out, Tommy wasn't the only one who had thought that the fort would be a great place to hide. When he saw his father laying there in a sleeping bag, his heart began to race. "DADDY!" he shouted, running to give him a hug. 

   When Tom Sr. saw the smile on his son's face, he immediately realized what a mistake he'd made, turning to meth for comfort; turning his back on his family. He swore then and there that he would quit - for his son. That smile was worth it, and he knew he could, without a doubt, do it. And he would have, too - if Tommy Jr. hadn't accidentally pulled the trigger as he squeezed his dad in tight for a hug, killing him instantly. 

Loyal Brothers

           Loyal brothers. Loyal to cocaine, at least. And to each other, for the most part. Especially when it came to cocaine. Tonight they needed cocaine, and there was nothing that could stop them from getting their mother fucking cocaine. 

     Except maybe poverty. Without enough money for the cocaine they so badly needed and running on three hours of sleep over the past 36, the brothers decided to pull off the interstate and grab a Red Bull or seven. Leroy waited in the car, too hungover to lift his head from the back of the seat. "Grab me some sunglasses," he mumbled, too late for Frank to hear. Three years his brother's junior, Leroy was used to being ignored. It didn't matter, he was tired. 

      When he woke up, Frank was screaming: 

  "GRAB THE FUCKING GUN. GRAB THE GOD DAMN GUN AND THROW IT OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW."

   That wasn't a good idea, Leroy knew. The cop chasing them would clearly see it if he tossed it out the window. So, he grabbed the gun and did what he'd been waiting, wanting, and needing to do since the first time Frank forced his cock don his throat at the ripe age of 5. He shot him in the fucking head. 

  Blood splattered the window, forming a spiderweb of red on the driver's side window. As his body lurched to the left, Frank's dead hands yanked at the wheel in harmony. At 117 mph, Leroy didn't have a chance. His life ended before the car stopped rolling. At ages 27 and 24, Frank and Leroy Sullivan were dead.