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.