Young Writers Society

"Alright. Alright, Abner."

...

What?

"Sorry. We weren't expecting you."

Don't make me think twice about this, two-face.

"No, no, please. I just--we weren't expecting you to actually come."

...

Let's get this over with. I have a grave to fill.

"Don't be so pessimistic. Witness protection wouldn't let a fly onto you, let alone a bullet--and Ish's empire isn't as efficient as his fathers’."

You assume I don't want to be killed.

...

"Why did you come here?"

What?

"Here. With us. Testifying against Saul's son, Saul's legacy, Saul's kingdom, Saul's--"

"--do you need a tissue?"

Get it fucking over with.

"...How did it start?"

You knew how it started.

"I was only undercover during its pique."

And you were the one to topple it all.

"Abner."

...

"Abner?"

...

Imagine.

Imagine the first corpse you ever see.

Imagine you were fifteen years old, with a dad and a mom and five other kids living in a crummy two-room apartment down in Bronx, and you're a middle child and the police look at you like you're gonna pull out a semi at any moment even though you're trying your best and you get all As and Bs in your school report card and your dad thinks you'll be the first in the family to pass college, though he still throws beer bottles at you if you look at him the wrong way. Imagine being the kid whose almost a genius, but not quite, and you're running down an alleyway late in the afternoon because you need to get home before the sun goes down or else dad'll punch a hole in the wall again, but you trip and you fall and suddenly there's blood dripping from your forehead and a pack of shaved hyenas with mohawks and ripped jeans and pipes circling around you.

And they're saying, 'Whatcha got in the bag, retard,' and you say that it’s just books, and they say “Mind if we take a look,” and obviously these kind gentlemen were only there to inspect the contents of your bag to make sure that your papers are all organized alphabetically, so you give it to them while feeling like you're about to urinate in your brown pants. They open the sack, but it really is just all books, so you tell them you've got no money, and they say “That's a cool looking jacket you have there,” and it’s at this moment you realize, you're about to get eaten alive by a bunch of psychopaths with the worst fashion taste imaginable.

But there he was. Just as you were ready to piss in a pair of hand me down jeans, he appeared, like an angel, but an angel with tattoos of naked women on his arms, a habit of yelling slurs and 'chinga a tu madre', and a gun.

So the hyenas, they run screeching for their mothers, and you try to, too, but something stops you. Something falls over you. There's blood on your hoodie. You look at your chest, and you see a mohawk with blood coming out from a hole in his skull. The first corpse you will ever see.

The angel looks over you. He looks like he's about to add his kill count, but then he sees the books. "Valedictorian?" he asks, and you say you aren't, but he supposes you were close. "Get a move on, kid," he says, and you ask him if he's going to kill your family, and he says that he will if you don't shut your mouth, and you ask why he didn't say that in the first place, and he replies: "You're smart. You don't need to be told what's what."

And, you know, you know you were never a genius. You know that you're smart, but you aren't going to be the first one to discover the cure for cancer. Lots of people say you're smart, and yeah, it's weird, considering it came out from the mouth of a guy who headshot some asshole like life was a GTA game--but you feel like this one time, it means something.

Ten years later you've graduated from college, and your dad's died of liver cancer and your mom made a cake for the occasion, and your older sibling is a high school dropout so they’re too busy being a fuck-up to celebrate, but the young ones are there and they're filled with hope. ‘I want to be just like my big brother one day,’ they tell their friends at school, and everything’s going great.

Six months later, your business degree has gotten you jackshit. And you know, maybe you're not trying hard enough to find a job, or maybe you always knew it would come to this--but there you are, sitting in the same alleyway of your adolescence, waiting for a miracle.

And he comes, too. He doesn't recognize you, but you couldn't really forget your first corpse, so you ask him: "Could you kill me?"

He hands you his gun, then, and spits out: "Do it yourself, dumbass."

So you smile, and you say, "Shame. Can I have the next best thing?"

“What?”

“Working with you.”

He finds it endearing, so he brings you to lunch promising he'll kill you eventually. You tell him who you are, and he tells you he's Saul Kish, and you recognize the name because your other older brother got shot in the chest by Saul's crew. Saul doesn't apologize, and you wouldn't care if he did, because your brothers still alive and he's still a jackass who deserves to die with lead in his internal organs.

You two laugh at that, and the next thing you know you're on first name basis' and he gives you his number and a gun in case you were too maricon to kill yourself, but you never wanted that in the first place. Instead, you used the phone number to talk, and occasionally he'll tell you to run errands or practice on your shooting, but one day he comes to you saying, “My boss is being a dick, you want to help me kill him?” and bam, another decade passes and you're the right hand man to one of the deadliest men in the city.

...

Do you mind if I smoke?

“Yes.”

Well, that’s a real shame then—hey!

“Joab, no. He’s cooperating. (…) I’m sorry about that, but regulations are regulations. You were saying?”

…

“Alright, just this once— but only if you give me the lighter. I won’t stop Joab if you make that cigarette into a weapon.”

You were always a reasonable fellow, Davey. I see why Jon liked you so much. (…) Heh. I struck a nerve, didn’t I? Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t kill him.

And besides—at least I came to the funeral.