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A Plot of Murder in an Unpleasant House

Scott Brownlee

    “Bust a cap in his ass, yo?”
    It was Leather who posed the question.
    His cohorts frowned. Their names were Clint and Dakota.
    “You dudes ain’t ready fo dis type of commitment?”
    Leather fished through the breast pockets of his red flannel for a Marlboro. Thrusting a cigarette between his thin, mealy lips, Leather hiked up his black Harley Davidson t-shirt, revealing tight wiry abdominal muscles beneath pale Caucasian skin, and scratched his belly with an unsettling urgency. Shoving a balled fist into a torn blue jean pocket, Leather felt his fingers trembling in gleeful anticipation against the flesh of his upper thigh.
    “Don’t tell me you two are lazy, chicken shit bitches?”
    While lighting his cigarette Leather glanced downward at his Nike sneakers. Once white and now yellowish, the sneakers were strapped together by duct tape to prevent them from falling apart. Leather wiggled his toes and smiled because he could see them poking out of the holes in his sneakers. An oily strand of his shoulder length black hair fell across his dark brown eyes. The scrawny man shook it back. The hair felt greasy as it hung behind his ears.
    “If we don’t waste Madison,” Leather said, dragging deeply on the Marlboro. “Then robbing him is out of the question, yo. Our cracker asses be running far, far away from dat fat ass, hairy b-Itch. Dere’s no place on Earth we could hide from dat muthafucka, know what I’m sayin’? Da Apocalypse could come and dat crazy bitch would be all fried and melted and shit and his eyeballs hanging out and he’d still find us. Dat bitch got to die, yo. No one’s gonna give a rat’s shit ‘bout a dealer gone down. Besides, I need some new sneakers, yo.”
    “You need a new dick,” Dakota quipped.
    “Shit, fucking be what it’s all about, yo. Dis cock’s gotten me some fine ass poontang all over dey world. Yo sorry ass be stuck wit da same pink. Day in. Day out. But blow and ganja gonna make up fo dat.”
    “You better not be insultin’ Kassie,” Dakota threatened.
     “Will you two stop bitchin’!” Clint demanded loudly, shaking his head disconcertedly. “Suck each other dicks later. I wanna hear more. Go on, Leather, say what’s on yer mind. We might be onto something here.”
    Leather had milky white flesh. He was a poor specimen derived from Irish, Slovak and Ukrainian descent. His crooked teeth were yellow. When he smiled he looked like he was sneering at you. He didn’t look anybody in the eyes but sort of glanced at them in a sideway manner, always to the sides, slightly up or down, jittery, hyper, but never right at a person. Barks came from his thin lips and ugly mouth and if you could see into his constantly darting eyes that’s where his bravado sat. He was excessively thin, not strong, but could eat a pizza and a half gallon of high fat ice cream and not gain a pound. His face was unmarked, plain. It’s paleness made his thin, pointy nose and his small, square chin almost invisible. The sickly pallor made his brown eyes seem darker.
    “Da message I got is dat Madison is sitting on a lot of product a lot of da time. It’s up to us when we wanna make dis shit go down. I saw all da bad asses in da world in da Corps and Madison ain’t no joke. I know watta killer is. He’s one, yo.”
    “I wouldn’t fuck with him,” Clint said. “But a killer, nah.”
    “When are the girls coming home? I forgot,” Dakota interrupted. He cast out his hands dramatically as if to command Leather and Clint to behold the spectacle of semi-squalor they lounged in. “If Kassie was gonna go shopping tonight. Shit! I promised her that I would clean the place before she got home. Wait, is today Wednesday?” Clint nodded while Leather shrugged indifferently. “Ah, fuck, I don’t remember if she gets out earlier today or tomorrow.” A bit apprehensively Dakota added: “We gotta clean this place right away!”
    An answer did not come.
    “She still pissed because the mills laid you off?” Clint asked. Absently, Clint’s eyes swayed over the dimly lit, messy apartment and saw the peeling paint that hung off dull, dun colored walls and the tape, greenish with age, that held together rusty panes of cracked windows. Then his eyes swept over the dull hardwood floors that were marred by scratches. Each room’s floor was similar except for the kitchen and bathroom, which were covered by torn linoleum. The apartment reeked of dingy cigarette and pot smoke intermingling weakly with peach scented deodorizers. Unfolded clothes, toys, dishes, unpaid bills, half full Oreo and Doritos bags, discarded pizza boxes and empty beer cans were laying in a clutter throughout the house. Near rancorous smells drifted from the kitchen sink. In it sat a pyramid of dishes. The icy cold foyer hung with the heavy stink of old garbage bags. “It’s not your fault. You’re only one man.”
    Dakota looked past Clint at his messy apartment.
    Dat boy be tired of supportin’ Clint’s ass...and Clint be fuckin’ with him in his own crib...dat make any man salty...do dat in my crib, yo, an’ see how yo ass walk wit no a clip o’ caps in yo knees...
    “Fuck dat shit! Cleanin’ be a bitch’s job,” Leather said in agitation.
    “My wife’s not a bitch,” Dakota said sternly.
    “Every human on da planet wit da poon is ah bitch, I-aight?”
    “Let us not forget,” Clint said diplomatically to diffuse the mounting tension. “Behind every great man, somewhere in his shadow, lurks a woman.”
    “Yeah, and da bitch be stabbin’ her man in da back, get alimony an’ shit.”
    “Look,” Dakota said. “I got a kid and a good wife. Love ‘em both. Clint, you an’ me been friends a long time. You stayin’ here ‘cause your mom kicked you out. And it’s cool. We have good times.”
    Lyin’ mothafucka, face says all dere is to say...
    “And you,” Dakota directed his eyes and voice at Leather. “I known you ‘bout six months and we have some times, too. I ain’t into this shit you thinking about with Madison. He’s been good by me. And, what you said, er, yeah, that’s it.”
    There was a strain on Dakota’s face.
    Muthafucka don’t got balls to stand up for his ho in his own crib...da face says it all...conquer the weak fucks, fight the equal fucks and fuck da hos dat’s left over...dis boy is conquered...homeboy Clint, we be equal ‘cept I gots da biggest gat...
    “How about this, dudes?” Clint offered diplomatically. “We’ll have a few beers, soothe your rattled cages, discuss the robbery a little bit more and then,” Clint looked sternly at Leather. “We all pitch in to tidy up this house.”
    Leather sat upon a creaky couch while Dakota, visibly agitated, remained afoot with fists trembling at his sides. Without awaiting their response, Clint strode languidly into the adjoining kitchen to fetch three cans of Milwaukee’s Best, a pleasing sense of an alcohol buzz warming him. A glance at the kitchen clock revealed the passage of late afternoon into early evening. Clint opened the refrigerator, reached in, grabbed three cans of beer from the case and noticed the left over pork chops sitting unwrapped on a small dish inside. He grabbed a piece without thinking and took a bite. His mouth was full of pork when he cursed. Clint swore again, softly. He gulped down the chunk of animal flesh.
    “Hey, Dakota! Will your wife get pissed if I ate one of her chops?”
    “Tell me you’re fuckin’ around.”
    “What if it was just one bite?”
    “Oh no, man. There were explicit directions. Shit!”
    “How pissed will she be? If we order some Chinese do you think that’ll make up for it?”
    “We ain’t,” Dakota said as he entered the kitchen. “Got no money left. Bought that eighth of weed and that case of Best’s. Jesus, Clint, we’re gonna get our asses chewed for sure. Fuck! You know Kassie’s on the rag.”
    “Maybe if we cut the bite mark off she won’t know no better.”
    “I guess,” Dakota sighed bitterly. “All the knives are dirty. You’ll have to clean one from the sink.”
    Dakota grabbed two cans of beer from Clint. He drifted melancholically back to the living room. Clint was left fumbling with a cold pork chop and an icy can of beer. In the living room, Dakota rolled his eyes and sighed as he tossed Leather a beer. An uneasy feeling stirred in Dakota’s belly. He turned on his Aiwa sound system. A subtle hum vibrated from the tower speakers. Opening the beer, Dakota tilted the can to his lips, paused to listen to the quiet beginning of “Schism” by Tool, and began to guzzle down his liquid bread. Half the can disappeared. The song evolved into a surreal journey of sound. After a quick breather Dakota consumed the remainder of the beer. It felt good swirling in his belly. Setting the empty can on the flimsy coffee table, upon which Leather’s feet lay crossed, Dakota then threw his arms skyward to stretch his back muscles.
    Of German and Danish descent, Dakota was shorter than Leather by three inches but broader, more solid a young man with a robust, squat physique. Long hippy hair that was reddish-orange fell down to the center of his back. Dakota had the grain of a farmer. One who’s back earns one’s spoils. Watery blue eyes, bloodshot from heavy marijuana use, made him look sensitive despite the rugged looks of his broad nose and full lips. His teeth were more crooked than Leather’s but much whiter. His wavy hair was held behind in a ponytail. Freckles, brightly blotching, and occasional outbreaks of acne made him ugly. But he had those blue eyes women kill for and a face that was always eager to smile. Though only nineteen, Dakota was growing a beer belly. Dakota was clad in a plain white t-shirt, a pair of camouflage military pants and dirty white socks. A red bandanna was strapped like a belt around his head.
    “Yo man,” Leather asked between sips of beer. “Weren’t yo parents Nazi’s?”
    “My grand parents,” Dakota responded irritably as he fumbled for a cigarette. “And no, for the tenth time, they didn’t bake any Jews in the ovens. My grand father was wounded at the Battle of Lake Baikal. He was one the luckier ones,” Dakota continued; pride beaming in his eyes. “Half his tank crew was killed by a Soviet tank that crashed into it. Grandpa only survived by fighting the Soviets hand to hand. Before the Soviets’ locked in the German army, my grand father was shipped back to the homeland with mostly a missing leg. Had it been sent a week later, his ass would of been captured with 300,000 other German soldiers. I’ve told you this story a million times. Stop smoking what you’re rolling, man. You’re gonna send your brain cells to Hitler’s ovens.”
    “I’ll fuck yo shit up, cunt mothafucka.”
    Clint returned to the solemn living room. His presence silenced the squabbling between Leather and Dakota. An immensely tall man, Clint stood six feet, seven inches high and weighed 272 pounds. Though his gait was powerful, a bungling in coordination from his elongated, lanky limb structure hampered it. Clint was indicating signs of one pregnant with a beer belly like his friend. Long shoulder length hair, colored like wet sand, hung in waves around his green eyes. Darker brows and a bushy goatee lent an air of ferocity to Clint. He looked mean. Brace straightened teeth were browned by chewing tobacco. There was a certain look of an infallible dumbfoundedness on Clint’s face that was endearing for some. Anybody would say the German/Irish boy was ruggedly handsome.
    “Burn one!” Clint hooted as he plopped into a recliner. “Hey, dude, does this shit have to be playing while we smoke? Why not something more mellow? Like Marley or the Dead?”
    The song became immensely louder.
    “It’s my apartment,” Dakota responded, subtly adamant. He felt nervous in his stomach. “Besides that, if we get stoned to mellow music we’ll get lazy and not clean.”
    “That’s true!” Clint yelled over the droning sounds of the song. “But you’ll want to listen to the entire CD, dude! And when Kassie comes home with little Sammy-” Clint pursed his lips and simultaneously waved his hands away from his groin suggesting an explosive force. “-BOOM! Off the motherfuckin’ CD goes! You’ll get pissed at Kassie! Your buzz will be ruined! And,” Clint raised a significant index finger. “That’s a waste of money!” Clint chewed his lip. He wanted to smile victoriously but he knew instinctively that wallowing now would push Dakota over the line. The men whipped by the pussy are more afraid of their women than other men. He fought to prevent a teasing smile from surfacing. “And yer kid,” Clint added, unable to resist himself. It was like throwing salt into an open wound. He still had to shout over the blaring music to make his point. “He’s so cute an’ all! It blows when he cries ‘cause you two are fighting over stupid shit like music! ‘Specially this shit, dude!”
    “Let’s smoke dis fatty! Blow our minds right off da fuckin’ planet!”
    “The music!” Clint shouted.
    Dakota lowered the volume by remote control. A nagging sense of defeat weighed heavily on him. He hit a couple of buttons. “Legend” by Bob Marley was selected. The song “No Woman, No Cry” came on softly and pleasantly. It floated surrealistically throughout the room. Dakota glanced at Clint. His tall friend lounged in the recliner. A sick knot welled in Dakota’s chest.
    “Thanks,” Clint said to Dakota as Leather sparked up the hooter. “Now, concerning Madison, I think that scum fucker uses us and is and is always a Jew-bag with the weed. That greedy, fat slob smokes our share all the time.”
    “Yeah,” Dakota agreed, musing. “I can’t ever remember him offering us any of his stash. It’s always our shit he smokes.”
    “We all ready agreed to rob him,” Leather stated. “Da question is: Do we wanna kill him?” He inhaled deeply on the joint. The end glowed brightly in the dimly lit room. An aroma of sweet marijuana swam in all their nostrils. Leather leaned toward Clint to hand him the joint. Leather croaked, allowing not a breath to escape from his lungs. His muscles began to tremble slightly. “I say we kill dat fucking fat fuck.”
    “Why?” Dakota asked.
    Clint inhaled deeply. Leather started to cough suddenly. It was wild and hard but he refused to let the smoke out of his lungs. Clint giggled a little. He fought to not laugh out the smoke swirling in his lungs. The smoldering joint went to Dakota.
    “I say we just rob him,” Dakota revealed. “Take his stash and his money. And Los Angeles here we come.”
    
    “Fuck it,” Clint exhaled with a sigh. A glance at Leather amazed Clint because his sidekick, though face crimson, refused to relinquish the smoke from his lungs.” You’re crazy,” Clint mumbled, then abruptly, without restraint, grinned wide and chuckled. “Your face looks like it’s a hard pecker, dude!”
    Leather exploded with laughter. Finally the marijuana smoke was freed from his lungs. He hacked. And hacked. It became so uncontrollable that he tumbled off the couch. Thus causing Clint and Dakota to succumb to a frenzied laughing fit that lasted a solid minute.
    “Dope shit, yo.”
    Leather slithered back onto the couch.
    Can’t tell dem...Shit, dey don’t need to know... Madison’s a dead man...Whether you muthafuckas like da shit or not...
    Teary eyed, Leather grabbed the joint that Dakota handed him. He took another deep drag, held it in, passed the joint to Clint and grunted:
    “Yo boys, if we...um...kill Madison...”
    Leather became sidetracked as he envisioned what an erect penis would look like with his face imprinted upon it. A giggle erupted from him.
    “Um,” Leather exhaled lethargically. “What I be...um...”
    A dumbfounded expression swarmed across his face. Leather noticed that Dakota had obtained the half cooked joint. As the high intensified, Leather felt a tingling sensation all over his head. It seemed as if a thick invisible orb, almost a luminescent glow, vibrated around his entire flesh. Sort of like a gentle vacuum was sucking on his skin, almost a hallucinogenic sensation. Leather imagined that he could almost make out a blurry orb surrounding him. A blink of his eyelids seemed a multitude of forever’s to complete. Glancing over at Clint, who gazed at him as if waiting for him to speak, Leather smiled wide.
    “Was I saying something, yo?”
    Clint burst out laughing. It became contagious. Everybody was wasting their hits, smoke blown into everybody’s faces.
    Another track melted into their ears.
    “This music is so soulful,” Clint said mirthfully. The song was called Redemption Song and it played soulfully, freely. It uplifted Clint into a pleasant stupor. “Love music so much...yeah, I really do.”
     Clint’s tongue felt incredibly dry and swollen. Fascination beheld him when noticed flashes of multi-colored lights going on and off in the room. He watched Dakota sit down Indian style on the dirty, dull and scratched hardwood floor. A slight tap on the shoulder triggered Clint’s attention. Turning his head, Clint thought his head was separating from his body and he felt like he was glowing happily inside all of the sudden and he grinned in a silly way. A glance at Leather, where the tap originated, made Clint aware of Leather’s outstretched hand in which the low burning joint was gripped. Clint gladly took the offering.
    “The weed is exceptionally strong,” Clint said. His words sounded strange in his ears. It was like the voice of another man. “Almost like some shrooms are mixed in it. Nice.”
    “Don’t worry we’ll kill Madison, yo.”
    “Killin’ nobody, man. What? Ohhh, nah, no, shit...yeahh...No! Don’t kill ‘em...Only bring on the piigggsss...” Clint paused and sucked down several hits. Leaning off the rust colored recliner, Clint handed Dakota the smoldering remains of the weed and Dakota took it. “Rest’s yours, man...Enjoy, bro...What’s in this shit?”
    “Bring on the pigs,” Leather sang softly. “Bring on the big, big ham sandwich.”
    Dey don’t know dere’s heroin in dis weed...Ha...ha...ha...
    “He’s stooonnned,” Dakota drawled languidly while he utilized a handy roach clip to smoke the tiny remainder of the joint.
    “Yeah,” Clint mumbled. “Whoaaaaaaaaaa...”
    Without warning, Clint nodded off into his own little world. Dakota threw the forever gone joint into an ashtray where thirty cigarette butts lay crunched. He soon followed Clint, drifting into a kaleidoscope of hallucinatory colors that breezed by on the backs of eyelids. Leather was lost in a swirling mental waterfall of vicious, confused thoughts and began to unconsciously swing his fists softly in the air. Leather grinned in stoned glee.
    Three CD’s later the three slumbering men heard a noise at the foyer entrance. It was a door opening with hinges that creaked. Kassandra came into her apartment with baby Samuel clasped protectively in one arm and three plastic grocery bags in the other. She could smell the hemp in the air. Leaving the door open, she dropped her purse on the kitchen table and it sounded off like a roar of thunder.
    “Dakota! You promised me that you would clean the house!”

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