Page 23 of Hearts Etched in Glass
“Tilly! Open up. I need to speak with you!” Ronald’s voice booms over the wooden frame as fear strikes a chord through me.
How does he know where I live?
“Jesus, is this that fucken bellend Marcus gave me a brief about?” Biscuit looks at me, thumb pointed to the door.
I nod, but the words don’t come out as I crawl to the corner of the couch, clutching my fleece blanket.
Biscuit stands and marches towards the front door. Before I can stop him, he swings the door open. His pleasant demeanor now formed into hatred and tension.
“Oi! Numbnuts. She don’t want ya. You revolt her. We wanna kill you, so leave. Unless you wanna die,” he says with so much certainty in his tone, I can barely recognize my sweet once Biscuit.
“Excuse me, who the fuck are you?” Ronald sneers, his form shadowing over Biscuit's shorter stature. Ronald tries to shove past him, but Biscuit fiercely stands, unmovable. He cocks his head to the side as a maliciousgrin forms.
“I always wanted to do this.” Biscuit moves his hand to his pocket pulling out a snub nose revolver, then starts shooting the ground. “Dance, motherfucker, dance!” Ronald begins hopping on either foot, his Oxfords gleaming from the streetlight, as panic set in his eyes, while he yelps in terror. Biscuit peers up at Ronald and gives him a wink. Then I can hear Ronald’s strides recede when he runs away from my home. Biscuit yells at his retreating figure, “Better not come round again! Or you’ll get buttered by Biscuit!” Then he dramatically shuts my front door, locking it tight and saunters over to his seat.
My mouth is agape as I clutch my blanket to my chest. “Biscuit, did you wink at Ronald?”
He gives me a grunted laugh as he sets up the checkers board once more. “Yup, he’s my bitch now!”
Biscuit plucks his tea from the table to take a loud, drawn out sip.
“Oi! Til, did I ever tell you I was a marksman?” Biscuit stares back at me with nonchalance, holding the teacup with his pinky held high in the air.
Chapter 11: Bobby
Gossip,Maneskin
The woman in front of me is a vile bitch.
Somehow thisthingis related to my heavenly sister-in-law Brielle, her mother to be exact, but maybe I have been mistaken. Maybe she was adopted or something, because the only thing about her that resembles Brielle is her vertically challenged height and brown hair. We only recently started this partnership because they were working underneath our noses in Lockham. Luckily, we ceased their cocaine production that was disguised in the flour factory downtown, and began running weapons through our underground tunnels,versus the funeral parlor they had housed themselves in. Brielle was sent as a pawn to establish a trade and thank God Everett became obsessed with her rather than murdered her. Brielle also saved my life, several times.
Again, Brielle did not inherit the shitty, cunt genes.Thank God.
Also, sorry God, I know I’m not supposed to call people cunts and judge, but it is really difficult when there are so many daft fucks running around this world in human suits.
For crying out loud, she has no emotion, we’ve been up here fordaysupon end trying to accommodate them, but they keep telling us they need more supply. More fuel. More bullets. More armory. More steel. What's next? A bloody fucking dragon? Like I could pull that out of my arse, without getting a hemorrhoid.
Kenneth pinches my thigh and leans into my side. “Fix. Your. Face.”
I am really getting sick of people telling me that, and I cannot fix my face when Germans constantly sound like they are yelling. Their accent is so harsh, and when they speak, the vowels andconsonants assault your ear drums. I'm about to tell my brother to kindly fuck off, but the ice-queen opens her mouth.
“Do you understand our resources are being stolen by Nazi parties? They take what is ours!” She stands with her hands held out in frustration, her face scorned.
Kenneth sits with his arms crossed, his bolero hat hung low on his brow. “I thought you were making a deal with their leader?”
She throws herself back into the chair and runs a hand through her hair. Her husband sits beside her, while several men surround their side of the table. We are in a worn-down welding mill, in God knows where.
The ten boxes of rifles and handguns were apparently not enough, as well as the fifteen crates of vehicle parts.
“If we get you another shipment it is going to take probably a month or so to collect those products. Things don’t just magically appear or grow,” Kenneth chides, writing down the demands she hollered earlier.
“Fine! We pay you for what is here today,” she sneers, then rolls her eyes in irritation at us.
“Oi!” Kenneth points his pen at her. “Don’t fucking make it seem like we didn’t give you exactly what you asked for. Shit we threw in an extra box, like Everett toldus to, as a nice gift. Be more fucking grateful, you goddamn kraut. I wouldn’t be working with you if it wasn’t for my brother!” Tension builds within the confines of the building. I hear a gun cock at someone’s side as the she-devil glares at Kenneth.
God in heaven. Though I walk through the gangster life of shadow and death, I will fear no irritating krauts for thou art with me. Your rod and staff comfort me as weapons to possibly blast into a mother fucker. Please let us go home safely so I can see Tilly and Marcus, and please let this lady shut the fuck up so Kenneth doesn’t blow her brains out and we have another gang war. Amen.
Movement erupts. Guns get pulled in all directions as Kenneth reaches under the table, grabbing a large briefcase and setting it on top of the table between us and Brielle's parents.
