We should kill 'em dawg. He paced the room with his skinny arms flailing. They seen too much. They saw our faces. They gon' turn us in. We gon' get caught, dawg. He turned to his friend. His face contorted with frustration and desperation.
Man, fuck you! I ain't killin' nobody! The fuck you talkin' 'bout 'They seen our faces; we should kill 'em,' man, fuck you! Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his cheek.
You ain't gon' kill em?
Hell nah, I ain't killin' nobody.
Then what the fuck'd you bring a gun for then, dawg? His skinny arms extended from his torso and his chest puffed out toward his friend.
The room stood empty, stripped of anything small and valuable. Floral wallpaper lined the room and a bare entertainment center stood against the far wall.
Two young men knelt on the carpeted floor. Their hands worked at the duct tape that bound their arms and legs and covered their mouths. Tears rolled down their faces as they worked at their futile attempt to be free. One closed his hazel eyes and thought of his mother, wishing he could fold into her arms once more. He could almost feel her hand on his head, squeezing him close. The other, with long brown hair falling in his face, tried to cry out, but his voice was muffled by the tape.
Not to murder nobody, man! His big eyes looked desperately at his partner. This gun ain't even loaded.
Everyone jumped as the gun fell to the floor. Pictures on the walls shook from the blast. The two young men worked harder at their restraints and tried desperately to plea for their lives; their cries were silenced by the tape.
Shut the fuck up! He looked at the two young men and reached a lanky arm down to grab the gun. What the fuck, dawg! He turned to his friend. Are you tryin' to shoot me?! Man, fuck you, pussy; I'll kill 'em. His small hands shook as he held the gun up to the back of the young man's head. Short, curly hair wrapped around the barrel of the gun.
The young man's hazel eyes blurred with tears while he tried desperately to free his hands. His face wrinkled and his eyes squeezed shut. Tears dripped from the tip of his nose.
Don't do it, man!
Blood sprayed on the carpet and glass coffee table.
What the fuck, man?! You're fucking killing people; I'm fucking out of here. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and ran out the door, not bothering to shut it behind him.
Yeeyah! He turned to the other young man, blood stained his white wife-beater. His skinny arms dangled at his sides. I'm a stone-cold killa'. What's my name? Heh, I guess you'll never know.