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Chapter 1: part 2: Good Morning!
[Milo POV]
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It was 10:00 am...I think
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The sun blared into my dry-ass eyeballs…EVERY goddamn morning, I push the blanket over my head. The sound of what seemed like 12 manatees having an orgy burst out into screaming and tantrums downstairs.
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"You told me if I sucked his dick you'd give me the fuckin crank!" Oh damn–Im pretty sure that's the whining of the crackhead I saw them letting play mall Santa three weeks ago. I guess everybody hangs out here....
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I winced. The chemical stench of meth and unwashed bodies wafting up through the vents and assaulted my nostrils. As bad as it sounded, Sleazy Santa was better off not getting his gnarled hands on more drugs. Though his withdrawal would likely lead to a few broken hips around here if he didn't get Willie's message. Ah… life in the Ninth Ward. Ain't it grand?
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I sat up, peeling back the makeshift bandage on my forearm, I checked on my homemade tattoo. The ink had faded and the skin around it was red and now swollen with infection. Fuck. It's not like I could just stroll into a clinic and get antibiotics. No insurance, no ID, and no traceable records could exist for me or my brother. We were fucked.
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I raked my fingers through my messy afro, wincing as they caught on the knots and tangles. My hair had grown out unevenly in weird patches. I avoided my reflection as much as possible, not wanting to confront the fact I'm too poor for a haircut...
I stared numbly at the grimy brass door handle, flashes of memory assaulting me. The screams echoed from our basement, my tiny hands unable to grasp the knob to save her. I was transported back to that dank horror sixteen years ago when our father forced us to watch as he stripped the flesh from her bones like a deranged n’ psycho butcher. Her lifeless eyes, found mine, a girl barely older than me. I still saw flashes of that cold dead stare in the face of every helpless woman since.
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I shook off the chilling memories and glanced around, disoriented. Somehow minutes had slipped by without me noticing, the light of my cracked window obscured by plumes of a funky yellow smoke.
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I heard the muffled shouts of the hazmat crew outside too late.
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I was trapped."FUUUUUCK" I shrieked like a bitch as I grabbed my only clean shirt, Nearly shattering my shoulder as I collided into the solid wood frame, forgetting which way the door of our home even opened.
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After seconds of regaining my dumbass senses, I fiddled with the door as I saw gas-filling the shitty apartment. Rats and roaches scurrying like me trying to escape their chokey demise.
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"What kind of *cough* bitch-ass company doesn't even *cough* check to see if handsome squatters still are....god DAMN SQUATTING!" I let my full momentum take me tumbling through the cheap plywood front doors, rolling past my neighbor's gross ass alcove while bits of splintered wood scraped against my hands and forearms.
I scrambled under the heavy plastic curtains of the fumigation company, its heavy chemical stench burning my nose and eyes.
"What the fuck–shit don't sue!" A portly white guy dressed head-to-toe in a bulky hazmat suit gasped at me through his fogged-up face shield, beads of sweat dripping down his flushed cheeks. He stared at me wide-eyed like I was the one hurting him.
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"Fuck off, dick head," I snapped back, straightening my favorite red Ralph Lauren polo shirt, the bold pony logo faded and pit-stained from weeks of wear. "Don't act like you care now that I'm not sitting up there fucking dead." I stiff-armed the man, shoving him aside as I strode out into the humid morning air, the pungent aroma of garbage and sewage assailing my nostrils as I walked down the cracked sidewalks of the Ninth Ward.
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"SAM!" Realization hit me like an arctic blast, instantly sobering my still-groggy mind. My twin was probably passed out drunk, obliviously sleeping through his carbon monoxide-laced nightmare sleeping beauty scenario.
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[Samael's POV]
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6:30 AM
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Dawn was breaking as I slipped out of the apartment, leaving Milo to sleep off his latest bout of self-pity. The morning light was a dull, muted gray, the sky heavy with the promise of another sultry day. I welcomed the solitude of the early hours. It allowed me time to think, to consider the jagged edges of our relationship.
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"Jagged edges need tampering....shoot him in the knee before he–" The Bagman's rattling y voice plagued yet beguiled me once more. Every day felt like the supple rays of myself clouded by his vanta black miasma.
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I didn't let its nauseatingly tantalizing allure linger as I made for the corner of the dank stairs, leading past our neighbor's hallway to the front door.
"Silence!" I felt my voice rattling the door of our stupid crack-slinging pus-fucker neighbor people around here called "Willie". Before I could even blink, the short dark skin man poked his head out, staring up at me with pure unadulterated disdain written all over his toad-like face.
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"Fuck wrong wit'chu? Shut the fuck up for I" I yanked the 3D-printed gun out of my cargo shorts, pulling him off his feet to the wall and jamming the gun against his unbrushed and rotting teeth.
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"For you what.....you like making people feel small right? Wanna tell me how tough you are? Or maybe you just start crying like a petulant little child?" I felt my eyes dancing with exhilaration as they bounced between every scared little feature of this piece of shit's face. Twenty FUCKING YEARS! This stupid little 3D piece of shit is my ticket to fucking satisfaction.
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DO IT! I wanna see him die! I heard The Bagman's voice screeching like one of those old Godzilla movies as I felt the mix of snot, slobber, and blood trickling onto my brown skin from the pristine gun lodged against the man's gums. He was whimpering and saying words I probably should care about.
I threw him on his ass and slammed his door. "If you call the police, you know they don't do shit in the 9th Ward!” I called after him. “And stop exploiting homeless people–ASSHOLE!”
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I took to the streets, my mind wandering back to our past as I navigated the fading shadows of New Orleans. We'd been through hell and back, Milo and I, surviving on the fringes of society. Our bond forged in the fires of our shared trauma. But the cracks were starting to show, the resentment simmering beneath the surface threatening to boil over.
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The scent of crawfish gumbo wafted through the air, drawing me towards a small rundown 24-7 diner. As I approached, I spotted a familiar face. The bookie, a leech who'd taken our life savings on a bet that was rigged from the start. I paid quickly getting leftovers as I never broke the sight line of the pale sharply dressed Creole man.
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I ignored the twinge of apprehension building as he pretended I was a stranger. I approached him clutching my hands in both pockets tightly. Safe in knowing I will get our family's money back before Milo has an aneurysm.
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"So Max, wanna explain to me why Hector didn't even last two rounds in your pussy foot bare-knuckle booti-factory?" I let spit fly, knowing he had OCD made the grimaces so much sweeter.
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"Hey now, I said... your fucking disgusting first of all, secondly–" His mirror neurons seemed to just now kick in as he realized we were standing near a dark alley. At 6:30 am. In the worst part of town. His blue eyes flashed with fear as he sized me up.
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"Secondly what?" I let my voice match his, which was trying to ease his mind, or maybe lull it. I wasn't sure yet.
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The bookie, a slick man with a sardonic grin that never seemed to leave his face, refused to pay up. His smug denial ignited the simmering anger within me, fueling my rage to a boiling point. He took a small step back as I tried to pull out the Glock he caught me off guard. Shit!
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Seizing an opportunity, the bookie lunged at me. But my reflexes, honed from years of surviving on the fringes, were quicker. My large fist connected with his pale face before he could land a blow. The impact reverberated through my knuckles with a sickening thud as I saw bloodstream from his now cracked nose.
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The ensuing confrontation was not a mere fight, but a savage ballet of animosity and desperation. Each blow I delivered was met with a primal satisfaction, the bookie's life essence staining my knuckles and the grime-laden asphalt beneath us.
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Onlookers, wide-eyed with terror, watched the gruesome spectacle. Their faces were twisted in shock and disgust, but their judgments, their horrified gasps, meant nothing to me. I existed in a realm beyond their limited understanding of morality and righteousness.
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As I drove the bookie's head into the cement with a force that echoed through the silent alleyway, I followed with a swift and brutal kick to his chest, leaving him sprawled amidst the detritus.
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Catching my reflection in a murky puddle, I was splattered with the bookie's blood, a stark reminder of my actions. Yet, I returned calmly to my forsaken gumbo, my nonchalant demeanor causing a ripple of whispers among the bystanders. The hot, spicy broth was a comforting respite, its warmth seeping into my being, starkly contrasting with the icy satiation that had taken root within me.
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As I savored the meal, I felt the Bagman's sinister presence lurking, its thirst for mayhem temporarily quenched. But I was no puppet to its whims. The forces in this city might have marked me, but I was still the master of my fate.
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$97: my bounty. It's worth: priceless, for I made my family proud today.
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I left briskly before anyone decided today was the day to start snitching on crimes.
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Suddenly, slicing through the stillness of the scene, Milo's voice echoed through the narrow streets. His tone was laced with unmistakable fear and fury. I turned just in time to see him stumbling out of our squalid apartment, his face drained of color, his brown eyes wide with the horrifying realization. He'd narrowly escaped the gas, his life saved by a mere whisker of time.
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Milo screamed my name, his voice echoing through the still morning air. I met his gaze, my face impassive as I continued to eat my gumbo. He'd realized what I'd done, that I'd left him to face our past alone.
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Perhaps it was cruel, but it was necessary. Milo needed to understand, to see that we were stronger together. Only then could we truly rule this city. After all, New Orleans was our playground, and we were just getting started.
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And he's kind of a DICK so it's okay.
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