The Twelve Brothers Crypt [Short Story]
This is a simple tale, one I could not possibly relate without telling you exactly as it came to me. I do not know for sure if it really happened, or for that matter if it has become well repeated enough to have been recorded by someone else somewhere else.
This is the tale of a group of young men, all trained assassins, some trained in different forms of surgery to deal with wounds. Some trained in ancient arts of body preservation, from which their esteemed leaders remains keep them reminded of their roots.
Something about the boiling of the blood, the firing of the tongue, the thickening of the fat, the baking of the organs, specifically liver and brain and kidney, and a general overall adjustment which will keep them much the same as any undertaker would do for you in days of Old Testament, if you were a King.
But these things in this tale are neither here nor there. These things played no part in this of which I sing. This was a general disagreement on what should have been a routine hit. On myself.
That comes later.
But see the six foot three, pale faced oaf whom they sent to do the job this witching hour in March, grew teary eyed and weepy when he set his eyes on my soon to be bod later on when it was his to do the job again on me.
I had been a passer bye in the night of a downtown hit. Two of these trained assassins were to take out a shopkeeper who had far beyond measure stayed in bad standing with not only Cryps, and Bloods (not that there are many of them local), but with the Mexicans from the Cartel, and the general purveyors of organization of the elitist underworld as they view themselves.
These two, as I say, well trained assassins swept past me in the night. Unfortunately from the scene I understood immediately what was happening, as they were dressed for stealth, and really nearly quite invisible in their movements, had I not been highly trained myself and honed from near six months of veritable street combat I probably would have remained unawares.
And so it was then that I was forced to make a decision. Was I to ignore the death of one coming, and then suddenly done, and the calling cards left asunder as they took him away not, but themselves went on the run.
When I observed the beat, I pounded out my own. I knew approximately where this tall, ungainly, pale faced killer had run. To keep it quaint and not go too far into what are for most people details which stretch the limits of one's ability to believe, I had him apprehended, though as later I learned, when the remains went unturned, only for a weekend.
The other in the meantime, the backup man and safety net of this plan had also now become aware of me and what I had done.
I quickly surveyed my surroundings, and unfortunately very unlearned in the traditional trappings left on such a deed, gathered something from quite near the scene I felt I was in need.
Several blocks later, back against a wall, feeling the other party out there, well not so much feeling, as seeing him slip in the between streets blocks away, slowly closer and closer to where I lay in wait. Feeling there was nothing better to do than to but get my strength up, I opened this package I had picked up. It was a completely fresh twelve or thirteen dollar salad with beautiful Roma Tomatoes cut in shapes and adorning, and also what I went for FIRST unfortunately.
Moments later I was spitting on the ground what I now feared for my life in diseases, brain lost in a cloud of the taste of rotted flesh and meat. This was not of the kind you typically would expect to find on a fresh salad. There is nothing like the taste of human flesh. It is not something one can mistake, or forget. This was of the boiled blood, blackened tongue, baked liver and kidney and brain, preserved leadership mummification type left by these near Satanist rituals as a marking and a sacrifice that the leader had seen over the taking of one for the preserving of them all.
They left a piece of him as they stood tall.
I feared I would never get the taste out of my mouth, my throat, my tongue swelling, I could taste it creeping down my esophagus, and threatening to plant itself in my intestines.
It was then that I noticed two blues of the uniform variety posted at a nearby station. I very simply walked up, introduced myself as an occasional horror writer, and told them of what I had found. Seeing fit no reason to mention the unmentionable prior events as things were rapidly changing around me quite obviously, I simply retreated to my full intestinal dissent. They were quite nice about it, really.
It was then that they pulled away, splitting in two different directions in their cars. It was also then that I saw him again. He was fleeing his hidden sheltered spot in a nearby complex. I knew I had no choice but to face him head on. He was tall, skinny, and black as night. He held a rather bony looking Marlboro light in his left, dangling from the past twenty minutes of scaling and fleeing and scurrying so as not to be seen. I walked directly up to him, and in the silence between us, lit my lighter and held it aloft. He inhaled deeply, nodded and walked on.
It was a few weeks later that the more eventful summation of this story unfolded.
As I said, the decision was made that I had interfered, and could not be left undone.
But when the time came for the man to do the deed, he indeed found that he liked me.
He had been learning my ways and my paths, and my associations, and my habits, and my skills, and , and generally the things you have to know before you kill someone. And he found that he liked me, the bastard! HE COULDN'T DO IT.
From the depths of my jaded mind I will call forth the rest of this tale as it came to me on a source I will leave unnamed.
Cracking up, feeling unfit, questioning his lifestyle, this panicking Cryp fled back to the house where they all dwelled.
On arriving, he unlocked with his brothers key the suitcase which held a weapon. He withdrew the weapon, and moving to the next room, the family room of sorts, proceeded to blow his head off.
His brother in the house, who had witnessed this very man doing open heart surgery on another whom they had failed to save just days prior after a bad fight with another local sect, couldn't take it, and followed suit.
Two down in the family room, and three walk in.
They immediately panicked and began to quarrel about who had done what and one thing led another, and soon they were all shot from one another.
Hearing the un-silenced shots from another location in the house, the last of the twelve brothers ran to the room. Seven more standing tall, ready for a fight to end it all burst into the room, guns drawn high. Taking hardly note before they opened fire on the nigh laying torn and bloody on the floor scattered about.
Ricocheting gunshots filled the room as their rapid reprocussions laid it all out in a large boom boom. Pieces of flesh flying from leaders young, yes not too old, soon all of the brothers lay around dying from what I haven't told. And never will, mind you. Yes, as they entered, the downed wounded had begun to open up fire again, and again, and again and this was the final of all battles, this other bloody battle which ensued. To the end of this tale I have to say, they were quite good at what they do, and they all lay slain.
Lastly, in the backyard, the old man with the shovel, threw it in a heap, and promptly died of a heart attack.
I say I know not of what these men have known, but I do not fear their leader anymore, that's a taste that I've outgrown.
Something about the boiling of the blood, the firing of the tongue, the thickening of the fat, the baking of the organs, specifically liver and brain and kidney, and a general overall adjustment which will keep them much the same as any undertaker would do for you in days of Old Testament, if you were a King.
But these things in this tale are neither here nor there. These things played no part in this of which I sing. This was a general disagreement on what should have been a routine hit. On myself.
That comes later.
But see the six foot three, pale faced oaf whom they sent to do the job this witching hour in March, grew teary eyed and weepy when he set his eyes on my soon to be bod later on when it was his to do the job again on me.
I had been a passer bye in the night of a downtown hit. Two of these trained assassins were to take out a shopkeeper who had far beyond measure stayed in bad standing with not only Cryps, and Bloods (not that there are many of them local), but with the Mexicans from the Cartel, and the general purveyors of organization of the elitist underworld as they view themselves.
These two, as I say, well trained assassins swept past me in the night. Unfortunately from the scene I understood immediately what was happening, as they were dressed for stealth, and really nearly quite invisible in their movements, had I not been highly trained myself and honed from near six months of veritable street combat I probably would have remained unawares.
And so it was then that I was forced to make a decision. Was I to ignore the death of one coming, and then suddenly done, and the calling cards left asunder as they took him away not, but themselves went on the run.
When I observed the beat, I pounded out my own. I knew approximately where this tall, ungainly, pale faced killer had run. To keep it quaint and not go too far into what are for most people details which stretch the limits of one's ability to believe, I had him apprehended, though as later I learned, when the remains went unturned, only for a weekend.
The other in the meantime, the backup man and safety net of this plan had also now become aware of me and what I had done.
I quickly surveyed my surroundings, and unfortunately very unlearned in the traditional trappings left on such a deed, gathered something from quite near the scene I felt I was in need.
Several blocks later, back against a wall, feeling the other party out there, well not so much feeling, as seeing him slip in the between streets blocks away, slowly closer and closer to where I lay in wait. Feeling there was nothing better to do than to but get my strength up, I opened this package I had picked up. It was a completely fresh twelve or thirteen dollar salad with beautiful Roma Tomatoes cut in shapes and adorning, and also what I went for FIRST unfortunately.
Moments later I was spitting on the ground what I now feared for my life in diseases, brain lost in a cloud of the taste of rotted flesh and meat. This was not of the kind you typically would expect to find on a fresh salad. There is nothing like the taste of human flesh. It is not something one can mistake, or forget. This was of the boiled blood, blackened tongue, baked liver and kidney and brain, preserved leadership mummification type left by these near Satanist rituals as a marking and a sacrifice that the leader had seen over the taking of one for the preserving of them all.
They left a piece of him as they stood tall.
I feared I would never get the taste out of my mouth, my throat, my tongue swelling, I could taste it creeping down my esophagus, and threatening to plant itself in my intestines.
It was then that I noticed two blues of the uniform variety posted at a nearby station. I very simply walked up, introduced myself as an occasional horror writer, and told them of what I had found. Seeing fit no reason to mention the unmentionable prior events as things were rapidly changing around me quite obviously, I simply retreated to my full intestinal dissent. They were quite nice about it, really.
It was then that they pulled away, splitting in two different directions in their cars. It was also then that I saw him again. He was fleeing his hidden sheltered spot in a nearby complex. I knew I had no choice but to face him head on. He was tall, skinny, and black as night. He held a rather bony looking Marlboro light in his left, dangling from the past twenty minutes of scaling and fleeing and scurrying so as not to be seen. I walked directly up to him, and in the silence between us, lit my lighter and held it aloft. He inhaled deeply, nodded and walked on.
It was a few weeks later that the more eventful summation of this story unfolded.
As I said, the decision was made that I had interfered, and could not be left undone.
But when the time came for the man to do the deed, he indeed found that he liked me.
He had been learning my ways and my paths, and my associations, and my habits, and my skills, and , and generally the things you have to know before you kill someone. And he found that he liked me, the bastard! HE COULDN'T DO IT.
From the depths of my jaded mind I will call forth the rest of this tale as it came to me on a source I will leave unnamed.
Cracking up, feeling unfit, questioning his lifestyle, this panicking Cryp fled back to the house where they all dwelled.
On arriving, he unlocked with his brothers key the suitcase which held a weapon. He withdrew the weapon, and moving to the next room, the family room of sorts, proceeded to blow his head off.
His brother in the house, who had witnessed this very man doing open heart surgery on another whom they had failed to save just days prior after a bad fight with another local sect, couldn't take it, and followed suit.
Two down in the family room, and three walk in.
They immediately panicked and began to quarrel about who had done what and one thing led another, and soon they were all shot from one another.
Hearing the un-silenced shots from another location in the house, the last of the twelve brothers ran to the room. Seven more standing tall, ready for a fight to end it all burst into the room, guns drawn high. Taking hardly note before they opened fire on the nigh laying torn and bloody on the floor scattered about.
Ricocheting gunshots filled the room as their rapid reprocussions laid it all out in a large boom boom. Pieces of flesh flying from leaders young, yes not too old, soon all of the brothers lay around dying from what I haven't told. And never will, mind you. Yes, as they entered, the downed wounded had begun to open up fire again, and again, and again and this was the final of all battles, this other bloody battle which ensued. To the end of this tale I have to say, they were quite good at what they do, and they all lay slain.
Lastly, in the backyard, the old man with the shovel, threw it in a heap, and promptly died of a heart attack.
I say I know not of what these men have known, but I do not fear their leader anymore, that's a taste that I've outgrown.
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