Young and Dumb
He reached for the jar. His finger tips poke into it and the jar shuffles it’s way away from him. What was in the jar was something completely made up of deep and ancient value. An old be speckled in gold schnapps made waves within it’s glass holding. The man grasping for it was young. Too young to understand it’s worth. But he kept reaching anyhow. His feet however had been fastened to the ground with road spikes. He felt himself dying and needed a damn drink. You and dumb and caught up with the wrong type of psychos.
A couple of real sicko’s…the Montrell sons. The last living heirs to the famous Vincent Montrell criminal psyche. The son’s, Alfred and Wendall, along with sister Fancy, were brutal in their treatment of foes that get snappy. They often spent afternoons as children learning the in’s and outs of the human pain center. Scandalous threesome. Fancy dressed in polka dot swag. Linens strewn all over her, fine linens, silks, cashmere when it was cool, big feet on her to boot. Crush your wing tips if you don’t lead proper during her dancing. Alfred always wore a vest. Purple and big, because he was big, fat as a grizzly in fall, likely to maul you like one too if given a reason. Hungry bastard, always eating. Always fucking, and always always always smoking a cheap dog shit cigar. Wendall on the other hand didn’t smoke, but coughed wildly, mostly to annoy Alfred. He always walked with a handkerchief to his mouth. Skinny as a bean. Violent to the point of demon possessed.
The man with his feet nailed to the floor and just out of reach of solace used to want to be like them. They have it all. Nice cars, gold watches, big shots and powerful as all hell. Wendall brought him into the fold. He used to hang out in the cafe they hold down on Lyndale. Tiny place, he hung out their hoping to get a piece of the action to feed his family. Nothing crazy. He wasn’t looking for it all, just to survive.
High Top and his Tendencies
Till one day Wendall asks him to deliver a bundle of what he had imagined to be drugs, to a bar on Chauncey. He was supposed to give it to a guy named High Top Earl. Bad motherfucker. Big beard. Lots of pride. High Top didn’t like new people either.
He called Wendall hollering like this young man had never seen before. He feared for his life completely. Him and High Top waited. He offered the young kid a glass of scotch. It was more like an order than an offer. He sat there shaking. Not happy, Wendall Montrell won’t be happy. Even at such a young age he knew that.
High Top wouldn’t touch the package. He left it on the counter of the bar and it stayed there. We both stared at it waiting for Wendall. The kid shook as he tried to sip his single malt.
Soon the door to the pub opened. The light of day shined in with the slim silhouette of Wendall Montrell, and his brother Alfred and sister Fancy. High Top pulled a pump action shot gun from behind the bar and placed it on the counter in front of him.
Wendall dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief, “Problem with my new employee High Top?”
“I don’t like new people. You know that. You don’t like new people. You know that too. So why the kid? Too delicate of a situation Wendall. Now you’re here with your backwoods family trying to press me. Shouldn’t have sent someone so young,” High Top finished his glass of scotch, “Much too young.”
“Well, have to feed the beast sometimes High Top. You know the whole game. Now do we have a problem or may I have my servant back?” Wendall dabbed his mouth again with his handkerchief.
The Montrell sons kept advancing to the bar and things got tighter and tighter. The young wannabe wise guy felt it hard to breath. He sat between imminent death.
“Is this how it has to come to an end High Top? Must it always be linen soaked in blood? Alfred is hungry High Top. Do you wish to satisfy my brothers appetite? Open the package,” Wendall coughed horribly into his handkerchief.
High Top pulled a knife and cut open the wrapping of the package. It was a set of bloody hands. The young kid threw up on the floor.
Wendall looked awkwardly at the young kid, then at his brother and sister, then at High Top. Before anything else is said, Fancy shot High Top in the face killing him instantly.
“Something you ate boy?” Alfred grumbled as he chomped on his cigar.
“No, no sir, just, you know,” the young man wiped his mouth as he sat weakly in his chair.
“Oh, is it the gruesomeness of it all?” Alfred clomped over to him, “Well, we can’t have anyone shaking like a leaf from a little blood, now can we Fancy?”
“Nope…I wouldn’t imagine, no,” Fancy stood over the young man as well now.
This is how the young man came to be stapled to the floor reaching for a glass of schnapps. Turns out Fancy loves schnapps. Schnapps and blood. She nailed him to the floor. She got drunk on golden flecked schnapps. She beat the young man brutally. She killed the young man without ever giving him a sip of that peppermint spirit.
Now you know a little about Vincent Montrell’s sons. Psycho’s all three.