The story so far:
I showed up to OJ Butterfield's suburban compound in full-stealth mode, and scaled the barbed wire rimmed outer wall like some kind of ninja. There were dogs roaming the yard, but I tossed those bitches a few bones with peanut butter inside, and they forgot all about having been trained to kill everything that moves.
From a bush about 40 yards from OJ's mom's fancy brick house, I watched him through the window, sitting all fat on the couch, chubby hands pawing at his Xbox controller. Easy pickins.
I unsheathed my sword and stalked towards the window, murderous and sharp. Future potential usurpers will now second guess their intentions prior to becoming a gigantic pain in my ****, or else they will find themselves hunted down just like big, fat OJ Butterfield.
"Ojaaaay! Ojaaay honey, if you don't take out that trash I'm gonna take a switch to that behind of yours!" his mother called from inside.
"I told you, I will in a minute! I'm in the middle of a level, damn it."
"Well then you might as well bring a switch back with you then, cause I'm gonna make that fat **** black and blue if you keep backtalking me like that!"
"Fine!!! I'll pause the ****. What the ****! Why can't you take out the trash sometimes? You're just gonna sit in the kitchen doing word puzzles all night anyway. You have it easy. I'm the one who does all the work, riskin my **** all day and night."
"OJ, if you don't like it, baby, you can move out. Your little brother's almost old enough to take care of mama."
"Andre's 10 mom! What the ****!"
"Baby, just take out the trash before I break off a fryin pan in your ****!!!"
I steadied my hands around the hilt of my sword, which seemed to grow heavier all the time. You would probably think that most dealers would simply shoot their victims. Well that's why I opted to be more creative. I'm a leader, not a follower. Besides, while I may have excellent drug connections, I never really asked any of my hookups if they can get me weapons, too. And I'm too young to buy a gun legally. The sword was on the wall in my dad's library, part of his movie replica collection, so easy fo sheezy. It's the one William Wallace uses in the movie Braveheart. In hindsight, I should have grabbed the sword from The Princess Bride instead, but William Wallace's sword looked much more bad **** than Wesley's. **** it's heavy though!
OJ pounded his way outside with those fat tree trunk legs of his, carrying a huge opened bag of trash, junk spilling out a trail in his wake, unbeknownst to him. I squeezed my white-knuckled hands tighter around the hilt. "Your dead, fat ****," I whispered.
He tossed the bag in the can and turned to see the mess he created on his way outside. "Damn it!"
And just as he bent to pick up an empty bag of cheetos, I pulled down my mask and leapt from the shadows.
"Don't move a muscle, you sonofabitch, or I will chop you down like the turd you are!"
"What the--?!" OJ yelled in terror, turning to see his assailant and losing his balance in the process.
"Not so brash now, are ya?"
"Who the hell are you?"
"Doesn't matter. You encroached upon my territory, and left me with no choice. That's all you need to know. I'm here to make an example of you."
"What do you mean...like...like an old west gunfight?"
"Hell yeah, brotha, like an old west gunfight! I'm talkin high noon and ****. Then if you shot me down, you'd really be the talk of the town."
"Hmm...I guess you're right," I said. "Well...do you wanna do this some other time maybe then?"
"Hell yeah, my man. That sounds like a plan. Hit me up on myspace and we'll square off the details. You can find me at 'backslash fattyboombalatty'." I dropped my sword momentarily to grab a pen and paper so I could ask him how to spell it, when I saw OJ reach his chubby hand into the waistline of his sweatpants.
His intention must have been to disarm me all along. I cursed myself for being so foolish, but not more than I cursed him for dashing my chances of engaging in a real life gunfight. He struggled mightily to reach the gun that slid below his waistline and into the leg of his sweats, fear mingling with sweat on his girthy mug. His eyes were as large as they've ever been when I swung the sword like a baseball bat at his neck.