Mister Mo’ Thug brought out a 3.5 gram plastic zip-locked baggie of dark yellow granules and dropped it on a tea saucer sitting in the center of the bistro table. Mother followed suit with her own baggie. Hers were clearer in color.
“An eighth of bad intentions,” he said.
Mother pointed to hers, “broken dreams.”
“We’re on,” agreed Mister Mo’ Thug.
They did not need to shake on it.
*mean mug mo’ thug…*
BABY JOB’S FATHER LOWERED the blade, but he dared not turn around. He knew he was there right behind him. He stood eight feet tall. He rose up through the portal of the chalked symbol on the floor. The babe was acceptable so Job’s father’s life was spared. Otherwise his impetuous and uninvited summons would have pissed off Mister Mo’ Thug. Job and his father would have been devoured.
The baby Job lie in peaceful bliss splattered with his father’s blood. He smiled and garbled as the wisps swooped all around him.
“Go now. Be wise to never seek me out again. Or I will have things done to you,” Mister Mo’Thug assured, “that ye shan’t imagine.”
Job’s father nodded once and left without even contemplating sneaking a peak.
Mister Mo’ Thug squeezed shut his eyes. He began to shrink. Losing girth and height and becoming young. The grown up clothes fell to the floor like an unneeded cocoon. In his new crisp clean prep uniform, Skoolboy stepped lightly out of the adult clothes and away from the pile. He went to Job.
Skoolboy gazed down at the baby. He gave the boy his pointer finger. Job grasped the finger tight, gazing at Skoolboy. He was cooing. Skoolboy bent to Job. He licked the baby’s cheeks. He kissed his smooth and tiny forehead. It made him smile.
No sizzle. No sores. No infection.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
TACITUS CONSUMED HIS SAUSAGES and eggs without tasting them. He had a lot on his mind. Salome’s Second was feigning interest in her bullshit sales projections. She didn’t know shit. Both the sales and subsequent profits were way down and the dealers were getting restless. She had no clue as to why. The Harbor’s drug trade was controlled to the point where Tacitus knew all the dealers because the vast majority of them worked under him. He allowed a few cowboys to sling independently, but they were all watched very closely and were quashed if they got too big for their britches. Therefore if sales were plummeting the source can be traced. Salome didn’t know shit. Tacitus estimated a core drop of thousands of junkies lost. Fixing this problem will justify taking Salome out. If he only knew what happened to his bosses he could get their blessings. But they are still missing and Tacitus did not have the luxury of time. After two straight years of climbing sales they began to flatten out. The dealers even got ballsy enough to ask Herod to decrease the monthly quota. The demand for Plata was falling again. Salome, not knowing anything about how to deal with a downturn, gave the street-level guys permission to lower their quotas. Tacitus could not fucking believe that shit. She had to go.
Tacitus went to get dressed. He was already thinking about the Pharisees and their palatial digs on the LakeShore in Big City. He hummed with joy. Tacitus is going to pay a final visit to Salome. Then there will be a new sheriff in town.
Ding dong, dead bitch.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
TACITUS WAS PLEASED. THE soldiers, as he knew they would, fell in line faster than a whore sucks cock on rent day. Tacitus wanted to consolidate and enforce his new power. He was going to use this power to become rich and untouchable.
He glanced at the sooty dank walls and thought he should really take over every aspect of the lives of the missing Pharisees, not just the distribution of Plata.
Tacitus had never been to the Pharisees’ palatial digs, but he’d heard. It was supposed to be very nice and suitable for a real king. He’d move in and run The Harbor just like the Pharisees did. Without ever having to step foot in this Harbor ghetto shit hole again. He would let Job move his tribe into the compound and make him the Herod. Tacitus would go to Big City and crown himself Caesar.
There were two telephones on the desk in front of Tacitus. The one to his left the minions used for street-level shit. The other one to the right was a direct line to the penthouse. That one rang.
A stunned Tacitus picked it up after the first ring.
“Right here,” he said. He had a bad feeling about this.
“Hello,” replied a female voice never heard from before, “I’m calling for the Pharisees,” she told him. “Is this Tacitus, The Harbor Herod?”
Shit.
“Who is this?” asked Tacitus. His heart chugged.
“Who do you think it is?” she said. Her soft silky voice changed at once to the distinct voice of Caiaphas Pharisee.
Shit!
“Caiaphas, sir,” Tacitus managed, almost croaking out the response. “I did not expect to hear from you. Are you well?”
“Never mind that,” he snarkly replied. “A little bird told me that you have claimed the throne from Salome. Is this true?”
“Yes sir it is. The quotas have been slipping of late and I felt it best to have a change in the structure until such time as your return.”
“Which is now,” the ghost told him. “We have been unavailable, but we are now back. Rest assured we will get to the bottom of everything that has been going on in our name and under our umbrella.”
SHIT!!
“Well, uh- what can I do to help you sir?” asked Tacitus. He gripped the desk, truly concerned now. His heart fluttered and flopped about in his chest. The fear pushed out of him.
“First, do not worry. Had we been around I would have granted you charge to remove Salome. We would have given you our blessing to become the Herod.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We need to see you in order to make the transition official and to mandate new strategies.”
“Of course,” Tacitus replied, “When do you need me?”
“Come tonight,” the Pharisee ordered, “And bring your young Job with you.”
“Without fail sir,” Tacitus genuinely pleased. He was scared much less, “Job and I will be there. We will not let you down.”
“On that we shall see my dear Tacitus.” Caiaphas hung up.
Tacitus heard the dial-tone. He replaced the phone on its cradle. He leaned back and blew a long exhalation out of his pursed mouth. He thought how quick one’s fortunes can change. He went in one day from being the Second, to Herod, to plans of Caesar, to dreading his own possible execution and then back to Herod once more. All this shit with the Pharisees’ blessing.
Tacitus sat and thought this all out. He was glad for the official promotion, but he was filled with dread at the old man’s implication of knowing all.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
JOB WAS DRIVING AND Tacitus rode shotgun as they made their way out of The Harbor and toward Big City. Ovid sat in the back on the passenger side. He had with him a carry-all containing tools to get in if needed. The main ones being a tire iron euphemistically referred to as the Judge and Ovid’s stupid might. They were going in to the Pharisees penthouse. Suddenly Job felt a strange sensation tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “Don’t turn around,” Mister Mo’ Thug told him. He obeyed, but snuck a glance over to Tacitus. He was deep in thought and noticed nothing. “The Pharisees are not waiting for him, Job. It was all just a ruse to get both of you there. We need you two in the same place at the same time. We were never going to crown Tacitus anything, let alone Caesar.” Job silently asked a question in his head. And then Mister Mo’ Thug spelled it all out. “Can you do this?”
Somebody’s been sitting in my chair, Job thought darkly. He glanced over at Tacitus. And that motherfucker is still there. But not for long.
That made Mister Mo’ Thug smile.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
THE DOOR TO THE Pharisees penthouse was open when they arrived. Ovid went in first, just in case. Job and Tacitus followed close on the
heels of the big, albino mongoloid henchman. The place was fucking opulent. They noted marble floors and high ceilings in this, the main area. Job looked up and saw a multi-tiered chandelier. It appeared to him like a cut crystal wedding cake. It would hold a body, Job wagered. It would do. He shivered just a little with delight. He followed Tacitus to the center of the room.
Tacitus stood in the center of the floor, with his hands on his hips. “Where to begin?” he asked, rhetorically. “Maybe we should have brought more men.”
Job agreed and opened his phone. He called the compound back in The Harbor. Job ordered two car-loads of cops. He gave them directions. “And get here on the quick,” he added before hanging up. He had about 30 maybe 45 minutes until the armed, loyal to Tacitus motherfuckers show up in a swarm. Job better have his ducks snapped-to and in a tight fucking row by then.
“We’ll have to search this whole place,” Tacitus said, pretty much to himself.
Get him before they come, Mister Mo’ Thug whispered in Job’s mind. A long, serrated hunting knife appeared in his hand. Job closed his grip tight around it. He stared at his Herod’s back.
Job walked briskly towards him.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
TACITUS FELT HIMSELF GET grabbed. The Pharisees, as invisible ghosts, held him tight. His arms were pressed firmly to his sides. Something undetectable and thick pressed down his throat. It made it hard to breathe and impossible to vocalize. Job came up from behind Tacitus. The Herod could not move, the Pharisees had him secured. Not even when Mister Mo’Thug appeared in front of him, could Tacitus move. The temperature of the room became frigid. Tacitus could see his own breath exhale plumes. His frightened breathing into the cold fairly crackled with the quick change in temperature.
Job stepped up to his Herod, stabbing him with an inward arcing plunge.
The inners of Tacitus fell forward in a lumpy, organic ball. They were threatening to unravel and spill out, leaking all over the handsome marble floor. Blood and fecal bile splashed a wide radius.
“Let me help you with that,” Mister Mo’ Thug replied and went to the injured man. He reached into Tacitus’ open belly and tugged free a few long links of colon. He looped a section and placed it over the wounded man’s head and his paling face.
Tacitus, silent and shaking now with shock, saw his own colon fastened in a loose noose and tightened about his neck. The phantom Pharisees were in a giggling free-for-all as they hefted him up from the ground. They passed him up to the chandelier. Mister Mo’ Thug hovered while he strung out another section of Tacitus’ bowel. He wrapped this part around the chandelier proper.
The Pharisees let go of Tacitus. He grabbed the colon that was rapidly escaping his abdomen, while crashing down en route for the floor below. Tacitus fell a couple of yards until he squeezed the colon snaking out of his torn middle and coming to a stop, suspended by his own anatomy. He began to choke as his neck took the weight of his body. Tacitus was on the verge of passing out. Mister Mo’ Thug glided down to where Tacitus hung suspended. The man’s muscles were straining and his face was getting all purple and shit.
“Hell’s Bells!” he exclaimed to Tacitus, “You can’t breathe. You’re choking, friend.” Mister Mo’ Thug grasped one of the choking man’s fingers. “Let me help,” he said and bent it back until it broke. The pain made Tacitus mislay his grip. The colon slithered between his loosened, slippery hands. He dropped closer to the floor, while another few feet of bowel sectioned and stretched itself out.
Tacitus tightened his grip. The bowel noose tightened with it. The chandelier popped and shook as he stopped abruptly. Hanging there, he choked himself once more.
“My goodness, that kind of back fired, didn’t it?” He floated down to the man’s new location. Mister Mo’ Thug found another one of Tacitus’ fingers. “Let’s just try that again,” He twisted and popped the knuckles right out of their sockets.
The new explosion of pain was horrific. Tacitus loosened his grip on his middle. He plunged toward the floor. His bowels slid out of him fast, like shit through a goose, before squeezing and stopping shy of crashing. He hung a meter or so above the floor. The noose around his neck was a hungry python, squeezing and choking him. Mister Mo’ Thug sank down to him.
“You must be tiring of this, you poor fellow,” he sympathized. Tacitus could say nothing at all. Not even when his tormentor found another one of his fingers. “One more time,” He pulled on the finger, real nice and slow like. It broke loud and wet.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
KIM, ONE OF JOB’S baby-mommas had a basket of clean clothes. She walked day-dreaming past the vast playroom where most of the children were gathered together, playing separately. She passed the doorway, her mother’s tingle-sense biting her. There were two extra people in the playroom and they weren’t children. Kim backtracked and saw Mother and her Arch. He stood ethereal and majestic beside her. The children were all coming toward Mother from all points. Kim came rapid toward them, dropping her forgotten laundry along the way. “Who in the fuck are you?” she asked.
“Mother,” she stated, smiling at the cute chubby cherub on her lap.
“Good on you,” Kim replied, “Now give me back my baby,” she demanded and lunged for her.
Arch stepped in. He had her face-first down in the Elmo rug. A sandal pressed down hard on her neck. His flaming sword burned a match tip cherry, pressing against her temple. The smell of flesh curled thinly like faint incense. One of Kim’s hands were pulled and twisted at the end of her arm. The pressure was uncomfortable. Only by remaining completely still could she keep the pain in her shoulder joint from becoming unbearable.
“Please don’t hurt them,” Kim managed, “You’re not going to hurt them.”
“That depends,” replied Mother.
“On what?” asked Kim.
“On what your man does to my prophet,” she stated.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN coming here uninvited?”
“I’m sorry,” Mother’s prophet explained, “But the door opened up all on its own as I approached.”
“Ah, I see,” Job said. “You must then be Jonah. I’d almost forgotten about you.”
“Why yes, but how – “
“Never mind that,” he replied. “What is it that you need?” Job signaled the circus-geek looking motherfucker, “Ovid,” Job told him, “drop what you’re doing and go get the Judge.” Ovid left without a word. Job gazed expectantly at me.
“I have a message for you from Mother,” Jonah began. “She commands you to dismantle the Plata business,” began Jonah the prophet. “All of it, from top to bottom, she wants liquidated. She wants you to leave none of it remaining.”
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
THE OTHER TWO YOUNG moms and Job’s mother, the matriarch of the family, entered the children’s playroom.
“We heard noise,” the matriarch stated. She entered the room and saw one of her daughters-in-law on the ground, the Arch’s fiery sword lighting up her tear-pained face. A second baby toddled over to where Mother sat impassive on one of the plush rocking recliners. “Who are you?” she said to Mother, ignoring the celestial warrior. She knew who ran the roost here now. As someone who used to, she did. “What do you want?”
She stated through a smile directed at the little girl, who squealed with delight, “I am here to help convince your son, Job, to put a stop to it. It is atrocious and I will not allow it to stand.”
“Put a stop to what?” Big Momma asked.
“From one Mother to another,” She told her, “Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know. You are fully aware of how all of your safety and luxury have been paid for.”
She did. She asked: “What do you intend to do?”
Mother returned to cooing and talking sweet gibberish to the baby girl. She said, holding the child close to her bosom, “Unfortunately this,” and she kissed the baby on her soft spot. She went limp, went to sleep and died righ
t there on the spot.
This time, all of the women screamed.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
“AND IF I DON’T?” Job asked. Ovid returned with something long and metal black and heavy. He stood beside his boss.
“Mother says you will lose what is most precious to you. She says that all you hold dear shall be utterly destroyed.”
“I see,” Job said. And, before Jonah could even get a protective fore arm up, Ovid cold-cocked him with the Judge and knocked him unconscious. Then, he continued to beat Jonah until all that was left was wet sticky clay.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
“I SUGGEST YOU TEXT Job, he’s hurting my prophet.” She placed the dead baby gently betwixt her bare luminescent feet. Another one of the moms moved to get to her baby, sitting peacefully on Mother’s lap. The Arch put forth his hand, pointing a finger at her. She rose straight up from the carpeted floor, plastering her against the ceiling, suspended and immobile. “Hurry up,” Mother scolded, irritated, holding the new baby close, “This is getting out of hand.”
“Okay, okay,” Job’s mother replied. She grabbed a phone and began furiously thumbing away.
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
“GET RID OF THIS shit,” Job ordered, “with a quick-step.” A cop came running up to him. He handed Job the telephone. “What is it now?” Job asked.
“It’s a text from your moms, Herod,” the cop replied. “It’s a 911 call.”
Job grabbed it, reading with dread.
“Oh, no,” he said. Job looked up and locked eyes with his men. “Get strapped,” he said, moving toward the front door, checking his clip. “I want to be on our way to The Harbor five minutes ago.”
* mean mug mo’ thug…*
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