𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐔𝐬

𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 - 𝐂𝐮𝐭𝐬, 𝐂𝐚𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧

TW: contains depictions of child grooming (befriending and establishing an emotional connection with a minor to lower the minor's inhibitions with the objective of sexual abuse)

***

But I'll hunt or duck a nigga down like it's sport
Front on me, I'll cut ya, gun-butt ya or bump ya

***

March 25, '01

Raconteur

"Wait a fuckin' minute, damn," Sean shouted to the pounding at his door.

He dried his hair with a towel and slipped on his jeans over his boxers. Sure Giselle was on the other side of the door, he left the buckle of his belt open. It'd been a minute since he'd had his dick sucked.

He made his way to the door, hearing more pounding before he unlocked and swung it open. Turning his back, he said, "Didn't you have a key to my spot?"

"Nah, ion think so," he heard from behind. That wasn't Giselle.

Hanging his head and shaking it, he gave a low chuckle, turning around to face Michael who had casually settled back into Sean's favorite armchair. Sean's nose flared up at the sight; that's where he was supposed to get top.

"Whassup?," he asked Michael, grabbing for the third cup of whiskey he'd started on his kitchen counter. He wordlessly offered Michael a glass, who only stared at him in silence. Shrugging, Sean downed that one, too.

"If you're gonna sit in silence, you can fuckin' leave," Sean scorned as Michael watched him steadily make his way to the sofa before speaking up.

"You gotta death wish?," Michael asked him.

"Why? You gonna kill me?"

"It's gon be me or you, nigga."

Sean eyed his old friend carefully. They'd always been confrontational, the both of them, having fought on many occasions. Physical fights. And he always knew when one was coming, like now.

He took a last swig of his near finished glass of whiskey before he got up, hiccuping. He slapped his chest a couple of times and shook his head, meaning to clear it before he assumed his fighting stance.

"Let's go then," he slurred, swaying some as beckoned Michael to get up.

This nigga pissy-pissy, Michael thought to himself, still comfortably laid back.

He had come to Sean's apartment to beat his ass, true. The man had been MIA for the past 4 days and didn't pick up Michael's one and only call to him. Sean worked for him at the end of the day and, like any other boss, Michael expected some sign of life when it came to the people he paid to get shit done.

On top of that, from what Yana had told him, Sean had been at the hospital getting brain scans because of a damn seizure and syndrome. Whether he liked it or not, Sean had always been like Michael's adopted brother and if his brother was sick, he expected to know what happened from him. Not his girlfriend.

Michael couldn't lie. Sean had rubbed him the wrong way in opening up to Yana about his depression and having a psychiatrist. Although these were all things Michael had suspected, Sean had never actually fessed up to either of the two. Until Yana, of course.

But now, he looked at Sean and felt nothing but condescending pity. He couldn't beat him in this condition; maybe next time. He got up, looking around Sean's apartment. Sean's pill bottles were sprawled across his coffee table, along with his pills and a finished liquor bottle. He'd even broken one of his cut whiskey glasses on the floor beside his couch, without bothering to clean up the shattered glass pieces.