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The Autumn Aircraft - #1 - Little Sister Becka

“—people sometimes. There’s no way it’s that man—”
“—out his damn mind to show his face here—”
“Do you live here nigga,” a teenager near the bottom step asked. He was a skinny man with a muscle shirt
on. He expressed no interest in the man’s resemblance to the face that’d been plastered over the news during the last
three or so years. A gun was tucked into the front of his jeans, and a large tattoo on his arm read 187Earth.
„The end of the world is here’ was one of his favorite things to say. „So what the fuck do I have to be afraid
The man in the slic ker re mained unresponsive and came closer, placing his foot on the first step. Another
man, this one on the interloper’s right and considerably more bulky than the tattooed teenager, stepped in front of
him. Th is man stood at least six five and looked a solid two hundred and sixty pounds. Though that weight was not
all muscle, most of it was, and unbeknownst to the interloper, it was the man that had beat the man on the side of the
stairs to death. The large man had a gun tucked in h is jeans like the other.
Since word had leaked that the world was ending years ago, cops had, bit by bit, ceased bothering with
what they considered to be minor co mpla ints—theft, molestation, rapes, stabbings, single-victim killings, arson—
and instead responded to crimes that involved the lives of several or more people, politic ians, or celebrities. The
world was going to shit and everyone knew it. The men on the stairs knew this and they knew that in most cases,
murde r was a lmost legal. The man towering over the stranger from the steps had no shirt on, had drank enough
liquor to knock the average man on his ass, and had smoked enough crack rock to feel as if he was Superman
“Yeah, I seen dudes like you before,” the man said in a raspy voice. “You probably think you hard.” He
looked at the man silently for a moment, further assessing. “Maybe you didn’t hear what the nigga asked you.”
The interloper said nothing. On ly looked at him, his face e xpressionless.
Knock -k nock !
“What the fuck is it?” a male voice shouts.
There is more crying on the other side of the door and Lena, the mother of the pained voice inside, ignores
“How long are you going to be in there,” Lena asks. “I have to get my pipe.” From the kitchen comes a
bout of raucous male laughter as another round of dominoes clai ms its victor.
“Dammit Lena! You didn’t think of getting that shit earlier?”
More sobbing from inside the room.
Lena grimaces briefly at the sound but says nothing. It is better to say nothing. Things remain simpler that
“Be quiet baby,” the male voice from behind the door soothes. “Be quiet baby. Be good for me, okay.”
The sound of the bedsprings squeak ing from behind the door follows, and more sobbing with it.
“Give me five minutes,” the male voice behind the door says, his breaths ragged.
Lena, only wanting to appease, heads back out to the table where a new game of dominoes commences.
“My mom’s upstairs,” the stranger said, finally.
The man chuckled and regarded the others on the steps. The woman, wearing a tight pink halter top, with
her cinna mon colored hair freshly done, muttered,
“Lying ass nigga.”
The large man glanced at her then back at the stranger. He reached for his gun. “Ain’t your mother
upstairs you fuck—”
The interloper grabbed the large man’s arm, forced it downwa rd, and broke it at the elbow with a hard
downward kick at the jo int. The pop, despite the blaring music, went off like a muffled gunshot. The man
screamed. The teenager with the tattoo made a sudden movement for his piece, and had his throat punched in with
one swift hook from the interloper’s right hand. The man flew back, hands to his throat. Blood spilled from his
mouth and the teenager fell down the steps, gurgling, his hands over his neck. Everyone moved for their weapons
then and the interloper, uncannily quick, dashed up the steps and let loose with rapid and accurate, tight fisted
blows, bashing noses, snapping jaws, and with two deft, blinding move ments, snapping the neck of a muscular man
at the top of the stairs by jerking his head upward at an angle. The blac k g irl on the stairs screamed.