Killa Season 2: The Purge Read online

  “I’ll take it. How much for everything?” he asked reaching for his cash stuffed pockets.

  “Since this is a noble cause it’s on the house. Come on. I’ll help you load this in the car. Or do you have a tank packed outside?” he laughed.

  As soon as they stepped from the showroom, they came face to face with a very naked and very worried Malaysia. That’s her name by the way. At least Shawn remembered the first letter.

  “Where did you go?” she pouted. “When I woke up to pee-pee I didn’t see you and I got confused.”

  Got confused, Killa wondered and got confused himself. The very pretty girl had a ton of make up over her skin and pounds upon pounds of weave piled on her healthy shoulder length hair. She even wore grey contacts on top of light brown eyes. The girl didn’t just get confused; she’s obviously been confused.

  “I um, had to um, talk to my friend,” Big Shawn stammered. The girl took a look at all of the guns and was about to panic. Luckily, he knew the magic words. “Turn up!”

  “Hey!” Malaysia sang and raised her hands above her head. She closed her eyes and wound her hips to the music that always played in her head. It probably echoed in that big open space. The drugs and music had effectively lobotomized her and most of her generation.

  While she was busy turning up, Killa and Big Shawn slipped outside with the guns. The dealer helped load them like a bag boy at the grocery store. Once they completed the task, they turned and faced each other.

  “A-yo, don’t forgot me. Let me get at least one,” Big Shawn reminded. It had been a long time since he got his hands dirty, but this was a great time to start again.

  “I got you fam,” Killa replied extending his hand. The men exchanged pounds and man hugs then Killa departed.

  Malaysia was still turning up when Big Shawn returned. “Hey!” she sang as she danced and turned up. Big Shawn led her back to the room and turned her up doggy style on the bed. After rolling two condoms down his erection, he slid safely up inside her. Turn up!

  Chapter 5

  Juror number 12 aka Jane, was a very pretty, thirty something year old white lady. She had bright blonde hair, big fun breasts, and a small waist above her tight ass. She was comfortably married with a comfortable home, and a couple of children. Comfortable, but not happy because she was a selfish bitch who demanded more out of life and her husband than was written for her.

  Juror number 5, John, was a wannabe rock star/cowboy type fuck up. He worked out religiously and had amassed more brawn than brains. He was busting at the seams with machismo and Jane liked machismo. John was too stupid to pass the police exam, so he had to settle for being a security guard. No gun, but at least he got a flashlight. It was the only bright thing about the man.

  The two potential jurors saw the potential in each other during the jury selection process prior to the trial. The pool of one hundred was reduced to two when their blue eyes met from across the crowded room. She played coy, ducking her head, and batting her eyes. Meanwhile, he had one speed, full steam ahead. John flashed his smile and peered into her soul.

  Once the blacks were eliminated for being black, the jury pool was reduced to twenty-five. A series of questions were asked to identify the liberal and progressive types. If you believed black people were people you were sent home as well. By the end of the day, the state had a jury they could count on. They could literally convict a ham sandwich with that bunch. Or, more importantly, acquit one. And that’s exactly what racist George Zeigler was, a fucking ham sandwich.

  Being numbers 12 and 5, they were separated in the jury box, but inseparable any other time. Although they were sequestered at the same hotel, there was too much going on to link up. They chatted, complimented, and flirted until it was clear they would eventually fuck. It was all a prelude to the pussy.

  John didn’t get much action being a gym-oholic and all around cornball. He had no problem attracting chicks, but always said some dumb shit that turned them off. Jane on the other hand, had regular affairs to break the monotony of her life.

  After they let Zeigler off for murdering the black boy, they stayed in contact. They traded texts, emails, and finally naked pictures. She was impressed with his hard, hardly used dick, and he with her pretty, pink, parted labia.

  Jane made dinner for her family and then made an excuse to leave them. John lived with his mom who twisted her lips dubiously when he announced he had a date.

  “With a girl?” she cackled and snickered. All her son ever talked about was his gym buddies. Not to mention all of the muscle magazines full of oiled up muscle men.

  “Ma I’m not gay!” he insisted stomping his feet like a 12 year old. He said it again to himself to be sure.

  A single man alone with a married woman is never a good idea. Luckily, Killa was there to chaperone. He watched from across the restaurant as they dined on quesadillas and tequila. Even though he planned to make it public, this was a little too public. No one wants brain matter in their guacamole so he waited.

  “Guess we should go fuck now?” Jane suggested once the meal was eaten.

  “Only if I can get some brains too,” John replied. He overheard the term in the gym and would love to run back and report getting some brains himself.

  “My specialty!” Jane cheered truthfully.

  The bill was paid and off they went. John couldn’t take her home and his meager earnings forbid renting a hotel room. A local park was picked which was perfect for Killa. It was public. He found a spot in the tree line and assembled the sniper rifle.

  “Nice!” Killa whispered as he peered through the night vision. It cast the couple in a bright green light just as Jane clocked in for her blowjob.

  “Nice!” John exclaimed at his first blowjob in ages. Jane said something in reply, but her mouth was too full to make it out. Maybe, thanks for the compliment?

  “Bye-bye juror number five,” Killa said and squeezed the trigger. The round sped silently through the air, into the open window, and through John’s head before lodging in a tree.

  “Mm hmm,” Jane said proudly feeling his body jerk. She continued sucking until it deflated in her mouth. “I could have stayed home if I wanted a limp dick!”

  Jane’s protest was cut short when she saw the hole in her date’s head. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. That was due to the slug going in. It came out of the back of her head leaving a hole big enough for her brain to fall out and into John’s lap. Be careful what you wish for. He wanted some brains, and he got it.

  ****

  Jurors 12 and 5 weren’t the only ones to make a love connection. People tend to get close when confined together. Put strangers together for a long enough time and somebody’s going to fuck.

  Juror 1 was a tall, handsome man with a good job and quick wit. And so was juror number 2. The two men projected masculinity that concealed their inner bitch. They didn’t even know they were gay until fate pushed it to the surface. Being sequestered they ended up sharing a hotel room. The first night they did everything but fuck. The second night they butt fucked. After the trial, they became a couple.

  “Sho’ nuff?” Killa giggled when he found out. The mass murderer could be quite silly at times and it tickled him immensely when he found out Adam and Steve were Adam and Steve.

  He had followed the couple not knowing they were a couple into a midtown sports bar. He thought it a little odd when Steve giggled from a pat on the ass Adam gave when he made a difficult bank shot. After all, athletes pat each other on the ass every day. They don’t usually giggle though. The lip-to-lip peck they shared after Steve sank the 8-ball pretty much summed it up.

  Only then, did Killa glance around the establishment. He had been so focused on his prey he didn’t even notice it was a gay sports bar. It was full of cowboys and Indians and studs and fems. The name on the sign suddenly made sense. “Man Down.”

  “Hey sailor, buy a girl a drink?” a petite sissy suggested climbing on the stool adjacent to his murderer.


  “Beat it cocksucker,” Killa growled in an attempt to spare him. Only the gay man who had unprotected sex with other gay men did not want to be spared. It was obvious he wanted to die. It was his unlucky day.

  “That’s Miss Cocksucker to you,” he/she giggled and placed his hand on Killa’s thigh.

  “Dude, are you touching me?” Killa asked incredibly.

  “I’m trying to give you some head,” he pouted.

  “You know what?” Killa said nodding thoughtfully. He wanted to see how the D.C. 2000 worked anyway. “I’ll take you up on your offer, but I gotta warn you, you’re not getting your head back.”

  “Oh a macho man!” the sissy giggled. He liked the homo-thug type that snuck around. He hopped off the stool ready to go.

  Killa glanced over at his targets just in time to see a fresh pitcher of beer being delivered by a fairy, dressed as the tooth fairy, and knew he had a few minutes to spare. He stepped off the stool and led the way out of the bar.

  “We can go to the pond,” the sissy suggested of the park across the street. It was where a lot of gay men went for quick romps. Most were married or at least on the down low. Probably a couple of male urban fiction authors as well, but you didn’t hear that from me.

  “A’ight, let me grab something from my trunk,” Killa agreed and made the slight detour. He grabbed the device and followed him into the park.

  Killa wished he had a pair of blinders on to miss the man on man action on the benches. Even the slope leading to the pond was surrounded with men on their knees or hand and knees with other men inside them.

  “Here we go,” the sissy said dropping to his knees in front of Killa and reaching for his zipper.

  “One sec, try this on,” he said putting the gadget over his head.

  “What is it?” he asked curiously. We all know that curiosity killed the cat. Killed this cat too.

  “A cocksucker ring,” Killa replied and hit the switch. The device snapped shut and popped his head off. It rolled down the incline and into the pond. “Told you, you wasn’t getting it back.”

  Adam and Steve were walking out just as Killa returned. He rushed back to his own car and pulled out behind them. Once the coast was clear, he pulled up beside them at a light and pulled the pin.

  “Excuse me?” Killa called politely hoping Steve would roll down his window. He did, but only halfway. Still, it was enough.

  “Yes?” he asked with a ‘what the hell do you want nigger’ expression on his face.

  “What’s the quickest way to get to hell?” he inquired.

  “Making partners with God?” Adam guessed correctly from the passenger seat.

  “I was gonna say die, but that’s a better answer! Anyways, bye-bye, time to die!” Killa said and tossed the grenade into the backseat. He mashed the gas pedal and watched in his rearview mirror. The blast turned the occupants inside out and flipped the car upside down.

  Four jurors down, eight more to go, plus the judge, the prosecutor, defense attorney, and finally, the man of the hour George Zeigler himself. That way, he knew it was coming.

  Chapter 6

  Four jurors from a high profile case murdered in two days could not be ignored. The state ordered that the surviving jurors as well as the judge be placed in protective custody. The offer was extended to the prosecutor and defense attorney, who both declined.

  George Zeigler was labeled a hero by his fellow K.A.N.A.S. members and provided around the clock security. The more the merrier; have Killa tell it.

  A five star hotel was selected and for some reason, broadcast on the news. Perhaps they wanted to show how well the state treated its partisan juries. Convict an innocent person and eat prime rib and drink fine wine. All they really did was facilitate their own demise.

  “Well gee, thanks!” Killa said to the news reporter lady when she made the announcement. They even showed the plush hotel’s dining room, pools, and suites. He couldn’t believe how easy they made it for him. It only took a few minutes of casing the joint before he found a way in.

  Killa never liked serving anyone other than his family, but made an exception for the judge and jury. The corrupt judge jumped at the chance to see juror number 9 again. They discreetly flirted throughout the whole trial. She would wink her long fake lashes and blow kisses with her big fat Botox lips. She looked like a middle-aged Caucasian Lil Kim. And that’s not good.

  The judge would wink back and stroke his little erection under his robe. Why not since he didn’t have to pay attention to the proceedings. Any time a white person was found guilty in his court, he made sure there was an error that would get it overturned on appeal.

  Besides, the regular waiter was bound and gagged in the basement, so somebody had to serve the wine. That night, a special vino was poured just for their group. In fact, it had been manufactured just for them.

  “Wine sir?” Killa asked with a humble bow and scrape as he filled the judge’s glass. The important man replied with a wave of his hand since he was too important to actually speak to the help.

  “I’m sure it’s all just a coincidence. More black on white crime which proves we did the right thing,” the judge assured them. He promised they would be home by Monday. That gave him a couple of days to fuck the trailer trash. In theory anyway.

  Once all the glasses were filled Killa backed away to watch the show. A few impatient jurors took sips before the judge could stand to make a formal toast. He babbled some bullshit, they clinked glasses, sipped, and swallowed.

  “What’s the name of this wine?” juror 3 wondered and picked up a bottle. She first frowned at the odd name, and then the familiar face on the label. “Is this the boy?”

  “It is the boy!” another shouted recognizing Randal Martin’s face on the bottle. Not a smiling yearbook photo, but the autopsy photo complete with a hole in the head.

  “Is this a joke?” the judge demanded looking directly at Killa. He was the only black man in the room, so it had to be his fault.

  “Qisas,” Killa explained the Arabic word on the label. “It’s the law of equity. An eye for an eye.”

  By then, the toxic ingredients had done their job. All in attendance got dizzy and then died. Qisas.

  ****

  Agent Bartow received the detail to guard defense attorney Daryl Queen as a punishment. He openly spoke up about the farce of a trial and paid for it. What better way to punish him than to make him guard one of the conspirators. Real funny indeed.

  As head counsel for the notoriously racist K.A.N.A.S., Queen was very fond of the “N” word. Even his wife and 8-year-old son tossed the epithet around casually, as if the black agent didn’t have ears. He heard the word so much it was like a bad rap CD.

  “Finally!” Bartow sighed in relief when the unmarked car containing his relief pulled to a squeaking stop in front of the house. He glanced at his watch to see how late he was so he could get him back the next day. Qisas.

  “Where’s Brand?” Bartow asked the unfamiliar agent who approached the house.

  “He got tied up. I’m Forrest,” Killa offered along with his firm handshake. He wasn’t lying either because the regular agent was actually tied up. He was in the trunk; tied up.

  “Did you make out a 10-17?” the agent asked dubiously.

  “But of course,” Killa replied hoping it was the right answer so he wouldn’t have to tie him up too.

  It wasn’t and that please the agent immensely. 10-17 was the code for a bowel movement so he knew what was to come. He probably would have murdered the family himself if he had to sit through one more round of nigger jokes over dinner.

  “Have fun,” Bartow said with a smile. He looked back at the future crime scene and left.

  “How many niggers does it take to…oh, you’re new,” Queen said as Killa walked in. “Hope you don’t mind nigger jokes. Freedom of speech and all that.”

  “I love a good nigger joke! Please, go on,” he said truthfully. Seriously who doesn’t love a good nigger j
oke?

  “Tell him the one about how many niggers it takes to guard a family Dad! I love that one,” the little racist child begged.

  “I would love to hear that one,” Killa urged as Mrs. Racist came in from the kitchen.

  “Another one? Sheesh, doesn’t the bureau employ whites? I’m sick of all these black men in my home!” Mrs. Queen fumed.

  “I assure you, I’s the last black man you have to deal with,” Killa said politely. He even broke into a little tap dance to accompany the black Sambo voice.

  “Ok, so anyway, Agent, how many niggers does it take to guard a family?” Queen chuckled heartily since he knew the punch line already.

  “Um…one?” he asked taking a stab at it just for fun.

  “None!” he screamed laughing hysterically. At least he died laughing when Killa sent a big slug right into his big mouth.

  The kid ducked under the table and crawled to the other side. He stood up and tore out of the dining room. Killa let him reach the front door before shooting him in his little racist back. The boy slammed into the door then slid down. He went to join his dad where all racist of any race go.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Mrs. Queen shouted down the barrel of the gun with her hands raised in surrender. “I love niggers!”

  “Huh?” Killa asked scratching his head with his gun as the soccer mom began to twerk.

  “Turn up! Turn up!” she said then dropped it like it was hot and got her eagle on. She would have made her ass clap too if Killa hadn’t clapped her ass.

  “The prosecutor and man of the hour George Zeigler, you got next!”

  Chapter 7

  In breaking news, the judge and remaining jurors from the high profile George Zeigler trial were all found murdered in a downtown hotel. They had been sequestered once again for their safety after four other jurors were the victims of homicides. While authorities admit they are being targeted, they don’t know by whom. Police currently have no leads… However, Islamic extremists have been blamed for this as well as everything else that goes on in our country.