Go Kill Crazy! by Bryan Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

thick it barely existed.
    Casey raised a shaky finger and pointed at a spot somewhere behind the giant. “Look. Over there…”
    No-Neck scowled. “What?”
    “It’s Mothra. Go get him, boy.”
    Someone in the vicinity tittered at the remark even as No-Neck’s scowl gave way to a look of confusion. He glanced to his right, at another goon in a black suit. “Something funny, Marzetti?”
    Marzetti was big, but he wasn’t as imposingly massive as No-Neck. He wore black sunglasses and had gel in his wavy dark hair. The shiny butt of a nickel-plated 9mm protruded from the waistband of his trousers. “The hippy just called you Godzilla.”
    No-Neck was giving Casey his full attention again. His face turned a deep shade of red. “Think you’re a comedian, you long-haired faggot?”
    “The only joke here is you, you steroid-chomping motherfucker.”
    Marzetti pursed his lips. “Uh-oh.”
    Fucking with the guy wasn’t the brightest idea. Casey was on thin ice already. But he figured his odds of walking out of this situation alive were pretty close to nil anyway, so what the hell. “Do you know what a Neanderthal is?”
    Marzetti made a pained sound and put a hand to his forehead. “Kid, you really should quit while you’re ahead. Don’t antagonize—”
    No-Neck cut him off with a simmering glare. “Shut up.” He looked at Casey. “I know what a Neanderthal is, you fucking faggot. Do you think I’m stupid?”
    “Do you really want me to answer that?”
    No-Neck let out an enraged roar and leaned down to seize the front of Casey’s shirt in his massive hands. He jerked him roughly to his feet and kept hold of him with one hand while he drew the other one back in preparation of delivering another of those devastating punches.
    But before he could uncork the blow, someone else in the room spoke up.
    “Enough.”
    The deep baritone was unfamiliar, but apparently the speaker was the true voice of authority here, because No-Neck immediately lowered his fist and released his grip on Casey’s shirt.
    “We are not here to waste time on these antics. This man is at our mercy, Mr. Boyd, and he knows it. Allowing him to rattle you so easily displays only weakness.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    No-Neck’s expression was sheepish now. He actually looked down at the floor, the way an awkward kid would after a scolding from a parent or teacher.
    “Bring him to me, Boyd.”
    Boyd grabbed Casey by a bicep and dragged him across the kitchen, where he was dumped into a chair at a round table. It was a nice table with a wood surface and a wrought-iron frame. Along with the chairs arrayed around it, he’d inherited the table from his late grandmother, a taciturn woman who had nonetheless been a steadying influence during his turbulent youth. The way he’d heard it, she had died of a stroke at this very table during dinner one night. And now it was looking like dying at this table was on its way to becoming an authentic Miller family tradition.
    Another man in a suit was in the chair directly across from Casey. The guy didn’t look much like his underlings. For one thing, he was black. And his clothing was more colorful—he wore a purple shirt beneath his blazer. Like the other men, though, he was of an imposing size. He had a big bald head. His smooth scalp gleamed from the overhead light. He sat with his legs crossed, his fingers laced almost primly over his right knee.
    He smiled. “Mr. Miller, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
    “Fuck you.”
    Boyd smacked the back of Casey’s head. “Show Mr. Jones respect, hippy.”
    Casey groaned and touched the back of his head. “Ouch, man. Jesus. Stop calling me a hippy. I ain’t any goddamn flower child.”
    Boyd snorted. “What else should I call you, Goldilocks?”
    Casey managed a laugh. “Goldilocks. That’s a good one. Very creative.”
    “Thank you,” Boyd said with no trace of irony.
    Casey directed a smirk at Jones. “You’re welcome.”
    Jones