Kill the King by Eric Samson Read Free Book Online Page B

turned
his eyes away from the road and shot back a look of
incredulousness. “Nothing? Nothing, motherfucker? You’ve got
serious balls to say that to me.”
    “You’ve got
serious balls to talk to me like that, after what you’ve
done. I never fucked any of your girls behind your back. Can you say the same?”
    Khaled grit his
teeth and drove quietly for several blocks. The conversation ground
to a halt.
    “I thought we
were going to let that shit slide for now.”
    “Just because I
didn’t shoot you in the fucking kneecaps it doesn’t mean I’m
letting that shit slide. I’m just putting that on the shelf for the
time being. I’m still gonna bust your balls in the meantime. Get
used to it, my friend. You’ve got a lot of owning up to do
with that. You’re lucky I didn’t tell Marko about it. . .he would
have done worse things to your face than I did back in that fight
we had.”
    Both remembered
well enough how the fight concluded. Tyler had tucked away a
double-edged razor blade in his pocket before the fight, and when
the brawl went south he clenched it between his teeth without
anyone noticing. When Khaled clutched him in a bear hug, all Tyler
had to do was lean in and brush his mouth on his friend’s face and
let the blade do the rest. The first cut left a long and thin red
line on Khaled’s cheek. The second cut grazed just above his right
eyebrow and splattered blood all over both of their faces, and was
enough to compel Khaled to let go. A desperate groin kick dropped
Khaled to his hands and knees, and after a few more punishing blows
to the face the five minute mark had passed and the initiation was
done with. At the gang leader’s urging, they hugged it out and
promised not to hold a grudge. From then onwards, Tyler was a Dead
Boy and Khaled was no longer his friend. . .he became his
brother.
    “You know what
I think, Khaled?”
    Khaled sighed.
“What. . .”
    “I think you’re
just mad about me cuttin’ your face up because you were hoping for
a kiss. Fuckin’ faggot.”
    Khaled’s face
squirmed and contorted as he tried to stifle a laugh. “Asshole. .
.”
    Tyler’s face
cracked a half-smile, if for only a second. It was a good story
after all.

    ****

    Tyler and
Khaled were escorted through the warehouse’s main entrance, where
about fifty members of the Fourteens were congregating. Before the
auto plant closed down for good it was a storage area for unused
machinery and spare parts, but those glory days of industry were
nothing but a distant memory. Its cold grey walls were now lined
with massive flags and banners displaying swastikas, Celtic
crosses, Totenkopf crossbones, and violent slogans regarding
death, blood, and purity. The Fourteens had adopted this warehouse
as their church, and the banners became their stained glass
windows.
    On one wall
loomed a solitary banner, colossal and more menacing than the rest.
It was hand-made by their revered leader himself at the time of
founding, and in spite—or because —of its crude design and
violent imagery, it was their most treasured relic: on a field of
white stood a monstrous black Reichsadler eagle perched
victoriously atop a mountain of bloody skulls. Beneath the skulls
was their motto; fourteen ominous words that served as the
foundation of their movement and left no room for misunderstanding
and compromise:
    Defend the
Aryan race. Protect your brothers. No mercy for our enemies. Sieg
Heil!
    Tyler and
Khaled studiously observed their surroundings. Stepping into their
lair was a rare permission for even them and their curiosity was
strong, especially now that their numbers had grown in recent
times.
    The warehouse
was only two storeys high but was a wide open space with little
furniture and permanent fixtures on the inside. In one corner stood
a modest library where a half-dozen young men pored over the
hateful literature that crammed their bookshelves, while at fifty
paces away sat a dozen large men loudly arguing with each