THE SECOND
SIGHT
Chapter 25
Location: lust-ful li-pS
Boat begins to get really angry, and then suddenly he begins to feel a very alien and dangerous emotion…
Pity!
He feels sorry for the lady, whoever she is.
STYLES
(with false reverence)
Welcome, Boatyard.
Boat has always wondered if he hates Styles so much because of his girlish good looks, or the business he is in, or simply because he insists on calling him Boatyard.
BOAT
(furious)
What the f*¢k is the meaning of this, Styles? I gave your damn money to your boy, so you better have a good reason for forcing me here.
Styles takes a puff on his cigar and giggles stupidly, his eyes straying fractionally to his Zeke.
STYLES
(patronizingly)
Want a drink? Such anger, Boatyard! I’ve always been telling you this anger will send you to your grave. Loosen up, boy. Life is full of zesty joys. Have a life, Boatyard!
Zeke sits down next to Boat, cutting off all chances of a quick escape.
It makes Boat’s blood boil. He hates to be pegged, and he dislikes being put into any situation he has no control over.
If that halfwit Zeke hadn’t been around he would’ve gladly flattened Styles to pulp, and Styles knows that.
Their dislike for each other is mutual and legendary, although none of them can give any real explanation for it. Sometimes things works out like that.
Styles had provided good money, and Boat had provided good drugs. That is as far as their acquaintance went, but the dislike is something de-ep within their souls.
BOAT
(coldly)
Get on with it, Styles. You aren’t exactly the kind of face I wanna see at my dining table.
He smiles humourlessly and glances at his watch.
STYLES
You know something, Boatyard, hmm? I’ve always wondered why the two of us have so much in common. For a fact your face makes me want to puke. I’ve a date lined up for tonight, a date that will bring me a lot of money! You see this Christian bitc-h right here? She wanted to deliver me from my sinful ways, poor girl.
Know something? I want to bring her to my sinful ways! It was a sort of secret challenge. She wanted to take me to her world, and I wanted to bring her to mine, so it was a matter of who will win, although she obviously didn’t know that was how I was planning our little relationship. Some Italian clients of mine saw her this evening, and they have the hots for her!
They’re offering a lot of money to gang-bang her Christian pv$$y. I want to sample her first, you know. A devout Christian like her is sure to have one of the sweetest pussies you ever f*¢ked, don’t you think? Hmm, yummy! ti-ght pv$$y, don’t you think, like a V¡rgin as-s-hole?
He bursts into raucous laughter, gags on cigar smoke, coughs a bit and wipes tears from his eyes.
He grips the girl’s cheeks quite cruelly, pulls her forward and clamps his li-ps on hers.
There is a choking sound from her throat, and her hands beat feebly against his shoulders. His right hand enters her blouse and pulls her left br£-$t out of her br@, and he kneads her br£-$t rou-ghly.
It takes all his self-control to prevent Boat from knocking his face in.
Styles lets her go at last.
Her hand comes up, obviously trying to put her br£-$t back in her br@, but the effects of whatever chemical she has been drugged with is too powerful, and her hand drops limply.
Agonized tears fall down her cheeks silently.
Styles wipes his eyes with a handkerchief sodden with perfume, and delicately puts it into his pocket.
STYLES
I’ll shoot straight, Boatyard, because I want you out of my face quickly so that I can take this bitc-h upstairs and f*¢k her senseless. I heard old Bob bought it today, in a gruesome manner. Heard he decided to hang himself from the windscreen of a truck. Always knew that guy was crazy.
BOAT
(coldly)
Is that what you want to talk to me about? Bob’s funeral?
His eyes come up then and drills right throu-ghBoat.
His gaze is all steel. Sometimes Boat sees glimpses of that steel, which reminds him that nobody could have risen in the business of prostitution without having a reliable set of ruthlessness.
It makes Boat wonder if he sometimes un-derestimated John Styles.
Styles leans forward and grinds his cigar out viciously in an ash tray, and then he leans back again and regards Boat with those cold eyes.
STYLES
(softly)
Let’s not talk about Bob’s funeral for now, Boatyard. Let’s talk about Bob’s market.
And then Boat finally un-derstands what Styles is after.
Greed, in all its ugly glory, is the factor here.
Bob had controlled the Beach County drug scene.
He had ruled with an iron hand, and had not tolerated any competition. People who tried to cut in had ended up badly dead. There had been a period, about a couple of years ago, when the market had been flooded with cheap cocaine from a supplier no one knew about.
One weekend four bodies had floated up to the seashore, decapitated, genitals missing. They had all been suspected to be partners of the new drug lord. The gruesome murders had not been solved, and the new cheap drug had disappeared from the market in a flash.
Boat had grilled Bob about the gruesome murders, knowing Bob had a hand in the macabre slaughter, but apart from a lopsided grin Bob had made no comment about the whole affair.
Bob’s relationship with John Styles had gone sour after that incident. Styles had kept away from Bob as if he was the plague. Much later Bob had confessed to Boat in a drunken stupor that Styles had been behind the attempted takeover of the market, and that he was going to cut off ‘that homo’s short di-ck and stick it up his as-s’.
Styles had gotten the message, and had stuck to his whoring business.
Now Bob is gone, and the sharks are moving in.
A new turf war is going to brew in town, the fight for supremacy. Beach County, in all her glory, is a seedy joint un-derneath, contributing a great deal of money to the drug business. Whoever captures the market will make a lot of money.
Styles knows the big predator Bob is no more, and greed is swimming in his eyes, ready for a takeover.
Boat smiles at him, and he knows his smile isn’t quite nice.
BOAT
(coldly)
I own the market now, Styles.
Styles’ face clouds over with dark anger.
He is like a spoilt child, used to getting what he wants. Not many people have ever opposed him. He doesn’t like Boat, and that added an additional salvo to his anger.
Of course Boat isn’t interested in the drug world anymore. He is on his way out, and he doesn’t care two hoots what happens on the turf, but he will be damned if he gives in to Styles now and allows him to flex his muscles.
Styles’ teeth are clenched so ti-ghtly that Boat can make out the de-ep veins standing angrily on his jaw line.
He leans forward suddenly, thr-usting his face against Boat’s, reaching out and grabbing Boat’s shirt in both hands, pulling him forward across the table.
STYLES
(hissing)
Now listen, and listen good, bitc-h! I’m not alone in this. I’ve got some very bad partners who’re moving into the market, butch, and you don’t want to cross them. I don’t like you, Boatyard, so I’m not going to warn you again. But from tonight, if you so much as hit the field with even a fingertip of coke, you’re dead. Remember that, bitc-h!
The fury is like a living animal within Boat, and with one movement he spins to his right, slamming Styles’ hands off him and pushing him ha-rd in the che-st.
John Styles is hurled back violently into his seat, his face betraying his sudden alarm.
Boat has known it the encounter will turn violent eventually. He has been wishing it to turn violent, although it is more like a death wish with Zeke breathing down his ne-ck.
Yaw Boat has never been one to shy away from a fight, but he knows that even being a martial arts expert is no weapon against Zeke.
Unconsciously, Boat has decided to help the poor girl Styles wants to hand over to the Italian rapists.
It is crazy, of course, because just a couple of days ago Boat would have walked away without so much as a backward glance at her. She wanted trouble, and she has found it.
Boat has never one to stick his nose into another man’s business if I can help it.
Now everything is different.
Maybe, unconsciously, he is beginning to take sides.
Maybe he wishes to be on the side of those few guys with the for-ce-field. It might be that he has had enough of all those vile creatures controlling his life, hedging him in and scaring the living bejesus out of him.
Maybe he is sick to his guts of people trying to walk all over him, doing what they want with him.
Whatever it is, once he begins, he means to see it throu-ghto the end.
He had been watching Zeke as he spoke to Styles.
Zeke’s appearance is that of supreme confidence. He knows he can rip Yaw Boat apart anytime, and so he is so relaxed.
Boat knows that he has no advantages against Zeke except complete surprise.
Boat has been planning his attack, and he has noticed an iron flower pot that is standing near their table, some heavy-scented flower with spindly leaves growing out of it.
It looks sturdy and handy, but he doesn’t go for it right away.
Before Styles hit his chair Boat is already on his feet, already spinning towards Zeke, who has been in the process of pouring himself a drink from the wine bottle, and it takes a second longer for him to grasp what is going on.
His close-set skewed eyes narrow fractionally, but Boat is already swinging.
Boat doesn’t go with a fist, no, because Zeke’s jaw looks as ha-rd as his body, and Boat doesn’t want to break his knuckles on the steel chin of that man.
His martial arts teacher, Wailer Vroom, has taught him that when fighting bulls like Zeke it is best to go for the sen-sitive parts, the bruising places.
Four of his right fingers are pointing straight, ha-rd and deadly, and they zoom straight into the abnormal eyes of the giant, and Boat rakes downward.
Zeke utters a strangled gr-unt, and his hands go to his face. He is momentarily blinded, and that is when Boat goes for the flower pot.
He holds the ne-ck of the iron pot with both hands and pivots, gauging distances and proximity.
Zeke is on his feet, hu-ge arms reaching our blindly for Boat, who swings the iron pot against the side of Zeke’s head with all his strength.
There is a dull metallic thunk, and Zeke’s head moves to the side. He gr-unts again but he doesn’t go down, his eyes open now, red from the abuse Boat’s fingers have caused them.
Boat brings the pot down again, so ha-rd that he feels the jarring shocks in his shoulders.
It catches Zeke flush on the top of his double December head, and this time it drives him to his knees
TBc….