Page 12 of Snitches and Serpents

When I first started working for Mr. Bracken, I was one of the drug dealers. But I realized quickly that I had to get moved from that particular duty to something else. And fast.

If the police were to arrest me while I was carrying or selling drugs, it would be an open and shut case. My whole future as an engineer would be ruined.

So I decided to become really good at something else. Namely, beating people up. Most of the guys in the White Serpents think that this is one of the worst jobs. Being a goon. Someone who provides security for the dealers and who punishes whoever Bracken wants punished. But they’re wrong. This is the best job.

Because, as opposed to carrying or selling drugs, this is a crime that the police can’t prove that I committed.

I’ve been picked up by the cops a couple of times after someone I beat up snitched to the police. But they’ve always had to let me go. Because they can’t prove anything. It’s just their word against mine.

So I do everything I can to make sure that Bracken keeps me on goon duty. Because as long as there is blood on my hands, there won’t be any drugs on them.

Ken Ripley cries out in pain and tries to protect his head as I ram my fist into his face again. Blood runs from his broken nose and his split lip. I hit him two more times.

Then I release my grip on his collar and unceremoniously drop him back down on the floor.

He gasps in a couple of breaths and then coughs blood on his shirt.

I move up closer to his head and put my boot on his throat.

His eyes snap open. Panic pulses on his face as he desperately tries to push my foot off his neck. I just keep applying pressure.

“Mr. Bracken wants his money,” I declare.

Ken tries to say something but only garbled noise comes out. I give his throat one more push before I remove my boot and take a step back.

Wheezing breaths and wet coughs echo through the apartment as Ken sucks air back into his lungs. I remain standing there on the floor, watching him. Rolling over, he coughs twice more before he manages to push himself up to his knees. For a moment, it looks like he is going to get to his feet after that. I level a sharp glare on him. He swallows. Then coughs again. And remains on his knees.

“Mr. Bracken wants his money,” I repeat.

“I don’t have it on me,” Ken croaks.

After heaving a sigh, I bend down to grab his shirt and to start hitting him again.

“No!” he cries. Ducking down before I can grab him, he bends over and presses his forehead against the floor in front of my boots. “Please. I don’t have it on me right now, but I swear I’ll get him the money first thing tomorrow when the banks open. Please. Please, I’m begging you.”

Satisfaction washes through me like a warm ripple, curling around my spine.

This is a side effect of my servitude that I didn’t expect.

I thought I was going to hate every second of working for Mr. Bracken. But as soon as I became a punisher instead of a dealer, I learned something about myself that I didn’t know before.

I love exerting my power over others.

Maybe it’s because I have never had any real power or control over my own life. Or maybe it’s because I want revenge for all the unfairness I’ve had to deal with. Or maybe I’m simply a sick twisted bastard who loves the feeling of having someone’s life in the palm of my hand. Of watching them kneel and grovel and beg me for mercy. It’s so fucking addictive.

“First thing tomorrow morning,” I declare.

“Yes,” Ken says, still keeping his forehead pressed against the floor in front of my boots. “I swear. Please.”

“Good.”

Then, without another word, I spin on my heel and stride back out into the night.

Hopefully, this will be the last job like this for a few days. Because now, I need to get back and finish my equations. And then, I need to start focusing on the second most important part of my life right now.

Breaking Elle Summers.

5

---