“House of Worship”

“…and stay the fuck out of this club! You’re no longer welcome back here; and if I catch you even fucking around in my parking lot, trying to holler at bitches, I’m a unload every last bullet in your face.”

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” The young ruffian stood in front of the club, but off of the sidewalk, as would-be club-goers stood outside, some freezing in the middle of a Midwest winter. “What the fuck you looking at, bitch?” The disgruntled and dingy hustler pulled a wad of messy cash from his pocket and threw it toward the scared bystander. A young man standing next to the woman took offense and stepped out of line to approach the unruly party, now being backed further from the club and into the middle of the parking lot.

“Just another night at The Cult, fellas; he’s off of our sidewalk, so let that motherfucker keep talking while he keeps walking,” Lamont, the owner of The Cult was mostly a quiet character, but drama was never a problem for him, especially with the dogs employed to keep the party inside, a party. Lamont was a snake, though, with his eyes wide; plans on fucking my wife. You know how the goons do…

“Yo, who the fuck is knocking on my door like that?” The meeting of two steel objects echoed the menacing sentiments of the knockers. Double-barreled shotguns, six shots a piece and the need for danger made for bad luck and a bad mix as…