Snakes Don't Walk

By Marsell Morris

He discovered that he enjoyed killing, after he, as a young man, murdered his ex-girlfriend because she spread lies about he being gay. Up until that turning point in his life, he could never find happiness.

It was a long time before he had a chance to kill again. And when he did, he knew he would do nothing else. But how to make a living taking peoples lives?

His name was Kelvin. He called himself K, and he was an emerging psychopath. Could there be a worse combination — a hit man, who was also a psychopath?
His desire to kill for money happened by accident, when he met a distraught older man in a dark dingy, smoke filled, dive, who was trying to drown his matrimonial problems. K leaped on the opportunity and convinced the beleaguered, older, man to let him take the cheating wife’s life.

He soon discovered that he loved killing so much that he became sexually aroused while only thinking about the next hit — for cash or kicks, it didn't matter, he had to kill. He eventually combines sex and murder, and the monster is loose. After murdering the wrong person, his destiny is sealed.
His death is as violent as his twisted life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marsell Morris
• Release date: Aug 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476335568

Marsell Morris

Marsell was born in Detroit Michigan in the year of... well, a good while ago. After graduating from Cass Technical High School, Marsell went to work for the Chrysler Corporation as a conveyor loader. Shortly after beginning his employment with Chrysler, he married, and fathered three children. Thirty-one years later, and after having gained the position of production supervisor, he retired at fifty.After retiring, he began playing golf everyday and all day. Having lowered his handicap to near scratch, and winning a tournament at even par, and behind a debilitating injury, he was unable to continue playing. He had a lot of free time on his hands, whereupon, he took up writing as a hobby and time killer and discovered he had talent for spinning a yarn.After pounding out eleven urban fictions, covering everything from drug use, prostitution, gang crime, murder, and romance/erotica, and having always been a science fiction fan from his teenage years, he thought he’d try his hand at writing a Sci-Fi tail, which culminated in his first work “Alien Plot - First Contact” now retitled "Alien Offensive - Nanobot Storm" and its four sequels, and which, at one time before he ran into problems with its publisher, was considered good fodder for production as a movie, not because he is such a great writer, but because of its unique, previously unexplored, plot.He still lives in Detroit, and being a compulsive writer, he spends most of his time wearing out his fourth keyboard replacement, while pursuing what he loves doing — writing more tails with unique story lines.

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Snakes Don’t Walk.

Copyright © 2011 by Marsell Morris

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The characters and situations herein are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anyone, living or dead is absolutely coincidental.

This work contains adult language, violence, and sexual situations, and is not considered proper reading for children.

Snakes Don’t Walk

Marsell Morris (Mojo)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

The author’s extremely grateful to all of you, who wish to remain unnamed, for your help in writing this novel. Without your aid, this work could not have been produced.

Thank You!

Chapter 1

In the beginning, he wasn't that ill.

When consciousness fought its way back into K’s muddled mind, his eyes fluttering open, the first thing he noticed was a pain in the front of his mouth, and at the back of his throbbing head, where he was sure he was bleeding.

The foggy haze slowly lifting from his awareness, he ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth and discovered several gaps where his front teeth once were — the broken teeth lodged in the corners of his jowls. He could also taste the salty bitterness of the blood leaking from his still bleeding gums.

He attempted to open his mouth and spit to only discover he couldn’t. His mouth was taped shut with several bands of duct tape, leaving his eyes and nose uncovered. It was then a stark recollection of his predicament reregistered in his nearly clear mind.

He was lying on his back, bound head to foot with the un-giving tape. He was being driven in the back of an aging box van, and being bounced around on the bed of the stiffly sprung truck. An acrid aroma of exhaust fumes seeped through the floorboards and invaded his senses as the metal ridges of the truck’s floorboards cut into the back of his head with every bump the vehicle encounter. The van wasn’t being driven slowly. Wherever it was he and Jabob, his no good, backstabbing, friend, were being taken, they would be there soon.

He rolled his head over to find Jabob on his left, and saw he was as securely bound. They were riding in the back of the vehicle K thought Jabob intended for the bodies of two women K, in an insane murdering frenzy, had just killed, and were still lying on the floor of Jabob’s, small, two roomed, apartment. The mobsters holding he and Jabob captive, cared nothing about the dead women — their business was with K and Jay.

It was dark in the back of the truck, but not pitch black. A small low wattage bulb provided a dim glow. K continued to look at Jay, who was now regaining consciousness, and looking back at him. Not being able to say anything, K tried to communicate what he was thinking through his angry eyes.

You dumb… How could you think they would only take me? K tried to say through his bloodshot eyes. When it was you who set up the hit on Tony?

While staring back, tears running into his ears, Jay seemed to understand. After a moment, K turned his head to look up at the dim bulb overhead and wondered how he got himself into this mess. Wondered why his life-long friend would turn him over to the Mob.

In the back of his mind, he knew something like this could happen. During his shortened career as a psychopathic gun for hire, it was inevitable his demented life would end this way, and he knew it, but, damn, not this soon, he thought.

The day his real troubles began was no different than any other day in his twisted life...

******

Kelvin, or K as he liked to be called, walked with a measured, quick, pace — his head down while watching the toes of his expensive shoes come into view and disappear under him, and as a heavy rain poured from the heavens — the heavy drops hammering his uncovered head and he making sure he stayed ahead of the puddle jumper behind him.

As he looked over his shoulder at the frolicking youngster, who was having the time of his innocent existence, he wished his life was as carefree.

Behind him, walked a couple who had their Detroit Tiger’s jackets pulled up over their heads, and were following the giggling youngster — the rain for him no more than a chance to have fun.

The young man, about five or six, was oblivious to the pelting rain and was puddle jumping. He didn't miss a pool. He would run ahead of his parents, and as he reached the next puddle, would jump as high as he could and land with both feet in the middle while laughing loudly.

The parents, barely in their twenties, did nothing to stop him — what the hell, he and they were already drenched, let him have some fun, they thought.

The raindrops assaulted K relentlessly — those, large, heavy, drops always coming whenever you don't have an umbrella. One of those un-predicted freak storms had roared in from the north and while depositing a torrential downpour washed away the filth and dust from the streets, and was soaking K to the bone.

The day started with a clear blue sky — not a cloud in sight. Who would have guessed in a couple hours it would be pouring? The TV weathercast had missed this one — so much for high tech weather forecasting. There was a chance the rain might pass, allowing the baseball game he just left to continue, but not many fans, including him, thought so, and were on their way home.

The game was rain delayed, but not before one of the players had almost hurt himself, falling down, trying to round first on his way to second. Several of the players on both teams could be seen to have had enough. They spread their arms and looked up at the heavy clouds moving overhead, and then look at each other as if to say, what are they waiting on? Call the game already.

Hell, the Detroit Tigers were way behind anyway. The pitching was letting the team down, again. The season was just starting, so they still had a chance to get things on track. At least the forgiving fans hoped so.

When the rain started, there was no point in sitting way up top in the nosebleed section of Tiger Stadium, and getting soaked, while waiting for his client, who was three-hours late, to show.

If I’ve got to get wet, I might as well be walking to my car, K thought, not long after the rain began.

The stadium was already half empty. Most of the fans had seen the clouds approaching and decided to leave at the beginning of the seventh inning stretch. They were the smart ones, who were probably in their cars on their way home by now — he wasn't one of them. Hoping against all hope his client would show, or the heavy rain would blow over, he stayed for a few more critical moments. He could see the seats clearing quickly, but the clouds moving in faster, and were nearly overhead by the time he made up his mind to leave, and was able to get out of the stadium.

What the hell happened to my appointment, K wondered, as he walked? I hope he hasn’t decided to not go through with the contract, he hoped, as he looked up to see he still had two blocks to walk.

Thanks to his late arrival, all the parking lots near the ballpark were full, and all because that woman wouldn't let him go.

When is Nancy gonna realize she ain’t no more to me than a hot piece, he thought, thinking of the woman who was constantly on his back about spending more time with her?

She’s no more than a booty-call, to be used, and then shelved until I need her again. Yeah, I know, I'm a tall good-looking black man, of thirty-two, who dresses well and drives a late model Jag, he thought, as he walked, his steps hypnotizing him, taking his mind off the relentless rain.

But I ain’t ready to settle down, and never will tie myself to one woman. She has to understand I don't want a relationship. Don't need the problems of having a woman who might become a pawn to be used to jeopardize me. I have to remain uncommitted and unattached. I can't allow myself to be open to compromise. I have to be able to move at a moment’s notice, without the worries of having a demanding woman trying to meddle in my business, or holding me back. But she is one fine specimen of a woman, and a damn good lay as well, and also studying to become a nurse. She’ll make some man very happy one day, but not me, he thought, with a chuckle. I’ve got to be careful when I’m with her, though. I could become attached to her very easily, he thought, his manhood stirring in his pants.

He not only told her as much, while leaving out his profession, he also handed her money as he left her apartment as if she were a pro. He also told her he would see her when he saw her. That he would give her a call some time in the future. And yet she still would question him, make demands of him.

When am I going to see you again, baby? she would ask, as he was leaving, her large brown eyes trying to hypnotize him.

Damn woman. I’ve told you I’ll call when I need to get down again. Now stop asking questions. You know I don't play that crap, he would respond, while staring back coldly, and trying to be as blunt as possible, and hoping she would get the picture without him having to come right out and say bye for good.

But she still refused get the message. I might have to dump her very soon, he thought, while listening to the ecstatic laughter of the puddle jumper behind him.

As he walked, he looked up to see he only had one block to go. The rain seemed to be coming down even harder — or was it in his mind, he knowing he only had a short distance to walk? In either case, he picked up his pace, leaving the puddle jumper and his parents far behind.

I’ve got to remember to have this suite cleaned first thing tomorrow, he thought, while looking down at the water dripping from the bottom of his jacket. If it gets ruined, I'm going to add it to Mr. B's bill.

******

When he decided to become a hit man for money, he knew he would never have a normal life — not that he wanted one. In many ways he was a sociopath. He would never marry and have a family. He wouldn't even allow himself to fall in love. If he found himself developing feelings for a woman, he would never see them again, no explanations or good-byes — dump them every time, never breaking his rule except for this intoxicating Nancy. She had gotten into his blood — had made him bend his ironclad rules for the first time.

His refusal to form attachments, besides his anti-social nature, came from the one time he was hurt by a woman as a teenager of seventeen. It wasn't only the way the slightly older woman dumped him, while saying she only dated him to make another man jealous, it was her telling him and all his and her friends, he wasn't endowed well enough to satisfy her. That she thought he was on the down-low — all lies. He didn't have a gay bone in his body and was hung better than average.

He wouldn't make love to her as often as she wanted because he didn't want her to have any control over him. Even at that young age, he displayed anti-social tendencies, enhanced by a growing paranoia, which re-enforced his fear of being trapped in a relationship. He knew women frequently tried to use sex as a way of controlling men, and he wasn’t having any of it.

The deceitful older woman of twenty something had unknowingly crossed the wrong person when she defamed him. What neither she nor he knew at the time was he was a burgeoning psychopath, who had a latent desire to hurt people. When she spread those lies, and told him to his face about how she’d used him, those unconscious desires rose up from deep within his soul and changed the direction of his life forever. He was so enraged by her denigration he, while giving in to those hidden desires, one late night, threw a molotov cocktail through her bedroom window, resulting in third degree burns over seventy-five percent of her body — almost killing her.

When he found she hadn't died in the fire, he wasn’t disappointed. Actually, he relished in the thought of hurting her more. He, maniacally, waited several months until she returned home from the hospital. His rage still inflamed, and she still in recovery, and while sunning on her front porch, he calmly drove by her house and emptied his illegally purchased nine-millimeter pistol into her, making sure he killed. The stolen car he drove, and the ski mask he wore assured he would not be caught.

Bitch, you won’t lie on anyone else, he thought, as he calmly sat in front of her house and fired his pistol until it was empty, and continued to pull the trigger.

It wasn't until later, when he thought about what he’d done, and how easily he’d done it, and without a moment’s remorse, did he decide he had a talent for hurting others. More than a talent, he actually enjoyed hurting her. He received some kind of perverse pleasure from the murder. He was truly a psychopath and didn't know it. A compulsion to kill again was now growing inside him. Thoughts of becoming a professional hit man consumed his daily existence. Even in his sleep, he dreamed of becoming a cold-blooded murderer. It wasn't until much later, and strictly by happenstance, did he have an opportunity to put his desires to use while making money at the same time.

He knew what he wanted to do, but how to make a living at it, he had no idea. Sure, becoming a hit man was his dream, but how do you get into the business? How does one advertise he was available to whack someone for cash and pleasure? He had no crime connections, and one does not go around asking people if they wanted to have someone killed.

His quandary was unexpectedly solved one night when, while alone as he liked to be, and having a drink in one of Detroit's many watering holes, he met a depressed, middle aged man, who was about to retire from his job.

Not being the type to go clubbing, K probably couldn’t tell you why he picked that particular bar to stop into on that particular night, but he did. There was nothing special about the dive. It was more of a hole in the wall than anything else. He’d never been in the place before, although, he’d passed it many times. So why did he decide to go in then and there? Maybe because he wasn’t driving at that time, and the small neighborhood bar was within walking distance from the rooming house he was living in on the south west side of Detroit? Maybe because he was between jobs, while working for an employment agency as a general laborer, while collecting unemployment, and had time on his hands? Maybe it was because he was tired of sitting in his small room with only a small five-inch TV, and nothing on he want to watch? Or, maybe it was fate, as some might say? It doesn’t matter. The fact is, he did go in the small dingy, poorly lit, bar, and meet the person who would help set the monster free.

The night began innocently enough, and K, while walking the streets with no place to go, and on a whim, entered the small lounge. He climbed aboard a stool one seat away from a despondent man, who sat looking down into his warm beer with a troubled expression on his face, and seemed to be muttering to himself.

The poorly lit place was practically empty, and had a pale of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Another solitary man sat at the far end of the bar watching a situation comedy on the bar's TV. The only other customer, a middle-aged, woman, who was obviously drunk, was sitting in a booth, and watched him come in and take the seat at the bar. An obviously bored bartender was leaning against the liquor cabinet with his arms crossed, and had an expression saying he’d dealt with too many dunks during the many years he’d stood behind this very bar.

As Kelvin climbed onto the barstool, and was about to order a beer, the man two seats over didn't bother to look in his direction. After downing his, now flat, beer, the man slammed his glass on the bar, while saying loud enough for K to hear, and to no one in particular, fuck her — fuck that bitch.

K glanced over at the angry man, while sensing the opportunity he’d been looking for, and while moving over next to the man, said, whoa, my man, lighten up. I know how you feel. It ain’t that bad. I’ve been there myself.

Mister, you have no idea what this no good bitch’ gona to do to me. So don't tell me you know how I feel, the man replied, while still not looking at K, and bitter anger in his voice.

Is it that bad? K asked, while ordering another round for the older man and himself, and while hoping for a possible chance to put his talent and desire to use.

Damn right it's that bad. Let me tell you how this scheming bitch plans to ruin my life, the man said, while turning on his stool to face K for the first time.

The man’s eyes were blood red, as if he’d been crying or was fighting back tears. He was dressed in a once white shirt with an opened, soiled, collar, held in place with a loosened tie. His well worn, hounds tooth jacket hinted at a profession, which required a tie, but not in an office. Probably a production supervisor in some plant, K guessed.

By the way, my name’s Charles, and thanks for the drink, he said.

Nice to meet you, Charles, my name’s Kelvin. Just call me K, and you're welcomed, said K, while spinning around on his stool to half face what he hoped would be his first contract.

I’ve got a winner, he thought. Lord let him want to kill his wife. Please… Please… Please.

I don't think I've seen you in here before. Do you live near here? asked, Charles.

Where I live is not important, but this bitch you’re talking about, is, K said, not wanting to disclose too much about himself. "Tell me what she