Me, Myself and I

(A collaboration with Jet)

The Heist Gone Wrong

Clay ‘Butcher’ Dillingham was never dealt an honest hand in his sixty-seven years of existence. Born into a poor family in the less than the savory side of town, he was always clinging to the mindset of ‘you’re on your own’. Perhaps, he had a chance to make a better existence of himself at some point, but it all matters not now. As early as his teenage years he had, to no one’s surprise, ended up in the wrong crowd. At first, it was a street gang, then later in his life a whole plethora of cartels, mafias, and crime syndicates, and even worked for the yakuza and mafia at some point.

Now, it appeared he was back to square one upon his most recent birthday when he ended up as the second-in-command of yet another small-time gang in the intercity who specialized in smash and grabs and heists. Part of that makes him feel nostalgic, a nice call to his humble roots; if it weren’t for the shit he was in now.

It was supposed to be another bank robbery, Clay was good at this. This was the reason his new pissant gang hired him in the first place, right? The job was simple: put on the balaclava, go guns blazing with illegally converted AR15s, and escape with the getaway driver after grabbing all the cash. Maybe even cross the border into Mexico for a few days. He’s been doing this back when ol’ Carter was president for fucks sake! Sure, there have always been failures, on both his own half and his crew’s half, but still, Clay was a veteran of all things criminal... And so, it must have been a real heartbreak when Clay was about to hop into the getaway vehicle but felt the cold muzzle of a 9mm pressed against his leg, and all of a sudden, sharp pain with a bang as he fell off from his seat and was on the ground. It seemed like his current ‘crew’ abandoned him as he was apparently, “a minute late” when he was the one saving their sorry asses by holding the line and gunning down a few guards to protect them!

The rage and anger boiled in his mind, but he was a fighter. He never gave up. He refused to. And yet, the very sight of him standing up was sure to ensure that the gang would have someone seeking vengeance, that he knew… If it weren’t for the cops coming after ol’ Clay, he would be coming for them. Someday.

And so, with the strength he can muster even at his age, he ran as hard as he could, evading the police miraculously. Did someone mention that he was sixty-seven? That could probably factor into why he was abandoned in the first place. Those ungrateful motha-fuckers probably thought he was dragging them down. Yes, he was no longer as ripped as he used to be. He was even growing a paunchy belly. Up above, his hairline had been receding which was why he decided to go clean bald instead. But still, he had got to hide. One of the cops had seen his Goddamn face. He had got to lay low.

The fact that the bank they had plundered was located in the more affluent part of the city did not help. It was next to an equally affluent neighborhood which would make him stand out even more.

Not far off from where Clay was crouching behind some trimmed garden, there was a nice-looking house.

More coming soon...