Do unto Others
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No FutureChapter 66: Give Unto Others free porn video
Roland
2090
"Stop that!" Roland shouted. "Stop that right now."
Osama regarded Roland with an admiration that was very much compromised by the very real fear for his own safety and a sincere wish that his friend could sometimes put prudence above charity.
The suit worn by the large unshaven man who Roland addressed were much smarter and more costly than those anyone normally wore in this part of London, but he was oblivious to the fact that it was now splattered with blood from the already critically ill man whose face he'd slapped several times with a pistol. There might once have been a time when his victim could have taken command of the situation, but no patient in the care of Roland's relief centre was ever in a state to offer resistance. The patient was even less able to do so now. His nose was smashed flat and several teeth had been punched out of his mouth.
"Are you telling me what to do?" the unshaven man challenged Roland. "You've got some fucking nerve."
"This man's already dying. You don't have to make it worse for him."
"The fucker owes me," the assailant said, as he held his victim up above the ground by his throat. "I've been looking for this cunt for years. The fucker's only getting what he always had coming."
"It's not right. Put him down. Let him die in peace."
"Don't fucking tell me what to do, you cunt," said Roland's unwelcome guest. He slammed his victim's face several times against the wall. A pitiful whine accompanied the first few impacts. He was then dropped onto the floor and kicked repeatedly in the face and ribs.
Roland continued to stand firm when the man in the designer suit had tired of kicking his victim and strode over to him. "Just how many fucking greaseballs and grasses have you got stashed here, fuckface?"
"None at all that I know of," said Roland. "This is a Relief Centre. We provide help for the poor and needy. You can see that we don't mean you any harm."
"Don't make me do something I'll regret, you cheeky fucker," said the man sarcastically. Without further provocation he punched Roland in the chest so hard that he doubled up and fell backwards. "I don't want any more of your lip. You've fucking crossed the line. You don't let cunts like Reg Reid into the manor. From now on, you either pay tribute or you and all these dopey fuckwit junkies and clapped-out whores are gonna be incinerated." He gestured towards the other beds where those patients who were sufficiently conscious were trembling with fear.
"I already pay rent to Harry Rogers," said Roland.
"Next time that fucker comes round, you tell him you're paying rent to Oban Rushmore. That's me, if you didn't fucking know already. Tell him that if he doesn't fuck off, I'll stick my fist down his fucking throat and pull out his fucking kidney. I've tolerated you cunts for long enough. Either pay up or dig a hole in the ground where we can bury you."
With these parting words, the man walked off still unconcerned about the bloodstains splattered over his suit. He made no attempt to hide his gun from curious onlookers in the street. He had no fear of the police and didn't care who knew what he'd just been doing.
"He's dead," said Osama who'd run to the assistance of the victim. "Reg is dead. I think that, towards the end, that thug was just kicking a corpse."
Roland bit his lip. He'd had no idea that this patient was in any way different from the countless other diseased, starved and destitute that he'd taken into his shelter. Would he have acted differently if he'd known? And hadn't the well-dressed gangster just claimed that the Relief Centre was now his property?
"We better dispose of the body," said Roland. "I don't think anyone else will volunteer to do so, judging from what we've just seen."
It was only a day or so later that Harry Rogers walked into the Relief Centre. He was wearing his trademark tracksuit which was conspicuously less expensive than Oban Rushmore's suit. This suggestion of physical fitness was totally out of place on a man with such a grotesquely obtuse stomach. However, it wasn't his fists that he relied on to win a scrap, but rather the pistol and flick-knife that he brandished ostentatiously.
"Oban, eh?" said Harry as he counted the notes that Roland handed over to him for what both parties euphemistically called rent. "That fucker's been muscling in all over the manor. Why'd he come here?"
"One of our patients was someone he was after," said Roland.
"Yeah. That figures," said Harry. "Oban never forgives a slight. What'd he say, then?"
"He told me that we'd have to pay rent to him rather than to you."
"He did, the cunt. And what d'you expect me to do about it?"
"I rather thought that the money we paid you would give us some protection from thugs like Rushmore."
Harry considered this momentarily as he shoved the wad of notes into his back-pocket. "You thought wrong there, Roland. It looks like you've got to pay rent to two landlords from now on. I'll still expect my wedge."
"But we've got nothing left to pay Rushmore now that we've paid you."
"Tough," said Harry. "Why not flog off some of those drugs you've got in the medicine cabinet? They might get a few quid on the streets."
"They're for the patients," said Roland.
"Well, that's not my problem," said Harry as he walked past an old woman who was gnawing on a crust of stale bread and cringed noticeably as he swaggered by.
It was only the following day that Roland got the visit he was now dreading. It was one of Oban's henchmen: a scrawny brown-skinned boy, who was also wearing an expensive and well-cut suit. His face was badly scarred and he flaunted his aggression by pushing the lapel of his jacket aside to reveal the gun-holster strapped to his chest.
"I've been told you've got something for me," said the boy.
"Who sent you?" Roland asked cautiously. He was as worried for his own welfare as he was for the several people in his care slumped around the room and anxiously watching the unfolding drama.
Kierra
- 09.08.2022
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