Pure Hate Read Free

music video from Bone Thugs N Harmony:
    Meet me at the
crossroads
    Crossroad,
crossroooads, crossroooads.
    Meet me at the
crossroads.
    “Hurry up, white boy,”
Malcolm growled, and the slender “white boy” with the long, brown, feathered
hair and baggy, pleated pants slid from the passenger side of the Impala, eager
as a puppy to obey his master.
    Reed’s house was small and vulnerable looking. It
was brand new. A production built tract home. A crackerjack box. It was a
single story with three bedrooms, two baths, one dog, one couple, two kids, and
one murderous sociopath grinning on the lawn. A fifteen-pound sledgehammer and
a pair of wire cutters and you could have leveled the house to its foundations.
    The yard was professionally
landscaped and perfectly manicured with neat little shrubs of sage and rosemary
lined up by the front window, and a midget evergreen tree in the front yard. A
three-foot tall wrought iron fence surrounded the entire property. It looked
just like every other house on the block. Middle America.
    Malcolm stepped over the gate without bothering
to open it and strode across the lawn, leaving footprints in the soft, freshly
watered sod. His shoes made wet squishy sounds as they pressed into the earth.
The sound made Reed’s old, overweight Rottweiler go wild.
    The dog dies, too , Malcolm thought, almost giddy, a predacious smile
tearing across his face like the grin of a piranha. And Malcolm had fangs. His
canines were capped with platinum and rose to sharp points. A diamond was
embedded in each one. He looked like some kind of hip-hop vampire.
    “Knock on the door, white boy.” Malcolm growled again. His
longhaired accomplice slipped ahead of him and up the steps onto Reed’s porch.
Malcolm followed close behind, pulling the Mossberg from his coat and jacking a
round into the chamber.

III.
    Paul paused for a moment at Reed’s
front door, breathing heavily from an overdose of adrenaline. He was dying to
finally meet the subject of Malcolm’s obsession, the author of the madness and
misery that had engulfed them both. His whole arm shook as he reached out to
ring the doorbell. He wanted to kill so badly his dick was hard.

IV.
    Reed was having a hard day. The sci-fi novel he
was working on was three months past due and he was no closer to finishing it
now than he was three months ago. This was the twentieth time he had rewritten
the last chapter and it still didn’t work. The characters had long ago gone
stale for him. His writing seemed stiff and wooden. This was no longer a labor
of love; it was just labor, pure and simple.
His heart wasn’t in it anymore. He was just imitating himself. Reed was nearly
paralyzed by the fear that he had become the one thing he had always detested—a hack. He had already spent the ten thousand dollar
advance, and the bills were starting to roll in again, but he couldn’t let the
manuscript go until it at least approached the level of talent he knew himself
to be capable of. If he just turned it in as is he would truly be a hack.
Reed’s perfectionism was going to drive his family to the poorhouse.
    In the kitchen, his wife was creating one of her experimental, gourmet,
vegetarian dishes from a recipe book she bought at one of those over-priced
cooking stores. The kind that sold dried peppers, pickled mushrooms, and spices
he’d never heard of. Whatever she was cooking, it smelled delicious. His
growling stomach was one more distraction he didn’t need. The kids were
another. They were getting on his fucking nerves. Slamming his hands down on
the desk so hard the keyboard flipped over, he turned toward the living room
and did what all fathers do when urgent, effective, communication with their
children becomes necessary. He clenched his fists and yelled.
    “That’s it! That is it! If you two
can’t play that damned thing together without arguing I’m gonna turn it off and
give it to the Goodwill! If you can’t appreciate it maybe they can find