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I Am Santo

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Grave: Part 1

“This isn’t a holiday, Kramer,” Petty said, his green eyes stinging as much as his words, a snarl on his face that curled his lip into a ghastly visage that seemed impossible for a man almost universally declared as handsome. Strong jaw, peppered with sandy stubble, he stared long at Benson with anger in his every aspect, and Benson knew then it didn’t matter how great looking Nature might have made a man; all were capable of looking like animals, especially when they were acting like them. He felt his neck grow hot.

“I realize that, Petty,” Benson spat back. “ And my name is Creamer, like dairy. Like what you put in your coffee.”

He turned and struck the ground hard with the spade, tearing loose soil and rocks from this diseased spot of land. An ugly job, Benson Creamer knew it had to be done.

Petty stepped back, presumably gauging the the degree of his next torture, but Benson expected nothing nearly as painful as the fast chop to the back of his calf., his right leg buckling with sudden shock and a muscle piercing ache. that son-of-a-bitch had sucker-punched him and, dead-legged, he lost his balance, crumbling on the edge of the hole he’d dug.

“I take my coffee black, you wise-ass fuck.” Petty bent down and Benson could smell what he’d suspected. The bastard had been drinking all the while he and Duncan had been working on their plan. Their sweat traded for his nips at a flask. And yet here they were, all splitting the bounty equally.

“Talk back to me, yeah? I’ll destroy you,” Petty hissed. “You know that, right?”

Benson shrugged.

“I doubt that highly.”

He wasn’t afraid of this pretty boy regardless of how mean a face he could pull on. He’d beaten much tougher guys while blind drunk and right now he was stone-cold sober. And holding a spade.

“Oh you’re just so tough. Aren’t you, Kramer?” he chided, and when the boot came at him, Benson caught it with both hands, leaving the spade for this chance to surprise the pretty boy. Petty responded fast, a quick pull away from Benson, but the big man in the dirt held on, twisting Petty’s ankle with half force, just enough to send a fresh jolt of white hot pain up his leg. Petty winced and swore, and then Benson kicked at the man’s other leg, landing his boot squarely into the pretty boy’s shin. A scream of anger – more than pain – filled the still air of the meadow and Petty fell in a heap onto his stomach as Benson kept twisting the foot in his hands, moving fast onto Petty’s back.

He pinned the man, keeping his leg bent and the foot under his arm. Another, harder, twist forced another scream out of the good-looking fool.

“We good? “ asked Benson, ready and waiting to turn the ankle enough to break it. “Or do you want me to send your cut to the hospital I’m going to put you in?”

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