Fratricide

January 5, 2022

In my history, I don’t recall many days with great clarity. Most of them bleed colors into the next day, week, or even year. It is a temperamental grey, not even a pretty grey. Instead, it is a spoiled blotch of marble that is not quite opaque or transparent. It streams in and out of my timeline, smudging the colors and blurring the details, until all that remains are storm clouds that never leave. 

But I remember that day perfectly. August 6, 2020.

The devil haunted Las Almas that day. The horizon scorched a blue so pale that it shimmered like a desert mirage, and the sun shone like a demonic eye crested at the zenith of the world, glaring down at the wretched transgressors who moved across the pavement boardwalks like beetles scurrying. And it was only late morning. 

My mood plagued me like a curse, every thought reflecting on Hathian, and the life I once had there. Why did I think about that damned city? I had no one when I left, all of them dead, vanished, traitors, or became strangers. All I knew was that I did not want to meet the Jester. 

His real name was Chris Mutton, but who would remember such a nondescript name? I doubted he could build the drug empire he did without a pseudonym. I suppose today I would find out if it fitted him. 

My brother, Raith, arranged for me to meet the Jester. We believed he was interested in purchasing the trade route we established in the northeast territory. Many executive dealers attempted to profit from that region, but that was not where the celebrities lived, or the multi-millionaire tycoons. Raith and I did not have the connections or experience to deal cocaine to the filthy rich. The trap neighborhoods were also not viable, considering most people preferred meth or pills to the expensive product of cocaine. However, with my disarming allure and charm, my brother and I found enough loyal customers in the northeast pit of Las Almas to earn a little reputation.

Well, more than a little reputation, if the Jester wanted to meet with us.