"Now c'mon sweety, gotta fresh pot of tea's on'n a kitchen," Meemaw spoke to the hitter sent from the Irish channel. 

Black hair with blue eyes that would melt any iceberg given a stern enough look. The SteinBrewer girl nodded quietly and followed the old lady clad in jeans and a plaid shirt. 

"Wire come through t'dayy. Says the Fo'CornuhRustlaz outfit needs you for a job. Word spread they may have taken a hit outta they books for this one. Gonna have'tuh gives them bookies in Grand Prairie a call I reckon" MeeMaw smiles with a wicked sense of pride showing through. 

TheCatch45 smiles, "Yes'm. Believe the TRA finally got over the bumps in the road."

The mobster lady sat on a couch and rose her eyebrows, unfamiliar with Texas and its underworld in her rise to fame in New Orleans. She sniffs the tea the kind ol' lady brings. And takes a sip, just sweet enough it reminded you of a dessert. TheCatch45 got up to get him one, and MeeMaw settles into a chair twix'tuh kitchen a livin' room.

"This one goes to the top, we hit the Little Elm in the name of Deep Ellum's pride. They think the leak come in from our county. We got pops up there, but really he's just another patsy man. Sellin' dreams to the sleepless." MeeMaw collects her tax off her joke with a smile. 

The trio began plottin'n'uh schemin'. Morgue O'Jankyy would be the cleaners, TheCatch45 be the hitter, and the BrewStain would fly co-pilot. The vessels of war on Durden stayed in motion, a plan was made but it was loose. The TexanFowl would go in loud, and with a suppressor hopefully, no one would hear the sound.

The pair of younger's nodded as MeeMaw got up to collect the dishes. She shuffles her feet as she checks to see if all of the tea was drunk. Satisfied she moves into the kitchen, nodding as she says "Well, best get to gettin' I reckon."

The pair of mobster monsters make their way to a 1927 Mercedes-Benz 680. All black exterior with a beautiful black leather interior. MeeMaw's mechanic connection had tinkered with the engine. This ride was meant for hell hounds only. The loud roar of an engine starting shoots through the silence. The beatnik bomber and his copilot begin their excursion to exercise a demon in town. 

This wasn't the duo's first rodeo TheCatch45 had slept on the couch in New Orleans for a year once upon a time. She reminded TheCatch45 of the time he filled the giggle smoke pipe with tobacco. The wacky wingman of his four brain quadrants laughs. His left foot sits out the window as they toot along the thoroughfare. Headed West on 380, the pair o't'eevz would head port at the crossin' through of 289. Where they would search for the farm-to-market off El Dorado they needed.

"This piece of shit's a rat and I'm late for another land pirates art show" TheCatch45 grumbles as they make the left off the farm-to-market into a parking lot. A dead restaurant at this time lay in view. "This must be the place", the female copilot toots off with a drag from a kicker stick. 

Filtered in and coughs out the anxieties she noticed in the situation at hand

"This fuckface of a fool declined an offer from one of the upper's. Word o'mouff is'uh sayin' Collin county's radio station's been boomin' with virtuoso's left'n right." The StainBrewer says, with a bow of the Bow with a wiggle of brows.

The freshest i7 dressed in only a sweater vest and straight-legged chinos shrugged, TRA mus'sa dunn'et to 'em a'gin. JankStuhPositionNo.3 in the keys of Dropped'DeeDs. Taps of the port side finger return ash to concrete.

Bunsen bunt'ah, anotha stunt'uh flew past the other side of the lane. Head of his own head, TheCatch45 stretches his neck until he hears a crack. Crick'in 'is neck snaps. The butcher somethin' duo of darkness and gore took another loop through the canal of queer'n ol' eyes. 

The pair snap into action, TheCatch45 rolls his foot after unlockin' the door with his pinky. Ye olden time starboard heel to toe dough't'see doe's. The Louisiana brewer o'dee'ol' stain quickly gets out and lights a smoke. They pass each other in front of the car, TheCatch45 headin' in and she posted herself on the hood of the car. Smoke twirls around in the calm winds of the parkin' lot. 

TheCatch45 meanders, gum sole rolls to ball and bam! CurvedBall!

He kicks the door in upon arrival.

Both hands pull the chrome with black M1911 up to shoulder level. 

Catch scans the darkness

So far so good, it was just an empty piece of shit. Hole in the wall divebar, shit music playin' on in the background. White noise to the freshest reincarnation of the i7 vessel. Head of his own head continues through the now cleared room. A door behind what appears to be a bar is what his eyes were trained on. The light shines from under the crack. 

Br'ap'ap'apap tapped 5 shots off.

Doorknob falls off.

Office is seen, fat prick piece of shit behind a desk. Seen it all before, get fucked cunt.

R'AP'AP'TAP

3 shots were fired, and 3 empty shells bounce and roll. A fat bastidd drops his now dead face a'top a desk. Two in the eyes, one in each, and one right through the PineEelYewLarrD. 

Son of the bluebonnet's sonnet shrugs. Replacin' his gun into it's proper position. Turns 'is toes, shifts 'is weight to heel. Shoves off and oh boy the i7 had set sail.

Gettin' into the passenger side of the ride, TheCatch45 lights a prerolled spliff, pulled from the pocket in his vest. The pair chat all the way back to the farm on Wyndfield eState. Ye olden time farmhands were happy to see the pair return back from the job successfully. A few waved, and one cheered as the countrifried duo of danglin' dandy's dapper von damme't their way into the front of the manor. Horses meanderin' around.

StainBrewer leaves the car and gets into the right position. The car right next to TheCatch45's facin' the other way. TheCatch45 gets outta his car and moseys on down to the hood of his car. Smoke of 'is spliff hits the wind and splits in d'air. 

Wonder if anyone will say somethin' about this one? The i7 ponders off in deep space thoughts on the hood of his souped-up beater.