Chocolateman by Butcher Jonathan

Chocolateman by Butcher Jonathan

Author:Butcher, Jonathan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Evil Cookie Publishing
Published: 2021-10-30T00:00:00+00:00


Chapter 18

Isabella loves Mucklow’s idea.

It will be best if she reins in her aggression, but she’s eager to intimidate this little weakling if it will help keep them safe.

Sheesh, look at him, she thinks, as they follow a guy who looks vaguely familiar to her. Dude must be in his 30s, and practically hobbles along.

‘Hobble’ is an exaggeration, but the man with silver hair who they’d watched leave a pharmacy with a small bag of goods sure as hell doesn’t walk with confidence.

I bet that there’s no definition to him, under that duffle coat. I bet he has a podge.

Mucklow had said that when the guy buys pills, he pays for them with change from thick wads of cash.

Isabella’s bag of weights rumbles along the pavement behind them. The grey, nippy Sunday morning in the city is quiet, with visitors and residents alike perhaps nursing hangovers or comedowns, or sleeping in late. There are no delivery lorries parked up in front of the supermarkets or stores today; just the occasional car or cab slipping past, as well as pedestrians here and there. A woman wearing last night’s makeup and a tight green dress takes her tottery walk of shame on the other side of the road. Farther along, a homeless guy snoozes against the wall of a closed book store.

That could be us soon, if we’re not careful.

“We’ll follow him to his car,” Mucklow had told her. “Scare him, get whatever cash he has on him, take his keys, and grab anything else he’s got in his pockets. Then we’ll drive off to wherever we please, and ditch the car on the way.”

Isabella hopes this dude has plenty of cash, as Mucklow claims. She needs some protein, pronto; a couple of steaks, or half a kilo of chicken.

When the man reaches the first suburban neighbourhood outside of the city, he shows no sign of slowing down.

“He walked there, Mucklow,” Isabella says. “He doesn’t even have a car. Has he ever parked up outside when he’s picked up from you?”

Mucklow squints at her. “You think a rich sonofabitch like him is going to drive his drop-top beamer to the Elwood Estate? It’d be on bricks with a turd stuffed in the exhaust in minutes.”

The silver-haired man, who is a block or so ahead of the pair, forlornly kicks a discarded can.

“I almost feel sorry for him,” Isabella says, but she’s not serious. She can feel the blood pulsing through her, urgent and hungry, like the sensation she has whenever she steps into a gym.

God, it’s been so long since I’ve properly lifted.

They’re now firmly outside of the city centre. While there are still clusters of shops to the side of the tarmac street ahead - a prime bus route - it’s more residential here. They pass a turn-off and Isabella sees a long row of gardens adorned with either evergreen trees or the skeletons of those that have shed their leaves for the winter. This section of the city contrasts with what she’s used to, and she imagines happy families cozying up by open fireplaces.



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