“Hand me those wire snips,” whispered Slow Eddie Holcum.

Jake Mustaine wordlessly handed them over. Low flying clouds whipped across the pale face of October's Harvester's Moon, full in a starless sky.

“That sonuvabitchin Junior better get his ass back here. He knows that fence alarm only has a ninety second window,” muttered Slow Eddie.

Jake, silent as usual, merely nodded.

Eddie got to his feet and stretched the kink out his back from crouching. He ran a hand through his black hair, crystal blue eyes searching the night for signs of Junior.

“Fuck it. We roll without him,” he spat in disgust.

Four more snips and they were through the chain link. Eddie stepped through, his mind racing over last night's meeting where he, Jake and Junior lounged around their favorite table at the back of Junior's Dad's Titty Tat club.

Chasing shots of Cuervo Gold with Moosehead beer, Junior Atwell belched forth, “I got a sweet one fellas. Real sweet, neat and easy.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Eddie began, “That's what you said about that country club job. If Jake hadn't spotted that security guard we'd all be singing the blues at Greensville.”

Paragraph about the Commonwealth of Virginia prisons. Greensville is the end of the line in the Virgina Department of Corrections.

Junior pushed his face, blotchy with alcohol poisoning, and hair slick with alcoholic sweat, forward complaining, “Jesus guys, how many times do I have to say, 'I'm sorry!' I figured this one to be so sweet, it would make up for the last one!” He finished in a whine.

Jake, the biggest of the threesome at six four, 250, and also the quietest said, “Quit blubbering and tell us about this sweet deal of yours.” He reached out his long arm and poured another shot of Cuervo.

“Well. You guys seen that little blonde I been chasing around lately?” Junior asked.

“Yeah,” they nodded.

“Well. Her daddy is none other than J. D. McDaniels, President of United Coal, Southwest Virginia Division.” Junior sat back with a satisfied smirk on his greasy face.

“No shit,” Jake grunted in wonder.

Slow Eddie asked, “Wasn't she a freshman when we got kicked out our senior year?”

“That's right!” Junior grinned. “Braces, glasses, and knee socks. Seems little Susie has sprouted right on up.” His smile turned into a leer. “Anyway, I been slippin' her the willy over at her daddy's place and apparently they are all going out of town for the weekend and I got all the security codes, vault combinations, everything. And that's not all,” Junior added, with a pause for suspense. “This year's cash transfer is in it which should be over $600,000.”

Last night it looked like Junior had come through again, Eddie thought as he grabbed the bag of tools Jake offered though the small hole he had snipped through the chain link fence. Eddie and Jake proceeded to their objectives according to the plan communicating wordlessly by taps on their wireless headsets. Slow Eddie approached the front door and rolled down the black ski mask he'd had on his head. Dressed all in black he glided forward like any other shadow in the night.

Dammit! He thought. Where the fuck is Junior?

At that moment Junior Atwell, all 5 foot 4 inches of him shivered with a major attack of guilt because he was up to his little ears in the most treacherous thing he had ever done in his whole miserable life. Junior, Doug Atwell, Sr. and Sheriff Lovelace sat in the back of the Washington County tactical command van. It is as state of the art as the County budget could pull which, Thank God for President Trump's economy, was a lot! The Command van offered the latest in communication and surveillance equipment. The three watched a monitor clear as a bell as Slow Eddie Holcum lived up to his name and melted like molasses toward the Georgian estate's front steps.

Junior shaking and swallowing bile reflected over the last week beginning with last Sunday. “You no good little sonuvabitch,” muttered Doug, Sr. as the redneck sized silver buckle of his heaviest leather belt whistled through the air then struck against his son's bare back.

Junior's eyes flew open in simultaneous pain, surprise, and shock while he sucked down wind to scream. His father brought down the murderous belt for another excruciating blow against his son's bare ass.

Junior, his lungs now full of air, screamed, “Daddy! Daddy! I'm twenty-five years old! What in the hell are you doin'?” He scrambled over the side of the bed where he'd been shocked awake.

“Oh! Twenty-five years old, are ye?” asked Doug, Sr. dangerously. He dropped the belt. “So you think you're old enough to take on this old bear in the woods, do ya?” he challenged as he grabbed a handful of Junior's greasy dirty blonde hair and proceeded to bitch-smack the living shit out of him.

“Daddy! Daddy! What's wrong?” squealed Junior. “What have I done?”

“What haven't you done, is the question, you little shit!!” thundered Doug, Sr., and with one final blow, he curled up his fist and gave Junior a taste of what a Golden Gloves Champion in the Marine Corps had.

Some minutes later, when Junior came to, Doug Sr. said, “That, you disgusting piece of filth, is for what you did to that Griffin girl last night.”

“But... but,” Junior stammered. He'd just had a little fun. “It was just a little slap and tickle.” Most girls cried after some rough sex. Who cared?

“I don't want to hear it. That poor girl was bleeding from all three holes and I can see blood on your skinny lil prick, you shitty lil wart!” bellowed Doug, Sr. “You cost me ten thousand dollars cash for the doctor to destroy the evidence you put up in her cuz you can't use a rubber! And a sweet tip to that three dollar bill sheriff to keep your fat ass out of jail!”

“I'm not fat,” Junior whined indignantly, rubbing his pudgy ass.

“Oh shut up,” Doug, Sr. muttered. “Why,” he began, looking to the ceiling as though to God for patience, “didn't you pick up one of those sluts from the club? Never mind, I don't want to know. Anyway, you whined earlier about being twenty-five years old?” Doug Sr. looked pointedly at his son.

Junior squirmed on the floor under that steely glare. He hid his incriminating penis with both hands. An ass whooping he could deal with, he had all his life. But these fucking sermons on responsibility, made him want a girl, to take the edge off. An attention span was not one of Junior's strong points. Not five minutes after one of the worst beatings of his life, for raping and beating an innocent girl no less, he already desired the thrill of doing it again.

“It's time you started taking more responsibility,” droned Doug, Sr. as he slapped his son. “It's time one of your no good punk friend like Eddie or Jake pays his debt to society and you're going to help set 'em up.”

“But Daddy, I can't do that! I've known them all my life!,” Junior pleaded, panicked. His daddy sounded serious.

“Well. You can be a man, do your time, and keep house for some big buck N-word in Greensville then,” replied Doug, Sr. with the finality of the grave.

Junior watched the monitor as his best friends since second grade took the fall he set up for them and wished for a bottle of Tums.

“Here's goes nothing,” muttered Eddie he he tapped the last digit on the keypad. The red light turned green and he grinned and gave thanks to Mr. McNally's high school electronics class. One last tap on the headset signaled to Jake that he was in. Jake tapped back the all clear. Eddie took a breath, turned the knob, and stepped across the threshold into what looked like a masquerade ball except everyone was dressed in black and looked like deputy sheriffs.

“About time you showed up Eddie. We were all set to send out for coffee,” joked Deputy Stills, an old high school rival as he clapped on the cuffs and then with a wicked right hook to the kidneys, drove an unresisting Eddie to his knees.

“You always did need an equalizer, don't you, Stills?” Eddie gritted out.

“Get him up,” grunted Stills. “What did you just say to me, boy!” he demanded, inches from Eddie's face.

Eddie could see the sweat beading between Still's dilated eyes, a psycho deputy eager to put on a display for his psyched up psychotic friends. Facing numerous felony counts, handcuffed and sure to receive more punches jabs and kicks anyway, snitched off by his best friend, Eddie bowed his head as he turned his toes under, shifted his weight back onto his left leg so that his right leg shot out and kicked Deputy Stills' testicles into the next room.