sHe: THE RISE OF THE NEW BREEDS [Book 1]

Chapter 19

REEVES WAS seated on the floorboard in the taper lit dining room; he was cleaning his sniper rifle, dismantled parts of his weapon were spread on black oilcloth. Troy yawned, removed his headphone and he turned off the translation voice software volume before he stood up stretching himself at the dining table. Reeves probed...

"Anything new?"

"Nah, it is just dope Rastafarian shit-talk, they can go all day talking about it—and on how they miss smoking it," Reeves noticed that he looked a little pale...

"You okay, Troy?" Troy nodded and yawned with chuckles. "I am fine, my mind had gone overdrive. I am gonna take a power nap and will be up for dinner," He excused himself and slumped on the old coach in the living room.

On the table, the muted computer screen continued to show the text of the translation of Jamaican Patois to English—with more Rastafarian shit-talk...

*

Zinga was also taking a nap on a bunk while Kujo and Vishon repartee on hanging hammocks on the cabin porch.

"You got some nerve defect, you moron!" Kujo burst out in laughter.

Vishon replied. "It is true, Mon, that both dis weed and alcohol does not have any effect on me—no matter how much I consume it I don't get di high nor drunk. But I get them terrible migraines di next day morning though."

"You are really some weird piece of work, Vishon—and that is why you don't get high on dis heaven-sent shits. Maybe your Mama don't have a coochie and you must have been born out from her fart-hole!

"You dog, you really are missing out on life's greatest pleasures—like dis one time, I was inhaling the smoke of Mary-Jane's red-hair yo, using di bitch's big fat booty-ass—with di bong deep inside the woman's butthole—that was total heaven, Mon—going down on di bitch and getting high at di same time..."

Kujo guffawed out and then sang a reggae song in their own native language, stroking his penis on the swaying hammock.

*

Joe was still keeping a lookout from the window that evening; he spotted in savoury at Busta who was using a machete to sliver the outer layer meat of the marinated barbecue leg of the baby stag—with the sebaceous dripping of fats sizzling on the flames—it made Joe gulp up the spume of his own saliva...

In contrast nearby him was True Bob, shallow frying some fish fillets in a pan on a butane stove fire—Joe who had past his feeding-hour, he grumbled out piteously...

"Look at them, they have been having good nom-nom-nom juicy red meat for the past 2 nights in a row—and here I am having fish every day like Jesus."

The annoyed Bob corrected him...

"Hey ding, have you forgotten to take your 'brake-fluids?' You had rabbit meat yesterday, remember?"

"That shitty yucky stuff that tasted like a kiddie cat—I wish I am invited over to their camp now. I bet I can finish that whole leg all alone. Yes sir, I can!"

The turpitude greedy red-haired glutton was still marvelled, mesmerized by the roasting on the spit-fire at the cabins out by the lake. True Bob goaded back at him...

"Go ahead Joe, open the front door and walk over there for dinner—I bet you will come back with that groid's crossbow arrow sticking out of your pooper."

They both looked up to hear a sudden alarm signal coming out sharply loud from the laptop. Troy who was half awakened when he scrambled over from the couch while the rest followed him...