God's Mistake
The way to flush out a rat is to pull the plug on the entire operation. Even if doing that means getting oneself a little wet in the process.
Carl Gallagher would take three lives today.
Carl thinks on this from his spot under the crosswalk. He's never killed anyone. Hadn't planned too until this night. the idea turned his stomach. But it had to be done. And thinking this, he began pondering the situation that brought him here.
Lip, the smart one. Ian, forever loyal and motivated. Debbie, brilliantly civilized problem solver. Fiona, the mother. Liam, extremely artistic and gifted. And Carl? Carl was God's mistake. Carl was now sixteen years old and a force to be reckoned with. Full of one dire mishap and brush with the law after the next. Every parent's worst nightmare. Devil's spawn, according to all three principles that had expelled him from various schools. College wouldn't have him at this point, so Carl saw a GED as pointless. The only reason Carl wasn't in a detention center right now was because his brother was practically married to Mickey Milkovich. And Mickey Milkovich knew a lot of people, who knew a lot of people, who could really fuck a judge up and scare jury members. Despite being an outcast Milkovich, Mickey managed to hold respect among some of the scary members of the Chicago underground. And for that, Carl was always grateful. Extremely thankful that Mickey tended to see Carl as the younger brother Mickey never had. But actually did have. Kind of. Regardless. Mickey was always there when Carl was knee deep in fuck ups.
What Carl was not grateful for, was Mickey ditching him for the first time ever.
"Gotta learn to walk on your own two feet one day, Carl," Mickey had said, stuffing his face with Christmas leftovers, beside Molly on the sofa. "I ain't always gonna be around to save your ass," he'd said. "Trust that shit," he'd said, then told Molly to slop chewing so loud.
Fuck Mickey for this. The guy was only turning Carl down since Ian had pussywhipped him into saying no. Technically speaking, perhaps dickwhipped was a more precise choice for wording.
"Just lay low on it," Mickey had said once Ian left ear shot. "Give your brother some cool down time, then I'll lend you a hand," he'd said. "Two days," Mickey promised.
Two going on forever if Carl didn't act soon. He couldn't waste any more time holding out for Mickey to nut up and punch Ian in the jaw over this bullshit conscience Carl's ginger haired brother was growing. This trio Carl needed buried, they deserved it for numerous reasons.
The sigh to Carl's left snapped the Gallagher back to here and now. He knitted his face and frowned, glancing beside him.
"Are we standing here holding our dicks until I freeze," Molly breathed out, exasperated, "or are we going in to snuff this out?" She sniffed hard because her nose was running. Wiped at her chapped lips, burrowing her chin down into the fur coat Fiona gave her as a gift this past Christmas morning.
Carl rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a queen," he mumbled, mostly to himself.
Truth be told, Carl really ought not have dragged Molly in on this. Molly was just a week shy of turning fifteen. She weighed maybe one hundred and thirty pounds. Which for actual five feet and six inches tall male, was light as a feather. Lean, hardly any muscle. The youngest Milkovich boy might have been male, but well, Molly might as well just chop her dick off. Would, one day. She was girlier than Debbie. And pretty enough that Carl hated for her to break her face while trying to help his dumb ass.
Still, Molly was a ruthless bitch like her sister. And Carl's best, in fact only, bet at this point.
Clearing his throat, Carl shifted about. He dug the gun out of his pants some. Securing it against his navel, Carl took a deep breath. He took a step under the street light. Molly grabbed his arm fast and Carl stopped. He looked back over his shoulder, annoyed.
"Jeez," Carl griped, "one minute you're gunning for this and now what?"
Molly scowled. She let go of Carl's arm and punched him square in the shoulder. It fucking hurt. Her fake nail dug into him during the quick hit. Shaking her hand, Molly hissed. Stuffed both into her coat pocket. Twisting up her chapped, painted red lips, Molly said, "Look, we can't just walk in there, can we? Shouldn't we, oooh," she dragged out, eyes rolling up to heaven, "I don't know, use the element of surprise?"
Unable to stop the laugh in his chest, Carl chuckled and covered his face with both hands. He smiled at Molly over his fingertips. Eyes dancing. "Clearly you don't hang around your brother often enough," Carl huffed, cleaving to what bit of a good mood that he could muster. "That shit's over-rated," he explained, "surprise is what these fuckheads will be expecting."
Confused, Molly shook her head. Pulled her big hands, the only visible manly part of Molly, from her pockets and held them up sarcastically. "Whatever," she bit out, "let's just get this over with. I have school in the morning."
"You hate school," Carl reminded her, turning back around. This time Molly trotted along.
She did hate school. Molly might pass for a chick to the ignorant, but her peers were more than aware. And Christ, Molly's whole life was hell. Carl had never seen someone get treated so badly. Had it not been for Debbie, Molly's existence at school would be a giant mess of misery and self-loathing. Debbie Gallagher, though, she could kick some fucking ass. For that matter, so could Molly. Emotional damage was hard to fight off, though.
Her heeled boots clicked as she kept up beside Carl. "Make no mistake," Molly told him, serious but upbeat, "I loath that place. One day I'll shoot it up. But for now it's necessary."
Carl snorted. Waved her off. "That's just Lip and Mandy drilling holes in your head," he said.
Molly rolled her eyes. "Your head is one giant fissure, Carl Gallagher," she sniggered. "I fear all the knowledge may have tumbled out long ago," she said, playful and dramatic. Always dramatic.
They stopped in front of two graffiti assaulted steel doors. Eyes meeting before Carl reached out, the two shook themselves, readying for the situation. Suddenly Molly punched Carl again. This time she wasn't glaring. Was in fact patting herself down.
"What the fuck?" Carl snapped, frowning deeply.
"Oh damn it," Molly whispered, eyes big as she dug around in the coat. "Damn it, fuck, cock sucking Jesus tits-" she ranted incoherently, threw up her arms. "Shit!" she spat. Then turned her alarmed face up at Carl. "I don't have my gun," she said, voice holding no terror, just a mild upset.
Carl's eyes grew to match Molly's. Both out of panic and anger. "You what?" Carl seethed between clenched teeth. "How do you forget something like that!" he hissed, wanting to scream but containing himself.
A slow grin crept onto Molly's face, making Carl's features droop. She snorted and flipped Carl off, shaking her head, curls bouncing. "Totally just kidding!" Molly mused, happily, shoving Carl lightly with both hands. She then, fast, reached down the front her her pants and pulled out a revolver. Huge grin plastered to her face. "Ready when you are, el capitán," Molly said.
Staring at her in a stupor, Carl blinked until he regained composure. "Bitch," he said. Then shoved Molly back. "That wasn't funny!" he chastised, getting nothing but a toothy smile in return.
Molly pursed her pleased lips, giddy. She tucked the gun into her wonder-bra. "Sorry," she said, clearly not, "I couldn't help myself.
Carl banged on the door, still glaring at Molly.
"Just, you looked too serious," Molly explained away, straightening out her skirt and tights. "It begged doing," she said, quickly patting Carl's forearm.
"I hate you," Carl muttered from the corner of his mouth, eyes now trained on the door. He didn't. Not really. Well, sometimes. "This is serious, Molly," he told her, as if that information was obvious. Which it should have been. But then, Molly was Milkovich and sometimes Carl forgot they tended to make light of violence and danger.
The door opened, large man in a bandanna standing before the pair. This man's beer gut hung lower than his belt. His beard was clearly infested with bugs and food particles. He gripped the door with a sauce stained hand. Reeked of booze. "Help you?" he asked, southern drawl prominent. He spit tobacco beside his bare foot and eyeballed Molly's fake rack.
Molly smiled big and toyed with her boobs, holding the man's attention. "Is Khol in?" she asked, putting on her best perky tone of voice.
"I already know he is," Carl interrupted, before this man could answer, blunt. He arched a brow at the redneck and stared him down. "I called earlier," he said. "Carl Gallagher," he informed, knowing the weight of his name would get this man's attention. Surely Khol had mentioned Carl. Carl, the man Khol was currently turning on to save his own ass.
"Bucky Townsend," the man said, flippant. His eyes turned on Carl and away from Molly. He opened his mouth to speak again, but a gun was quickly stuck under his nose.
Even Carl's eyes bugged out when he turned to stare in awe at Molly Milkovich and her cruel smirk.
"Listen up, Bucky," Molly said somehow both sweet and commanding, "We're not here to play around. I'll lay two bullets up your coked out sinus before you so much as scream for help. So I suggest you just quietly let us in for a nice, friendly visit. This doesn't have to get ugly, Buck Boy Wonder," Molly crooned. "But it fucking will," she went on, winking, "unless you take your grubby hand off that gun behind your back. Nice and slow." She cocked the weapon and all fell silent.
Slowly, as he was asked, Buck lifted his other hand from behind his back and flipped it around for show. He stepped back, letting the door open and light hit him fully.
"Nice," Molly said to Buck and the empty room around him, nodding, then risked a look at Carl. "You standing there staring or," she cocked a brow and glanced at the front of Carl's pants, "mind giving me a hand?"
Thrown for a second, Carl finally got the point and pulled out his own gun. "Jesus Christ, Molly," Carl breathed, eyes wide as they walked in. He hit Buck in the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Knocked the man casually unconscious. "What part of calm and collected did your parents forget to teach you?" he asked, stilling in the empty entrance hall and staring at his friend as though she had multiple heads. Carl ran his hands through his short hair and licked his lips.
"All of it," Molly shrugged. She stepped into the lit hallway and spun around. Holding the bottom of her twirling skirt and swishing about. Smiling at Carl like the cat who caught a canary. Beyond the hall, through another set of steel doors, was the group the pair had come to slaughter.
NOTE: So uhhhh, I don't really know what this is supposed to be. I just felt the need to write it? Hope you guys enjoyed it.