Ben the Butcher’s life ended in a cacophony of bullets. From the Albert-01R handgun, an enhanced missile crashed to spiral past the line of swinging pig carcasses into the back of the Butcher’s head. His brain exploded. More projectiles followed, rendering the brawny man’s crown a b****y piece of meat. The basement room reeked of old bleach and fresh blood. Meat muscle slammed to the floor.
“Bull’s Eye!” shouted the murderer, called the Bloodhound. “Pig’s Eye, I should say. This ain’t called the Butcher’s Den for nothing,” continued the hitman, extracting white sacks of cocaine from the pigs’ innards after he holstered the smoking Albert. The bags were sewn into the carcasses. He ripped them apart with a ten-inch knife.
“Anybody come between the boss and the coke trade is found here or i
