The Lone Wolf – Sloth (The Seven Deadly Kins #5) Read Online Tiana Laveen

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Crime Tags Authors: Series: The Seven Deadly Kins Series by Tiana Laveen
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Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
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“That’s right. I would’ve been well within my rights after you kept trespassing and threatening me. Makin’ up laws like we’ve got an HOA out here. Now you’ve egged my house and the new greenhouse I had built, too. That’s going to take supplies, time and effort to clean up. You bring yo’ ass over to my house right now and scrub it off, or I’m callin’ the police. That’s it. I’ve had it!” Poet sniffed. Her nostrils felt itchy.

A strange, medicinal odor permeated from Melba’s home. As she stood there with the door cracked, Poet caught a whiff of it. It smelled just like the hospital she took Huni to a few times, for her occasional episodes—reminded her of wet Band-Aids, antiseptic soap, and rubbing alcohol. She turned back towards Melba, who looked rather startled at her threat… and scared, too. Was the woman suffering from bouts of dementia like Huni? What would make her do such a thing? It didn’t quite make sense.

Poet suddenly heard someone coughing, then clearing their throat from inside the house.

“Who is that?” She moved closer to the door.

“…My husband,” Melba mumbled, her voice barely audible.

The man started coughing again, this time, much louder.

“Meeeelba!” he shouted. “Gotdamnit! Where’s my suit and tie, you bitch!”

The color drained from Melba’s face, and she began to shake ever so slightly. She looked away from the door, in the direction of the voice.

“Melba, you rotten, stupid cunt! Find, and iron my suit. I gotta go to Mama’s funeral today!” Suddenly, something crashed and broke.

Melba went to close the door in her face, but Poet placed her hand on it, pushing it in the opposite direction, forcing it open. Melba grunted, trying all the harder, but Poet pushed harder.

“Melba, are you okay? What’s going on?”

Melba’s eyes watered. “Go on now! Go home! I’ll clean your house in the mornin’ if ya want, just please leave, Poet!”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“This don’t concern you.”

Poet pushed past her and entered the house. She winced at the scent, which was even stronger now. She picked up on the strong odor of urine now, too. As her eyes adjusted in the poor light, she saw an old, shriveled man lying on a long brown couch. He was rather thin, emaciated really, and pale as a ghost. Wisps of gray and brown hair grew from his half bald head. A tube was inserted in his nostrils, and an oxygen tank sat beside him. With gloomy eyes that looked like globs of blue snot, the man glared at her—darkness in his expression, stains all over his white shirt.

“You that nigger that killed my mama. Yeah, I’d recognize you from anywhere! My daddy is gonna get you! Hang you good!” He pointed a long, twisted finger at her.

Melba gasped and placed both hands over her mouth.

“Oh, Poem, I mean Poet, he don’t mean it! He’s gone soft in the head! His mama died back in 1981, and his daddy been dead a long time, too. He’s not in his right mind.”

“My mama was alive this mornin’! My mama’s funeral is today! This bitch killed her!” He pointed at Poet once again.

“Clyde, don’t talk like that! That’s awful. This here is our neighbor. You know the one. She ain’t hurt Mama Meredith. Apologize!”

The old man adjusted his position, sitting up straighter. He placed his age-spotted hands along his knees and glared at both of them now. Then, he leaned forward as if he had something really important to say. That was when she noticed a set of keys to his left. Sitting there about to fall in the crack of the cushion.

“Yo’ name is Betty Wright, and you killed my mama, you nigger! I hate you spooks! You ruined this country with your welfare and stealin’. Always wanting somethin’ for nothin’! My mama… my poor mama!” The man moaned as if he was about to start crying, then he turned mean on a dime. “GET OUTTA HERE!” He stood to his feet, and his oversized pants fell down. He was clad in a lumpy adult diaper, and the odor of shit now occupied the air, too. White socks were pulled up to his knobby knees, and his thighs were covered in knotted blue veins. He looked slightly hunched over and every time he moved, his arms would sway in a creepy, unnatural way.

“LEAVE! I’ll beat your ass, you Black beast! You need to be whipped! I said, get out, Betty! I’mma tell Gertrude ’bout you stealin’ her fine China!”

Poet stumbled back, feeling dizzy from the words being hurled her way, the sounds of the television on low, the odors of all of his medicines that sat on a card table by his side, peeling and stained bird illustrated wallpaper, and the stench of mildew pouring from somewhere in the house, too.



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