Dead men tell no tales. TW: Drugs, Violence, Language.

It was midday, in the middle of a miserably hot Tennessee July when a blacked out ‘67 Lincoln Continental slid to a stop in front of what could only be described as a “crack shack” by definition. It was a dilapidated old single-wide trailer deep off in a holler of rural Middle Tennessee. There were no neighbors for about a mile and a half, which was a good thing, because the car’s trunk was “rattling like two midgets in the backseat ‘rasslin” as Outkast would so eloquently put it, bumping Hail Mary by Tupac which was true to form for it’s driver.

Besides, even if there were neighbors nearby? Fuck em.

That was the mentality.

In Jack Graves’ mind, he was untouchable. At 25 years old he was helping his uncle move kilo after kilo of pure Colombian Coka a week through the south, and branching up north. At ten to twelve thousand a key, they were pulling weight and flooding the streets with white while filling their pockets with profit. Of course it was all Cartel run and they had to pay their percentage, but his uncle Judge was a shot caller and together the two of them helped with both local distribution as well as being an established hub for “trafficking” as the feds would call it, through Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, and Indiana on a pipeline the cartel had established. They liked to consider themselves “relay” men. Kinda like the Olympics, but more illegal and hazardous to your well-being. They just took the baton, made the hand-offs, and collected the money. That was their role.

The bricks were never opened by them. They didn’t have to be. They were the wholesaler. Like Costco for Coka.

They got paid handsomely for it too. But when the money didn’t show? That was a different story entirely. Which is what this little midday visit was all about. One of the lower level distributors had come up short on his payment, and then stopped answering his phone altogether. This meant that Jack and his uncle Judge had to drive 45 minutes to come put someone in check and collect.

Oh, and God help them if they didn’t have it.

Now, I know you’re thinking’ to yourself… “Judge Graves? A man named ‘Judge’ sells cocaine?” Believe me, he’d heard it a hundred times, and he’d been in front of an actual judge almost as many times as he’d heard it and had walked free almost every time. Judge was a career criminal who’d taught his nephew everything he knew because his actual son was too soft, or too smart to want any part of it. It was also probably Judge’s way of saying “Hey, sorry my brother was a real sack of shit. Let me show you how to get rich.” Either way, it was well receipted because Judge was good at what he did, for the most part. One thing that was for certain about him though was when it came to someone coming up light in their weekly envelope? He was also the jury, and sometimes executioner when need be. The cartel didn’t play games, and Judge answered directly to them. So when they gave him the green light?

Well… you know how it goes.

Sometimes though, the folks just needed the fear of god put into them, and that’s where Jack came in. No one wanted this big, vanilla gorilla looking motherfucker pounding a crater into their skull with his brass knuckles like they’d heard horror stories about. That was for certain. They’d probably rather be shot, to be honest.

“The Graves Boys” was the moniker they’d given them. Like they were some sort of wild west outlaw posse. Hell, in a way they kinda were. They were the cocaine cowboys, and they ran shit. That’s why when they walked in the door of that trap house, the two occupants scattered like roaches.

It was like the grim reaper showing up on their doorstep.

Judge Graves: ‘IGHT HOLD IT RIGHT THERE.

His .357 Magnum revolver was already raised and sweeping the room. Jack followed suit, drawing his own Nickel plated 1911 to make sure no one made any sudden moves. The occupants of the crack shack, 2 males in their 30’s, high on their own supply, stopped in their tracks, and they both put their hands into the air right away to avoid being blown away by the hand cannon. Judge used his pistol to gesture toward the couch, nodding at the men as he spoke.

Judge Graves: Take a seat, fellers.

One of the men instantly did as he was told while the other began inching closer to the kitchen instead. This is when Jack stepped forward and caught him in the side of the head with the hilt of his pistol, crumpling him to the floor, and splitting his head open.

Jack Graves: Now where in the hell do you think you’re going? Didn’t he say sit?

The younger of the “Graves Boys” finally spoke, kneeling to put his shiny engraved nickel plated pistol into the mouth of the man he’d just pistol whipped.

Jack Graves: It wasn’t optional. It’s not up for discussion. Get on your feet and get your ass on that couch in the next ten seconds or I’m going to make a canoe out of your head, partna.

The dude didn’t have to be told twice. As soon as the gun was removed from his mouth, he was on the couch like a bolt of lightning. The two armed men stood over their captors, and Jack tucked his pistol in his waistband to pull out a still sealed envelope. Judge looked over at his nephew and eyeballed the manila envelope in his hand, his gun still trained on the men.

Judge Graves: You sure it’s light? If we are doing all this for nothing Jackie..

Jack gave him a side eye and popped the seal on the envelope to pull out a stack of hundreds. He then proceeded to hand the stack over to his uncle with a shrug.

Jack Graves: Count it then.

Judge began counting the stack aloud, right there in front of the men while Jack watched smugly.



Judge Graves: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, One Thousand.

He continued this six more times until the stack came to it’s inevitable end. Judge arched an eyebrow and nodded at his nephew, clearly impressed.

Judge Graves: Well, I’ll be damn. Not only were you right Jackie but, do remind me, as I’m not so good at math these days. Six thousand dollars is a lot less than twelve thousand dollars, isn’t it? That’s what? Six grand short?

Jack laughed at his antics and raised his hands to applaud his uncle sarcastically.

Jack Graves: Look at you, Unk! Good job. You keep it up and they are going to have you as a guest on Sesame Street doing math with the count. That’s right. Six grand AH AH AH!. So I ask you–

The younger Graves turned back to the men on the couch mid-sentence, and removed his sunglasses to look them in the eyes. Both men on the couch looked as though they might piss their pants at any moment.

Jack Graves: Where…the… FUCK… is our money?!

The “fuck” was accentuated by a brutal backhand to the face of the so-far unharmed man, sending him crashing against the other man who tried to hold his friend up. This was enough for the friend who was already bleeding from his head. He broke into tears and started begging for his life, spilling the location of their hiding spot right away.

Dude 1: Behind the stove! Behind the stove! T-take it all but p-p-please don’t fucking kill me man. I have a daughter.

Jack laughed at the statement, turning to walk into the kitchen as he spoke.

Jack Graves: You weren’t thinking about that daughter when you decided to get in the dope game, were you? Hm? You didn’t think about her when you decided to rip us the fuck off.

Judge Graves: You’ll be lucky if we don’t make her a fuckin’ orphan.

That seemed to be the final straw for the man, and he broke down into a loud sob.

Dude 1: I did though! I did. I did! I’m only doing this to support her. Her mother won’t let me see her unless I pay her and I’m so behind in child support… and she’s sick. Please Jack. I’m sorry. I’ll make this right.

Dude 2: Man, shut up! They don’t care. Shut the fuck up!! We’re going to die, and I don’t want to spend my last few moments listening to you cry about your fuckin’ daughter!

This got a laugh out of ol’ uncle Judge this time, and he turned to look at Jack, expecting him to have found the plea just as amusing. Jack had stopped in his tracks though, and was listening to the guy say he’d done this for his daughter. He could kind of relate. He was doing all this for his mother. Well, initially anyways. He’d needed to pay for her medical bills, and her treatments, and medicines… tens of thousands of dollars. But once that was all taken care of, and once they started moving real weight? It got comfortable. Always having a pocket full of money, the hottest cars, the gold jewelry, whatever he wanted. He got sucked into it.

Judge Graves: I like this guy. Hey, hellooooo. Jackie? HEY! Get the loot. Let’s go. You’re not actually believing this lyin’ motherfucker are ya?

This brought Jack back to the real world and he reluctantly shook his head as he went over and pushed the stove aside to find their hiding spot. A few moments later he was putting a brick of white and a pile of money on the stove.



Jack grabbed a plastic grocery bag laying nearby and he bagged up the loot before making his way back over to the other men.

Jack Graves: Sheeeeeit. See, you had all this money and you should’ve just paid us. So, now that you didn’t and we had to drive all the way out here… here’s how it’s going to go instead. We’re taking all of the cash, and the blow, and you’re out, but you get to leave with your lives. You tell anyone anything, you open your fucking mouth? You’re dead. You, your baby mamma, your little girl. Everyone you’ve ever fucking loved will wiped off the face of the existence. And it may not even be us that comes for you, so you can rat on us or try to kill us, but the cartel has addresses, deep rooted contacts, and no feelings or moral code. They will replace us with someone else just as ruthless, if not more.

He paused and handed the bag of contraband to his uncle, before pulling out his brass knuckles.

Jack Graves: See, but you are lucky. Because the cartel wanted you both killed. But! Being the nice guys that we are, we went to bat for you. We told them you just had a daughter, and that maybe you know, you just were sleep deprived and counted wrong.

Judge Graves: Because we are such good guys. Gentlemen, even.

Judge added, setting the bag on the coffee table to pull out his own set of brass knuckles as well.

Jack Graves: That’s right, we gave you the benefit of the doubt. We did you a favor. So, instead of killing you? We’re just going to beat you really really badly and leave you here to think about what you’ve done.

As soon as Jack said this, the man who’d been losing his shit previously charged forward and caught Jack off guard to shove him back into the entertainment center hard, sending the TV crashing to the ground. Jack instantly rebounded, and grappled him to begin landing some nasty body blows with the knucks. Meanwhile, Judge was going to WORK on the other man, who was too shocked by everything to even react at this point and was getting pummeled badly.

Across the room, Jack was still scuffling with the larger guy, who had now created some distance to pick up a beer bottle so that he could try and swipe at Graves’ head. Jack dodged the blows easily, and he shot in to change levels, tackling Dude 1 over top of the bar/seating area that separated the living room from the kitchen. This sent a shotgun clattering across the kitchen floor with them, which was obviously what the man had been going for earlier.

Jack was the first one back to his feet, as the downed man made a desperate crawl toward the gun. A swift kick to his ribs impeded his progress though as Jack punted him as hard as he could, generating a deep wheeze from the man. Another sickening kick landed to his jaw, and another huge metal clad right hand would’ve rained down on him if Judge hadn't caught Jack’s arm to stop him from losing control.

Judge Graves: You don’t want that on your conscience, son. That’s one bridge I hope you never have to cross. He’s sealed his fate, but you haven’t. Go. Go on.

Jack gave his uncle a long stare, his chest heaving from the adrenaline of the scuffle as he thought about his words and whether he wanted to cross that line or not.

Silently, Jack stepped over dude 1, picked up his hat off the floor, and dusted himself off. He gave his uncle one last glance, before stepping out the front door of the trailer to light up a cigarette.

He knew what came next. The guy should’ve just taken his beating, but instead he went for a gun. So, now his daughter would grow up without a father.

Jack tried not to think about it as he stepped down the rickety wooden steps and made his way across the gravel driveway to his car. Climbing inside, he turned the key in the ignition and the midday air was once filled with the sounds of a roaring engine, and rap music being pushed from the Rockford Fosgate system in the trunk.

It was so loud it almost covered up the sounds of the shots.

Almost.

A few moments later, Judge came down the steps and made his way to the car with the grocery bag full of loot. Before the car ever turned around and left the driveway, the flames were licking out of the windows and open front door of the crack shack.

By the time anyone found them, there would be nothing left.