Crime Pays: The Samuel Booker Story- Part 1

[Corey617]

CRIME PAYS

The Samuel Booker Story

By Corey Atherley



BE WARNED! THIS STORY CONTAINS HIGHLY OBSCENE CONTENT!




CHAPTER 1: ANATOMY OF A HITMAN


Truth of the matter is I don't know shit about the streets. I certainly wasn't raised in them. And the underworld was the worse decision and last resort. How I got this far? Even I can't fathom. But if you bear with me long enough- through the peaks, valleys, fast lanes and danger zones- I'll give you an answer just as sure as you finish reading my life story and hope to God you never meet a twisted bastard like me in your lifetime.
But getting to matters at hand, my country is in the worse shape ever in all her years since the British conquered and destroyed. She's dying slowly on her death bed with no-one to look after her. And the streets are plucking out her gray hairs, ravaged with looters and criminals. I do my dirt as well, but truthfully speaking, there’s a slight difference. You see, I’m what they call a hit-man who lives for what he loves and still gets his luxurious stipend at the end of the day- innocent and clean as the Virgin Mary. And with money, I’m always secure to walk away from everything and regain an innocent lifestyle: change my identity; turn to god, live like a normal, unassuming human being. Like I said before, I WAS NOT born into a life of crime and poverty. And for those who’ve presumed otherwise, I simply tell them my father is one of the wealthiest surgeons in the country: that in addition to tipping them to keep their goddamn mouths shut. One mentioning of my prominent last name: Booker and it’s powerful enough to put their wagging, self-righteous tails between their legs. I don’t just come from money- I wear it like a badge of honor and manipulate my way to the top.
Psychologists say those who are cold-blooded killers like me don’t kill out of vengeance or disregard for humanity much less out of pleasure. We kill because we’re vulnerable; because we don’t fit in with social norms. They also say that criminals aren’t born; they’re trained.
After I commit a murder for my clients, I immediately discard the dead corpse however they demand of it, and then I give my clients the estimated price of how much my work will cost them. As long as we establish a mutual understanding that they're held accountable for their atrocities while I'm just their employee carrying them out. Sometimes I go for 1,000 dollars, or as high up the stakes as $10k for my services. It solely depends on who I kill and who’s hiring me to kill. Sometimes I even get a kick out of seeing the awestruck looks on the faces of these pathetic creeps, knowing that when the smoke clears, and the morbidity has been done, they’ve made a big mistake hiring a hit man; the biggest regret they’ll ever have to live with. I love chopping my victims, detaching their limbs from their submissive bodies, and watching them bleed eternally. I love blood. It thrills me. It fascinates me. But only if you pay me for it. LIKE I SAID BEFORE, MY TIME IS PRECIOUS. So if you’ve got no money, fuck off.
And half the time most of these fucking idiots I work for are broke low-lives to begin with, yet they are so intent on putting a price tag on a human life. For me however, personally, I’ve always had a passion for murder, ever since I was a troubled kid living with two dysfunctional parents you could ever imagine. So whenever I get paid to commit murder it’s like giving a life’s supply of candy to a hyperactive boy. It feeds my passion. It gives me this sort of adrenaline rush full of emotions I can’t seem to shake; empowerment, invisibility, authoritativeness, sheer respect. Just the thought of being in control of another human being makes up for my tormented childhood in insurmountable ways. Today, I face every injustice in society with a wink and a smile, because I’m simply a dangerous fat schmuck. By the end of the day…it’s not about the people I kill. It’s the abundance of appreciation I receive by corrupt police officers, politicians, mob bosses, heavy hitters, right down to ordinary people hiring a hit man like me to solve their idiotic problems.
It hasn’t always been this way though. Once upon a time Barbados used to be the highest grossing country in the Western hemisphere; a tourist attraction. It was even termed "Little England", a nickname made up by John Cabot, King George’s top apprentice who, by the way discovered this land in the early 1600’s. My memory is not as acute when it comes to historical stuff. But, the island’s swift economy was in a league of its own- that much I know for sure. In addition, tourists were imposing like hungry mosquitoes; we nearly relied on these blow jobs to stuff money into our greedy little pockets and put smiles on our children’s faces knowing that they’ll be looking forward to eating dinner.
As Bajans, we proudly bragged about our tourist industry like waving our national flag. Not to mention we were the most optimistic of any human being on this planet. Now everywhere, there’s political and social unrest so strong it’s hazardous to walk outside your door. Chalk it up to Mother Nature paying us deadly visits throughout the years of the worse kind. And what’s worse, Barbados is a small island, not sturdy or resilient enough for epic natural disasters. Crops are destroyed. Farmers are out of work. Roads are flooded. Businesses and dealerships have jumped shark quicker than a fashion trend. Police are out on the streets and weary as ever for criminals trying to make a quick buck however they can obtain it. Neighborhoods are now marginalized between the filthy rich and dirt poor; what’s left of the island’s population. But the real crisis exceeds no further than the deprived children who are bent on sticking up a defenseless punk for his cash. While they do use the streets corners as their home, what do you think is going to be their next solution? Hop on a first class plane and flee to another country? Or bury the hatchet with their dysfunctional parents who put them out on the streets to begin with?
Next up: the men who are unemployed, with no means of providing for themselves and their families. When they've got no goals to accomplish what is their leisure time going to consist of? Looking for more work, or looking for more excuses? Last but not least: corrupt police officers. When these double crossing cock suckers have to choose sides whether to abide by the law or empathize with their own people through thorough socioeconomic hardship, which direction do you think the ethical scale will balance? Not to mention money- who’s getting it and how can I rob him?
But hey, I don’t wanna seem like I’m doing reverse psychology here, especially since I regain my conscience from pondering nearly to death, and my undivided attention quickly goes back to my sinister hotel room. I’m now 26 years old- no path, no direction no future. The only thing I’ve got going for myself is the of body a dope dealer I was ordered by my boss to choke to death; his body no longer powerful and deadly, but fragile as a sheet of paper in my arms. His face turned a hideous black and blue, and his eyes bulged nearly out of his face in a terrified trance; the same look of anguish when I crushed all of the bones in his neck with a simple martial arts chokehold. His body now decomposed and nearly rotten, I take this husband, father, brother, nephew and son of someone to the bathroom. Then, I carefully chop off his head and slice his arms and legs off with a Japanese sword. Afterwards, I wiped off any DNA blood with a dish rag, and I stored the young man’s face and each of his limbs (with leftover bone cartilage, flesh, intestines and all) in a suit case like a pez dispenser. What I planned to do with the suitcase however…..that was still called into question while I remained hidden in a hotel room which has remained my operating sanctuary every since I got into this business. If I needed to store the bodies of my victims, I couldn’t do it in my parent’s house, or my wife’s house, or my friend’s house or any other house in the risk of being snitched to the feds.





CHAPTER 2: THE LITTLE KILLER THAT COULD

Now, in case you’re wondering: my name is Samuel Norman Booker. Sammy for short. I was born a ten pound healthy boy September 10th, 1972 in the midst of a tropical heat wave. My father named me Samuel after his ancestor: a rebellious slave who put his master’s own rifle to his head and shot him execution style about a hundred years ago. It’s so far back in history, once again I don’t remember. But I shudder every time the grotesque images pop into my head and I think about the terror that corrupted my family tree long before I was conceived.
As for my last name Booker, the family name is traced back to a handsome British sailor traveling to Barbados named Thomas Booker, who had alleged fetishes and secret affairs with his black female slaves. When one of his fellow boatmen caught him down inside the cabin with his pants down, no sooner was he accused of sleeping with “coloreds” and news of Thomas Booker’s criminal offense went back to King George. Ultimately, King George in a fit of outrage and disbelief called for Thomas’ imprisonment. But rather than face any another day of overt ridicule, torture and embarrassment in the white Puritan community, he simply took a knife to his throat, leaving his slaves behind. To this day, there’s still a sense of strong animosity between predominate blacks and the small percentage of Anglo whites who remained in Barbados, post-slavery, but keep their elite communities closed off from blacks. This is a fundamental part of my story, however, that I’ll definitely explain later.
I’ll cut to the chase here because I’ve already burned a few self-inflicting bridges confessing I’m a hit man. I've already said it two times already, but killing isn't my livelihood. I was brought up just like any sane normal boy in a close knit, upper middle class community called Rose Hill with its palm trees lining the cobblestone one-way street, with Edwardian style houses perched on top of them. Rose Hill was not your typical neighborhood, and in fact, there was a brick security gate fending off intruders to prove it. You weren’t allowed in Rose Hill unless: a.) you could afford it, b.) you were black, and c.) Your name was synonymous with wealth and you never mentioned the aid of a white person. You see, the people of Rose Hill took pride in knowing that their neighborhood was one out of a few elite black areas in all of Barbados. A neighborhood that goes as far back as the mid-nineteenth century when emancipation was in full swing, “white flight” occurred and blacks took over the land away from their colonial captors.
My mother Debra, a fashion designer, did everything she could to keep me sheltered in that upper middle class neighborhood; to protect me from the outside world and the gangland streets. It was all she ever did accomplish as a struggling designer. But when it came to caring for her children, it wasn’t her strongest suit. I was naïve into thinking she gave a damn about my existence. And whenever she did give me her undivided attention, it was more out of irritability. She usually yelled at me to leave her alone and resorted to crude insults. I always caught her at a bad time when all her pent up stress caused her to fly off the handle and lose all her virtue. Sometimes I even led her to drink.
I remember quite fondly the time I barged into mum’s room while she was putting the finishing touches on a silk blouse- her sowing machine making so much goddamn noise I could barely decipher the thoughts in my own head. But even at the age of ten, I didn’t have a clue how my actions could lead to inevitable consequences. As soon as I had barged into her room filled with glee, anxious to show her the straight A’s I got on my report card, she immediately squirmed with terror in her fat face and scowled at me causing her lack of focus to tear a hole in her near perfect blouse. To make a long story short, she took me aside in utterly vicious anger, grabbed her sowing machine in all its weight, and hit me so hard across the head causing a sharp concussion that I vowed never to disturb her again.
To make matters worse, what I remember the most was every cabinet in the house filled with my mother’s diet pills. She devoured each bottle as they though they were bags of M & M’s, and each time she overdosed she would pass her unwanted burdens on everyone else when the paramedics had to recover her, and my father had to drag her out of the hospital. On top of everything, the more reclusive my mother became, the crazier she became. She spent days locked up in her room with her sowing machine as if trying to make sense of her horrible life having kids when she could’ve been a fashion designer with a six figure income. Instead she talks to herself, pacing around her room frantically. Each of her loud stomps moved in unison with her sorrow thoughts, terrorizing me and my little sister Cherelle as we painfully try to block our crazy mother out of our minds while watching “Nick at Nite” re-runs of Leave it to Beaver; a show depicting a perfect white nuclear family we only wish we could emulate. Nevertheless, I wholeheartedly despised my parents- and my fat mother sat proudly on top of my hit list. We’ve never had a nurturing relationship like mothers and sons ought to behave. And I could never even say anything inspiring in her eulogy. Never mind having kids, which was a mistake. She was a shallow bitch who only intended to marry my father for one thing: money.
To make matters worse, I feared and loathed my father even more. And he was always the disciplinarian that mom would send me over to when she couldn't sand the sight of me. As you can see, communication wasn’t a quintessential part of my upbringing, let alone my household. Communication between me and my parents was as bizarre as a Jew adopted by Nazis. Come to think of it, I would’ve been better off raised by Nazis. Or orangutans, like some infamous “monkey boy” who was all over the international headlines recently, for being discovered in the mountains. Naturally the frightened tourists never came back to Barbados, and the uncivilized boy was taken away by officials and biologists to a mental ward; never to be seen or heard again. I imagined myself ending up just like that kid or even worse. His fate was my whole entire life story. Mental ward. Never to be seen again.
Getting back on topic, a descent relationship with my father was just simply never in the cards. Gordon was a wealthy, overambitious surgeon who was the breadwinner and provider since my mother was struggling to make any profit in the competitive fashion industry. My father co-owned many clinics throughout Barbados with one of his medical school buddies; some guy named Dr. Poe. He was also a rigid, conservative tough guy who devoutly pushed the death penalty and believed that traditional hard labor defines real men. Being around my father, or at least engaging in a stable, intellectual conversation with him was like organizing my own suicide.
“Daddy, daddy! Wanna hear me sing?”
Singing was my life’s passion. My destiny. All throughout elementary, getting leads in plays left and right, I knew I was going to grow up to be either a Broadway performer or a singer. I only had a one track mind for one thing. And it was the therapy I got out of music. I listened to jazz, classical, rock, roots reggae and calypso religiously, as music became the center of my life. My drug of choice. Everyday of my life was like a soundtrack filled with joys, sorrows and lush orchestration to go with it. Sometimes I would even go to a nearby vintage music store in the neighborhood called Stax Records. They sold Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Louie Prima, Miles Davis, The Beatles and plenty of Motown records for all my allowance money’s worth. I just loved music: its pathos, its storytelling, its freedom of expression, all to simple beat. And I was totally obsessed with Giacomo Puccini- from Madame Butterfly to Aida. I sat in my room for hours- shutting the door and bolting the lock away from reality; contemplating, basking myself into a world of magic, romance, intrigue and mysticism. My father on the other hand just wouldn’t allow himself to think outside the box.
“Singing?!” My father shouted at me one day home from school. “Bloody mess! I don’t wanna hear any of your crummy singing! Real men don’t sing. They go out and look work!”
“But dad…” I pleaded in my irritating high pitched voice for a boy. “I’m rehearsing for a play! My teacher, Mr. Daniels told me to go home and practice singing from my diagram! I need your opinion on my voice!”
I could feel my chest tighten like a rope at the sound of my father’s sadistic, baritone voice. “I had a rough day, boy. I don’t wanna hear it! Sittin’ in your room all day like a sociopath living in a fantasy world won’t put food on your table!”
I never understood my father. And I didn’t break a sweat. Everything about him was work, work, work. At the tender age of seven, he worked as a sugarcane farmer for 50 measly cents. At the age of nine, he joined the boy scouts. At eleven years old, he joined the R.O.T.C. At thirteen, he’d already enlisted in an army boot camp for juveniles. And at seventeen, he dropped out of high school to enlist in the English Army. When he cheated a fatal bullet to his brain out in the sweltering, death-defying jungles of Thailand, that’s when my grandmother finally took him aside, smacked some sense into him, and secretly kept a trust fund to enroll him in med school. Ever since then, he’s been Barbados’ top billing surgeon with a large resume and five golden plaques of achievement attached to his infamous name.
There’s no question my father was a socially inept man with an inferiority complex. All his life he needed to prove he was better than others, including my own successful grandfather (a Parliament judge) who thought my father was a failure! My father was obsessed with being an alpha male so much that it irritated the fuck out of me. He was a painstaking reminder of who I’ll grow up to resemble when I’m a mid-life, temperamental prick married to a gold-digger who only wanted to have unplanned children so that she could trap me into staying with her.
I wanted a non-conformist lifestyle doing what I damn well pleased. I wanted to sing. I wanted to dance. I wanted to be on a waxed stage with my dancing feet gliding across it. Entertaining, not working for a living. I fantasized about my lead role as the tragic, complex Othello with tickets successfully sold out internationally by the numbers. I dreamed about my face photographed on billboards, advertisements and sponsorships. I imagined every friggin’ letter and syllable of my full name emblazoned on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
“Why don’t you become a sugar cane cutter like I did at your age?” my father berated me one too many times as a kid. “There are tons of job openings for that, you know. It gives you experience, character, and a good work ethic. Why don’t you do something practical and productive with your time? Only hard working men run in my family and you’re gonna carry on the family name to greatness! I didn’t bring a boy into this world to sing and dance!”
The many nights I sat alone in the sanctuary of my bedroom, different personalities began to burst out of me like an erupt volcano. Up to that point, I felt chewed up and spat out. If there were any injustices in this world, it was my very own family. I felt so unworthy. I had already had meltdowns. My true colors flew out in spurts. I began to hear terrifying voices in my head. Calling me. Luring me. Suddenly, my alter ego emerged, crying out for “kill or be killed” vengeance. Meanwhile, I could hear my family (my mum, my dad and my little sister Cherelle) carrying on their candid conversations over dinner as though I was never even in the room next door screaming in agony at the top of my lungs. I hopelessly anticipated the day I would severe ties from my dysfunctional family. All it took was one final disappointment to make the transition from an obedient boy to a ruthless juvenile delinquent in no time. As you could never imagine, I turned sinister overnight, fantasizing many ways of slaughtering my enemies one by one when they leased expected their predicaments. Payback was a bitch, and I planned to serve the dish cold with poison as the main ingredient. I made myself a vow that night to start taking control of my own life; to do what I want and be unstoppable while doing it, including living my dream as broad way star.
Normally, my parents were number one on my death list- circled and highlighted in a dark red marker. And as the saying goes, I kept my enemies close. I anticipated the moment in which I’d plot their tragic deaths, and then take over the family inheritance. I even began keeping a daily planner. A black suede planner which I kept in my sock drawer, locked at all times. And in the planner, I made a premeditated list of those who I’d like to see sleeping with the fishes- alphabetically, number by number, and the dates beside their names in which I’d commit their murders. My parents were number one on my list:
1.) GORDON BOOKER AND DEBRA FRANCINE-BOOKER
SATURDAY, OCT 31, 1991, 4:00 PM. DEATH: GUN SHOTS TO THE HEAD AND FACE.
The list goes on and on and on….but my black planner or “hit list” as I called it, was an exercise in venting my anger more so than murders I was actually serious about plotting. Keeping a black planner was just another form of mental therapy, more than anything else. After all, I was a vindictive kid with a big imagination. If I couldn’t kill you, I at least wanted to imagine the possibility of it.
When my fascination for violence rendered into an utter obsession, I started buying violent video games, comic books, Rated M horror movies which sort of stirred me from my previous passions to become a broad way star. Also, I was a huge fan of Friday The 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street. However, I was a bit weary when the directors resorted to pathetic, desperate-for-a-buck sequels. Also, after school, I always walked passed this creepy dark-skinned, doe-eyed fortune teller in Bridgetown who sold tons of shit like African masks, handbooks on spells, voodoo dolls, tiny figurines and all sorts of jewelry shaped like underworld, morbid creatures. To say that this fortune teller was not grotesquely frightening would be an understatement, especially since this walking human being dressed in rags with a handkerchief around his head, white powder caked on his face and bamboo earrings that stretched the skins of his ears down to his shoulders stared the fuck at me the whole time in I was in his eerie store.
I then rushed home immediately to my bedroom to check out my collectibles, hoping I wouldn’t encounter my father or mother in the process, sticking their repugnant noses in my business. Most of the time they were workaholics anyway, unable to find out what their quiet, repressed son was up to. Unlike all other phases that kids went through, somehow in the back of my mind I knew that this was beyond a phase; even beyond reason and logic. I was pretty abnormal. I was only eleven years old, yet I’ve developed a split personality caused by my unfit parents. They’ve turned me into a dangerous, cold hearted bastard with crushed dreams of fame and not a future to look forward.
By the time I was a freshman at St. Nicholas High school, a rich, private school just a couple miles from my neighborhood, I’ve already worked up not only a nickname for myself, but a reputation. As an outcast, my days were spent entirely beating up punks who bullied me or sticking up for pathetic suckers who allowed them selves to be bullied. I climbed my way up the social ladder in no time. And in order to avoid being caught by the principle or nosy, overly concerned teachers (who only wanted their measly paychecks anyway) bussing my chops, I fought mostly after school and away from the school premises.
I was a lonely kid from a dysfunctional family in a school full of spoiled, privileged jerk-offs with inner demons that could easily be dealt with. But I was the last person they wanted to fuck with, because I was a raging monster on the inside who took no shit from nobody. If anything, kids were even more intimidated by the fact that I was very reclusive and private. They never knew what to expect from a psychopath with misanthropic tricks up his sleeve. They never knew what went on inside my head. They wanted to pick my brain, badly. Get inside my head. Figure out what my worth was and what all the hype was about. Was I as tough as everyone said I was, or could you kick my ass with your hands tied behind your back and eyes closed? So, normally I was confronted on a daily basis, usually with me ending up having the last word with my fists.
All that these kids ever talked about in the first place was weed, sports, enemies and which girl or boy to sleep with. Education was the farthest thing from their enjoyment like a detestable odor. Of course, most kids tried to engage me in their meaningless conversations, and I brought up my desire to kill them all. The first thing they did was look at me as if they encountered the Anti-Christ, and never thought twice to bother me again. So, to alleviate the fear in the room, I assured their scared, bloodless faces that I was only joking around with them and pretentiously concurred with their stupid logics and ideals.
What’s so mind boggling is that I’ve become the “it” guy for settling disputes and paying debts. Fellas came up to me left and right, since I was the quintessential big and intimidating looking guy, asking me to do a “job” for them; you know: deliver threats to rival gangs, rival drug dealers, rival bullies, unfaithful lovers, right down to their own mamas. Inevitably I became St. Nicholas High school’s bodyguard for hire with kids paying me to kick someone’s ass for them. I may have been popular, but at what expense?
By the eleventh grade, I became a monster, leaving my optimistic childhood with dreams of being a Broadway star so far in the past like an old, worn out shoe with an odor. The ruthless streets had taken over me. Damaging my spirits. The older I gotten, the meaner I was. Provided, my cruel parents were no help to the situation, restricting me from hanging out- or even so much as inviting my friends over. I was now a seventeen year old man and a big guy like me needed personal space to feel like a man; not to be kept inside like a goddamn lab rat. I also thought how much of a joke it was that after all these years my parents all of sudden worried about me; especially my father who grew weary of me by the minute. Not only had I started to resemble him with his dark skin, dark menacing eyes and ripped, bulky body, but he always persuaded me to go places with him as though he had tried but failed to get me alone with him just so he can grasp the opportunity of getting secrets out of me. He even sneaks into my room (because I notice things out of place) trying to get a hold of some piece of satanic evidence contributing to my psychotic behavior. My awkward craving for murder and death was now more intense than ever because I just didn’t give a hoot about the purpose of my own existence, or the existence of others. I went to a fucked up school, came home to a fucked up family in a fucked up neighborhood with fucked up elitist neighbors who audaciously command me to show my I.D when gaining access through the brick security gate. The only things left I had to offer were my body (big as a refrigerator) and my ability to use it to get what I want. So, it was a clean slate. Men wanted to be like me. And women wanted to get in my pants, but feared doing so.
Often times during lunch, different cliques (who would never have been caught dead breathing the same air I breath) invited me over to join them- literally just to intimidate and scare the hell out of a rival clique whom I knew absolutely nothing about. To say that I wasn’t being used, would be far-fetched. But at the time, I was too young, popular and far-fetched to give a rat’s ass; to look at the big picture. Even worse, my experiences in the boys’ bathroom were pretty grim and uncomfortable, for lack of better words. I didn’t just go there to pee; instead I found myself affiliated with criminal activity.

[heinzs]