Snippet #1479973

If one were to take the highway going southeast from Los Angeles California, and went about 40 miles down this road, they would come upon an intersection. Take the left turn, and you’d be surrounded with nothing but simple little farming communities. If you continued down this road for about 15 miles, a good eye would spot a right turn, down a barely visible dirt road, shaded by tall trees. When coming upon the gate halfway down this dirt road, one would expect the normal California orchard, as rows and rows of trees dominated the property, though on closer examination one would find that very few bared eatable fruit.

The gate is old and rusty, and a rotting pig head glares at you from it's perch impaled on one of the fence posts. Flies surround the cadavar, watching their young ones devour the flesh. A sign is tacked underneath it warning tresspassers away with threat of guns. Most who pass through this gate face a fate far worse than bullets. Inside this old farm house lived the famous criminal family, the Balazars. Famous not only for their crimes, but, for their mentally instability, this family is feared throughout the country. Fortunately for them, not even the neighbouring farms of this torture chamber knew who lived there, as, by the house leader’s orders, they remained detached from such socializing.

If one were to be brave enough to step down the lawn on this brisk, autumn morning, they would spot a small man- both in width and height, seated cross legged in the grass. An old, but well kept sword was pushed into the ground in front of him, wavering just the slightest at any vibration in the ground, warning him of any approaching intruders. His eyes were peacefully shut, and his hands gently rested on his knees and by his calm breathing pattern, one could tell he was meditating. The only sign of movement on him was the rising and falling of his chest, and the flickering of his chin-length dirty blonde hair in the breeze.

This man went by the name of Cyrus Jordan Balazar, and he was the self-appointed leader of the eight occupants in the house behind him. Although he was small, and often underestimated, he had definitely earned himself the title. He had intense skill with the three knives that could be seen on his person- one on each hip, and one strapped to the calf overtop his beige combat pants. Each knife was obsessively sharpened and slathered from the toxins extracted from his pet serpent's fangs.

Inside the rickety house, a body was stirring from a troubled sleep. A groan sounded throughout the small bedroom that Asher shared with his wife. He did quite a bit of tossing about under the covors before he finally decided to sit up- he didn't feel good due to his intense binge the night before. He was worried for his missing sister, and often turned to mind altering substances in a stressful situation he had no control over. Cyrus was not allowing him into the city to seek out his twin, due to his uncontrolled habit of thievery occasionally getting him in close calls with the law. Rosemary had saved him every time. She had been missing for three days now, and Asher was now acting like a lost puppy dog.

After stretching his long, tattooed limbs he snatched the pack of cigarettes off his bedside table and lit one up with a lighter also placed in the pack. Only after a few long puffs did he actually open his eyes for longer than a split second. He used his free hand to rub them tiredly, then glanced about through a dark saphire gaze flecked with only the slightest bit of emerald. He then ran a hand over the little black stubble on the top of his head that always showed only a couple days after a shave. Finally, he took a glance over his shoulder, peering about the bed for Cheyenne, his loving wife. He didn't even remember if she had gone to bed with him the night before. Hell, he barely remember any of the day before.