by D. M. Burns
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Read below for a taste of the Wallstreet God, coming very soon. This man is a newly designed business beast.
XOXO #RuthlessLove,
D.M. Burns
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Ruthless Tendencies
Series Reading Order:
Rage
Renegade
Rebel
Rampage
.
CREED:
A set of beliefs or aims which guide someone’s actions; A Faith to live by.
chapter 1 - brogan
I was always the one on the outside looking in, detached. The one trying to figure out the chemical code that rushes through life around me. People… Humanity as a whole. What makes them unique? What makes them tick? What are their motives? What’s their overall riddle and rhyme? What makes them so different from me? When I was younger, I wanted all the pieces of the puzzle. It once mystified me. Downright intriguing to say the least for an uneducated and innocent kid.
As time passed, I learned that most were fueled by certain traits. Power… Greed… Money… Lust… And above all others, control. With control comes power, with power comes money. With those traits aiding your cause and at your disposal anything else is pretty much obtainable. Its basic monetary and mental manipulation for the most part. Learned by association and observational habits whether trained, engrained, or sustained.
Now, every single individual I come across are all the same. Like a plethora of lab produced, and engendered shit soldiers. I see it in their eyes, smell it in the air around them, and feel it in their energy. After all my years of being surrounded by some of the most deviant sharks’ day in and day out, their typical desires and thirsts are easy to pick up on, read. Not that I need to read you. You tell me everything without opening your mouth.
I know you’re probably wondering what the hell’s up with this guy. Is he a vampire? Maybe a shapeshifter? One of those furry, cuddly werewolves? To that, I honestly snicker while shaking my head. Fuck no. I’m no Edward Cullen or Jacob Black. That’s a laughable notion. Being a blood sucking vamp or an ass sniffing dog is enough to make me want to leave this lifeless existence. That’s not my MO and fuck, if it were, I’d shoot myself in the damn face. Swallowing that bullet burial with a smile.
All of you silently speak to me. Yeah, I can hear your dirty secrets, all of them. But I learned long ago how to turn that feature off. Hearing the same bullshit over and over again became boring. I like the idea of someone-someday having the ability to surprise me and after thirty years of the same shit filtering into my head unwanted, I still hold firm to the possibility that maybe, further on down the road, one of you, fundamental fucks will shock me. Is there anyone out there that can capture my attention and chokehold that bitch? Laughable.
Sleep’s not a necessity but when my body needs refueling the slumber that finds me is like breathing new life into my cells. Rejuvenating and somewhat like recharging an iPhone to full power. It’s the update needed to fix all my bugs. Everyone would miss my asshole attitude if I were anything less than at my personable peak performance. That alone requires me to be on my toes, asshole extraordinaire. I damn sure wouldn’t want to disappoint my New York fan base.
When I was a kid my favorite attribute by far was the ability to move through objects and become invisible. Let’s just say playing hide and seek with me was an epic fail. Especially for my childhood best friend, Carsen Brooks. Tag your it two seconds in was heard a lot and the son-of-a-bitch spent hours trying to find me. All the while I stood at his side unseen. Shit, I could’ve held hands with the bastard like a friendly Casper the Ghost.
Carsen is the only one that knows my secrets and keeps them firmly locked in the vault. Crazy fucker that he is, still holds my adolescent “flaws”, as he likes to call them, against me for his life-long losing streak. Yeah, it was unfair but entertaining as hell for me as a kid to fuck with him.
My dad said we were special and the only ones of our kind. As a kid, I kinda liked that idea. I thought that shit was cool but now, it’s a desolate thought that hits me sideways sometimes. Am I actually cursed instead of famed by the abilities I was born with? I guess we’ll fucking see, right?
Back to my point, my dad said we were granted these gifts from the universe. Not from an enhanced genetic creation derived from a test tube but from the God’s up above themselves. He said we should protect our abilities and not abused them. We’re not supposed to use our special talents to gain out of deceit, harm, or trickery of any kind. Where’s the fun in that shit?
Above all, he said we stay to ourselves and out of the limelight. Understandably so because let me tell you something, becoming a human phenomenon or an out of this world scientific problem to solve is not happening. Not to mention, I’ll mind fuck a bastard until they’re sniffing in the confines of their therapist’s office walls begging for that white strappy jacket and a nice padded room.
Bottom line, I’m called a Lone Walker. Mainly because I can show up in the blink of an eye, without warning, unannounced, and unnoticed. Lurking around silently, soundlessly. Hearing all your minds whispered events, that is, if I choose to. Waiting for what? I’m not even sure anymore but seeking something that’s usually not found no matter where I end up. If you ask me the name is spot on. It’s exactly what it means; I’m to walk this place alone-period.
Oh, here’s a little side note… I possess super strength like a well-built Hulk without any flaws or the gangrene colored balls. Full control over my abilities with no drawbacks. Epic shit, huh? If all that’s too much for you, simply call me by my given name, Brogan Creed.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m mortal. I bleed. I feel most everything, but the concept of pain is foreign to me. Hell, talking about emotions of any kind is a pointless subject matter for me because I have none. With a great amount of effort and concentration from an outside force, I suppose I’m capable of death. I’ve yet for anyone to attempt it but I assume it’s possible. I don’t age like thoroughbred humans do and haven’t since I turned twenty-five. And I won’t until I find my match. My kindred spirit. My other half to my whole. Or at least that’s what my dad said.
Grant and Macie Creed paired up and I’m the byproduct of their love. My dad was a full-blooded Lone Walker and my mom was a human through and through. Combined the two and here I am in the flesh. Once a Lone Walker finds love we start to age and it’s ultimately our killer. Our demise. Our cancer. Fucking ironic, huh? Love=Death. Hell, I’ve seen some bumper stickers tossing out those words of wisdom.
My parents shared connection produced this six-five boardroom bastard of merciless business. I’m a powerhouse with night shade hair and an uncanny signature blonde streak over the curve of my left ear, birthright. Weird as fuck but unique, I guess. My white ice-blue tinted eyes unfortunately see everything. I miss nothing, even when I wished I could. Not that I need sight. Your minds loudest riddles echo from the halls and bounce off the walls intruding in on my thoughts.
It’s those powerful lingering secrets that consumes a person’s being the most though. They leak out and filter down on me like rain in a dry spiel, soaking into my skin. Even when I try to flip the switch your most desired closed mouth whispers swarming around in your subconscious, slips from the wishing well, hitting me like a bolt of energy. A fucking beacon warning. When I can no longer cut the white noise out from invading m
y peace of mind, that’s my bodies telltale that my time for sleep is closing in.
As I mentioned before, my senseless search for anything that will hold my attention longer than ten minutes at a time is in vain. So, I turn my efforts over to a more profitable pastime. Where the rewards basically produce diamonds that shine with shimmering results. Giving me the rate of return I’m searching for, sorta. A substitute thrill that fills the black empty hole within. I love a fucking challenge and the hunt for business adventures that prove difficult or unattainable is my cue. It’s the only thing I look forward to anymore.
A boardroom boss hunt so to speak. My kind of country boy back woods entertainment without the tree stand and deer piss, thank fuck. When the boardroom suits surrounding me say it can’t be done, I make that shit happen with a smirk of satisfaction and little effort. Like many other things in my life, lucrative business decisions are a God given gift.
Women are no longer a fascination for me. They only seek money and Prada purchases that they think comes with loving me. Fucking clueless. It goes without saying, I surpassed concurring the cunt-coats ten years ago. They’re good for wrapping my dick in warmth temporarily and after that, nothing else. Sounds cold but honestly in New York, these women are diabolical and fucking ruthless, much like I am. As with so many other things, that phase of my life lost its luster long ago.
That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy the act of powering my dick endlessly into a nice tight channel for momentary relief, I do. But the lifelong give a fuck’s for relationship bliss is not what I’m about. Remember, like I said before, that shit’s a killer for me, literally. So, you want to fuck, call me. You want a husband, disconnect the line, and keep it moving. Death in this decade doesn’t interest me. As soon as the sun rises, if not before, your ass has got to get gone. I’ll even splurge and have my driver escort you home. Bye basic bitches.
Most of my time is spent at my Manhattan boardroom. That’s my domain. My powerhouse. Along with Carsen and my other partners in business, we dominate the fucking place. It’s business and our thirst for blood is not partial, prejudice, or bias.
We come.
We concur.
We take.
There are no prisoners of business wars behind those doors at The House of Creed. If you get caught up beyond them then know your corporate lifeline is about to flatline. I’m a God damn Boardroom Boss and the hunt begins as soon as I step through those redwood stained doors.
Welcome To The House Of Creed
