Haywood
"Now, I don't necessarily want to do this," the cold eyes peered out of the skull, "but I don't necessarily have any problems doing it. Do you understand?"
"I swear," the man tied to the chair pleaded, "I don't know what you're talking about. I just deliver mail, I don't have anything to do with any cartels!"
"I don't appreciate you lying to me," the skull sighed.
Haywood took a few steps away form his captive, out of the light cast by the single bulb dangling from the ceiling. He reached up and pulled the skull off of his head, sweat dripping down his bare scalp. He wiped the perspiration out of his eyes and set about organizing his tools. On a small workbench in the corner of the cramped room, there were several pairs of pliers, a hammer, several large knives, a six shot revolver, and a rag. Underneath the bench were several objects hidden in shadow.
"I promise," the man in the chair pleaded, "I don't have any connection to any drugs!"
"Every promise has a loophole," Haywood mused, running his hands along his tools, "and every loophole can be exploited." That was why the King took an interest in him; he was the loophole guy. Though he had heard other names whispered about him. Names that weren't always flattering. He finally decided on one of the pliers, picking it up and twirling it in his hands before walking back to the man in the chair. When he stepped back into the light, his bald head became completely visible, his eyes dark in their sockets underneath his hairless forehead. He took a handful of the man's hair in his free hand and yanked back hard, exposing his captive's neck and forcing him to stare at the uncovered light bulb.
"Please!" the man gasped for breath, spittle leaking out the corners of his mouth, "I swear to god you have the wrong guy!"
"I'm not an idiot," Haywood said, leveling the pliers in the man's face, "So please don't treat me like one." With that, he stuffed the pliers in the man's mouth and found a tooth. He gave it a few gentle twists to listen to the man scream, and then pulled sharply. The tooth came free with a sickening pop, and a single spurt of blood left the man's mouth, giving way to a steady trickle. The man rubbed his tongue in the spot the tooth occupied, gently trying to stop the bleeding.
"So," Haywood said, leaning on his workbench in the shadow and staring intently at his victim, "Are you ready to talk yet? Because, honestly, I could stand to do that a lot more often. If you want to go another round, believe me I am very willing."
"I don't know about any drug deals, I swear," the man cried, tears and blood mixing on his chin.
"If you say so," Haywood smiled, replacing the pliers he was holding and retrieving a larger pair.
"But!" the man in the chair quickly shouted, "But, I do know about the cartels! I'm one of their gun runners, I don't handle the drugs though, I swear!"
"And there's the loophole," Haywood said to himself, "What is the cartel doing moving into the city? This town belongs to the King, El Bitcho Grande knows that."
"I don't know what he's planning, I just know he wants what the King has, and he has the means to get it."
"The King doesn't like to share," Haywood said, "And I seriously doubt that any drug addled 'kingpin' could even touch the operation that we have got going on here. So you go run to your boss and tell him his little crew can't do anything in this city without the King's permission."
"My boss isn't going to like that." the man in the chair said weakly.
"Tough shit." Haywood said, leaning in so the two men's noses were inches from each other. The man in the chair stared into Haywood's cold, pale eyes, desperate to find any emotion hidden in them. Then Haywood began to laugh.
"What kinds of plans does your boss have?" Haywood said in between chuckles, "And don't lie to me, you know how I don't like that."
"Like I said, I run guns for the cartel," the man in the chair said slowly, "I know he's been spreading them out, and lots of them. He's got lots of runners on the streets, more than I've ever seen. He's arming his crews, and he's getting ready for war."
"War, huh?" Haywood mumbled to himself, turning out of the light and stroking his hairless chin thoughtfully, "War could be interesting. Interesting is good." Suddenly a cell phone began ringing somewhere in the dim room. Haywood quickly found the phone and answered the call.
"Hello?" he said into the receiver, "Yeah... Yeah... I'm taking care of it as we speak... No, it was just a rumor.. Yeah... Yeah, I'm sure... Yeah... Alright, I'll get it done."
He hung up the phone and returned it to its original location. He walked back up to the man in the chair and stood just out of the light. "What does your boss want before he starts moving in?"
"I don't know," the man in the chair smirked, "I'm not important enough to be told anything."
"Alright," Haywood said, leaning in again, "If we're going to play these games, we're going to play by my rules." He went back to the workbench and slipped the skull back onto his head. He picked up the rag and laid it over the man in the chair's eyes.
"Hey, man," the man started to squirm in his bindings, "I didn't mean anything by that, honestly. I swear I couldn't tell you what my boss has in mind even if I knew."
"Long live the King," Haywood said, ignoring the man's pleas and dousing him in some foul smelling liquid. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag and then deposited it the the man's mouth. The man inhaled nervously, and then burst into a ball of screaming flames. The fireball rocked gently back and forth while Haywood watched, his eyes cold and gleeful behind his mask.
When the man had finally stopped screaming and the fire had died, Haywood returned to the cell phone, typed in a number, and held it up to his ear.
"Yeah, it's me," he said when the call was answered, "It's done. Alright, I'm on my way."
He turned and walked to the door, looking back at the charred body one last time before flipping the light switch and swinging the door shut behind him.