Who Masters the Ringmaster?

Scalded. Abandoned. Left to rot.

The Black Burroughs used to be a welcoming place. A middle-upper class neighborhood that had everything a decent community needed: a clubhouse, golf course, nice apartments, swimming pools, and nice people. That was before the conflagration, though.

It figured how nothing in the middle of the mid-west could stay gold forever. At this point, it just seemed to be the natural order of things; whether by way of freak accident, riots, or the entropy of time, everything seemed to have its breaking point. After the raging inferno hit the community and everyone was evacuated, the gangs moved in before the police and civic engineers could get ahold of it; ever since then, it had been nonstop turf war. Some gangs prospered while many rose and fell over the years. It was long before Francisco's time, so he didn't much care.

He shuffled around on the streets, littered with old newspapers and cigarette butts, his only solace coming from the little guiding voice in his head. He knew where he had to go. At this point, he just wasn't sure he could follow through very well.

Ah, but that was the old you, my boy, said the voice. You're so much better than that now.

"You really think so, old man?" Francisco asked.

By all accounts, the Old Man replied. Those small words of confidence helped bolster him to continue onward, taking a side-alley detour between two crumbling townhouses. He continued walking the path he remembered walking once before. Months ago, when he'd been completely on his own, he'd tried to fall in with a group that could provide at least some entertainment for him.

And in no time, he'd found his way back. There, painted on a bare brick wall, was a skull with green wings, and two daggers stabbed into it like a new-age skull-and-crossbones. He breathed in and strode out of the alley, toward the mural, and the two people standing guard in front of rusty metal door to the left.

They were all dressed in sickly shades of green, from the tossle caps to the baggy jeans and denim shorts. And as soon as they saw him coming, their hands, clutching pistols, twitched briefly before they recognized who was walking toward them. And they only sneered smiles in his direction.

"'Ey, Val," said one of them, "Looks who's come crawlin' back to us."

Val snorted. "Never would'a dreamed it, after the beatin' he got," she scoffed.

Francisco ignored them, and stood right in front of them. There was a pause before the thug asked, "Okay, asshole, ya got our attention. Fuck you want?"

"...I'm here to re-apply," Francisco said at langth.

The two thugs shared a confused glance, and Val stepped forward, shaking her finger and saying, "No can do, babe. Ya had yer chance, ya blew-"

"Aw, let'im in, sore-ass," said the other one.

"What?"

The mook shrugged. "We let Arlo retry f'r entry, didn' we?"

"Yeah, but he looked like he'd improved some," Val said. "This fuckboy hasn't even grown an inch."

The thug shrugged. "...Maybe it'll get a chuckle outta everybody. Sure made me laugh the first time," he scoffed while looking at Francisco with a mocking smile.

Val and her friend stood there, Francisco glancing back and forth between them, half worried, half incredulous. "...A'ite," Val said after a minute. "You wait here, ya little cocksucker, we'll tell the boss to get things set up."

"...'Kay."

And with that, the two gangers disappeared inside, leaving Francisco alone with his thoughts.

He was pulled inside around forty-five minutes later, by completely different people, and marched forcefully through the hideout of "The Toxins." Possibly the most prolific gang in the Burroughs, as they had yet to be ousted by a rival faction, content to let the others fight their wars, then swoop in to clean house. As such, only the strongest and hardest to kill were allowed into their ranks. It was why Francisco wanted to join in the first place, among other things.

He'd learned his lesson now. Now, he was ready.

What he was led to was a large space in the middle of the building. Several floors had collapsed, making a kind of multi-level circular theatre. In the center was a crudely-made wrestling arena, now surrounded by cheering "fans." Beyond that were several seats, all occupied, one at the apex of all the others. Another reason The Toxins were so effective: it seemed only they had grasped that effective leadership made an effective workforce. All the other gangs practically met and acted like cabals with no general to lead them.

Francisco was led, then forcefully shoved into the center ring, to the approval of the cheering crowd. He stumbled and fell to his knees, which was also met with uproarious laughter. From under the black hair combed over the right side of his face, he looked up at the chairs in the back, and the calm, but insidious man sitting at the highest chair.

He, in turn, looked down on Francisco and grinned. "Well, well," he began melodramatically, "Never thought we'd see this sorry sack'a crap again, eh, fellas?" A large whoop came from the crowd, and while they cheered, Francisco scuffled his feet and stood up, and looked around while rubbing his arm. "Yeah, me neither," he said. "Didn't get your ass fucked hard enough last time, Cissy?"

"I…" Francisco breathed in, paused, and breathed out. "I came back to prove myself, Derrick."

The entire building was silent for all of five second before everyone erupted into cacophonous laughter. Normally, Francisco would have covered his ears, like last time, but now, he knew to take it in stride.

"Woh, wow, holy shit!" Derrick guffawed. "Well, there ya got it, boys! A regular knight in shining armor." After the mockery had died down a bit, Derrick continued, "Well, fuck, since you're bein' so damn honorable, how 'bout you chose your opponent?"

Francisco paused to ponder a minute, which must have been what Derrick wanted when he shouted, "Damian, then?"

Francisco's eyes went wide and his pupils shrunk. "...Please no…"

"Damian it is…!"

But it was too late. From out of the crowd, a burly black man stomped into the arena, everyone making room for him out of both fear and just how broad shouldered he was. He scoffed as he entered the arena, only needing to swing his legs over the railing. No effort to climb necessary. Damian immediately settled down into a wrestling stance with a malicious grin on his face while Francisco was desperately trying not to sweat too much.

"And…" Derrick paused for effect, and continued, "...Begin!"

Damian immediately charged forward, trying to tackle Francisco, and managed to side-swipe his ankle as he dodged. Francisco tumbled over to the side and almost rolled out of the arena. He struggled to his feet, and to his horror, saw Damian closing in on him, walking with confident swagger of a hunter seeing a rabbit trapped in a cage. "Couldn't take tha hint, ya li'l punk-ass nigga?"

Francisco didn't have time to respond as Damian lunged again, punching Francisco right in the nose. If it hadn't been for the uproar of cheers, he might have been able to hear his own screams. He then hit the floor and was immediately and mercilessly set upon by Damian, who straddled his chest and began a flurry of punches to the face.

I said you were better than this!

Punch after punch, cracking against Francisco's bones.

You are my last, best hope!

There was so much blood. Francisco could taste it, conglomerating in the back of his throat.

Show them what you can do!

The crowd's roaring was growing fainter. This was the end.

Let.

It was the story of his life.

Me.

...He hated it.

Out...!

An inhuman shriek rang out over the cracking knuckles and the crowd, and for one moment, there was confusion on Damian's face before Francisco, his face bloody and his eyes now glowing a ghostly purple, grabbed his fist and punched back. The force alone, more powerful than a freight train, sent him flying up into the rafters, where he hit the ceiling, and fell back to the arena on his stomach.

In no time, Francisco launched himself jerkily to his feet, as if his body was being piloted, and still shrieking like a banshee, tore over to Damian, flipped him over, and turned the tables. Now he was the one pummeling Damian to death, blow after blow, until there was nothing left of the man's nose and blood was shooting out of the stump.

With one last scream, Francisco reached down and forced both his thumbs into Damian's eyes. And then, latching onto his head, he pulled with all his might. If the man hadn't died to the pummeling and the shock of landing on his stomach…

He was sure as hell dead when Francisco tore his head clean off his shoulders.

He was still screaming, but the crowd had long since gone silent, watching in awe and terror as a pipsqueak not only defeated a walking giant among men, but also proceeded to murder him in the most gruesome fashion possible. They all collectively winced again when, still not content with his victory, Francisco tore Damian's decapitated head in half down the middle.

And so, there he was. Breathing heavily, his face and sleeves drenched in blood. His hands, grey matter stuck to them, sloughing off slowly. On the ground, his first conquest, and the Old Man's first victim in years. Needless to say, he was happy about it. It made Francisco smile too; maybe a little too much.

Francisco turned his head, slowly, back to Derrick, to show off his grin. It covered nearly his entire lower face, almost literally "ear-to-ear." Then, after a moment, he started chuckling. It was erratic, as if most of it was forced. To say Derrick wanted no part of it was a severe understatement.

"...Heeeyy, uh…" he stammered, "Cisco! Cisco, my buddy! You...you won! You're in! Awesome!" Derrick was desperately praying he could get out of the room to change his shorts at the earliest possible convenience. "We'll, uh...we'll get the bitches'n'beer in a h-hot sec, just you wait! It's gonna be a huge party, you'll love-"

"Spare me, asshole."

Derrick stopped cold. "...What…?"

"Can it, assclown," Francisco said again. "You still have something that belongs...to me." The man was whiter than a satin sheet as he looked around desperately, to both the council around him and to find what Francisco might be talking about. "Get off my throne."

He looked up, confused and terrified, at Francisco. "M...my...my throne?"

Francisco, despite still smiling grunted in annoyance, and pushed his palm out. Suddenly, a portal of inky black overtook Derrick's chair and he began to sink in. To aid the process, hundreds of black hands shot out of the portal to grab him. They immediately went to muffle his screams, and everyone around him promptly freaked the fuck out. Francisco himself walked confidently forward, now smiling deviously and dictated, "Oh, don't be such a pussy. Purgatory is a nice place!" Derrick's eyes widened as he continued, "Sure, some of the inhabitants might be a little...clingy, but other than that...it's great down there."

Francisco continued grinning as he watched Derrick's terrified, pleading face disappear, and the void had retracted from the chair, as if it had never been there at all. Now content, he sat down and surveyed his new domain. They'd have to start work immediately. He had the workshop set up already, and after that, he could leave The Toxins well enough alone before they all decided to splinter off and join another gang where their chances being horribly butchered were slimmer.

Of course, he had to get into the restaurant and retrieve the Old Man's prize first, and that would be...something. Something, indeed. "Could be worse," he knowingly said out loud, "I could be forced to work with retarded chihuahuas. Though, a group of half-brained, shit-flinging chimps isn't much a step above that, anyway."

He paused tso that his new underlings could know what he thought of them (and damn well appreciate it, since hadn't just barged in and slaughtered them all). "So, my friends, that leaves me one question," Francisco chuckled...

"Who dares try and master the ringmaster?"