I wrote this fan fiction in late 2009. I always envisioned what the Undertaker, a man who is off the charts in the Intimidation Factor, would be as a mob hit man. A character not unlike the ones from neo-noir films such as Sin City. So I decided to create this. I originally posted this when I opened up this account in 2012. I made the mistake of taking the whole story and putting it as one chapter. And there were one too many grammatical errors, and lack of detailing. But I'm glad to present to you. Em Cal revised and edited. Enjoy.
The Introduction
Welcome to Titan City, population 3,573,482 and counting. It is home to Sapphire Palace, the Renegade Center, the Cobalt River, and the beloved four time Super Bowl champs, the Titan City Assassins. While it is a city of opulence and prosperity, it is also a city where the criminals run things, a city where the police are as corrupt as a New Jersey politician, a city whose motto is, "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here."
Aptly nicknamed "The Jungle", Titan City plays host to humans of the blackest dye; Mobsters, gang bangers, thieves, hookers, and varieties of scum ran rampant in the city. Tourists avoid it like a bum avoids soap and water. Quite frankly, who would want to visit a city where your car would get stolen, the moment you saw the 'Welcome to Titan City' sign?
Through the miasma of fear and hopelessness, there is a hero in Titan City. No, he's not your typical goody two shoes, caped crusading, save the day supernatural hero, but he's a hero nonetheless. This is the story of the one they call Em Cal..
It was approaching midnight. 19 year-old Gabriel Peters, cashier of the Stop N Plunder convenience store, was mopping up the last of the Cherry Bomb Freez-E that some brat had spilled moments earlier. Working the nightshift in a place like the Jungle for minimum wage wasn't exactly what he called a glamorous life, but the bills had to be paid.
Gabriel sat back behind the cash register and resumed reading Car Craft magazine. Before he could fully get into it, there was a soft tingling of bells ad the door opened, and in walked the people Gabriel didn't want to see.
Four men, in their early twenties, dressed like stand-ins from the movie, The Road Warrior, stood in the doorway. Their leader, a tall scraggy guy with a low forehead, a shark snout like nose, dull blue eyes, and jet black hair done in liberty spikes, walked over to the counter, grinning, showing crooked yellow teeth.
"Hey there, Gaby boy," he said. He had a tenor's voice. "It's time for our weekly pay, polka dot face."
"G-go away, Scarecrow," said Gabriel, "why do you have to keep hitting this store up? There's plenty of other stores in this city you can hit up."
Peals of laughter rang through the store
"Why do we keep hitting this store up he asks," said Scarecrow. "Three reasons; One, because we want to! ; Two, because you're a pussy, and three because any store that is stupid enough to name itself Stop and Plunder, is asking for it right there. But enough of the chit chat, Gaby, you know the drill, hand over the money and we leave, quietly."
"N-no!" said Gabriel. "I'm sick of you coming in here week after week, robbing the place! Find someone else who'll stand aside and let you rob them, because I'm not anymore."
A dark shadow crept upon Scarecrow's face before splitting into a smile that was more dangerous than a verbal threat.
'Alright," said Scarecrow, his voice in a quiet tone that was loud with a promise of destruction. Since you don't want to cooperate, we're going to use you for target practice.
Before Gabriel could react, Scarecrow jumped over the counter and grabbed Gabriel in a chokehold. Gabriel gasped, trying to stomp on Scarecrow's foot, but Scarecrow's hold was too strong. Scarecrow ripped open Gabriel's shirt, took a red Sharpie and drew a darts board on his chest and stomach.
"Now," he said to his comrades, "We're going to throw shit at him until he gives us the money. Get the targets ranging from his chest and stomach. Whoever hits him right in the gut gets 100 points. Commence!"
Scarecrow's cronies gathered up whatever they could get and chucked things at Gabriel, ranging from soda cans to batteries. Scarecrow laughed a harsh grating laugh as a large pepperoni stick hit Gabriel in the face. Gabriel let out squeals of pain.
"Bulls eye!" shouted Scarecrow's friend, a muscle bound guy with a teal Mohawk, after he threw a can of Chef Boyardee at Gabriel's stomach with full force, leaving a rapidly developing bruise.
"Enough," said Scarecrow, releasing Gabriel, who doubled over in pain. "Gaby boy, I'm going to ask you nicely. Pretty please with a cherry and sprinkles on top, will you give us the fucking money or we kick your teeth in?"
Gabriel responded by straightening up and spitting in Scarecrow's face, defiance etched firmly in every feature of his freckled face. Stunned silence filled the place. It was broken by a tiny click as the blade of Scarecrow's knife was released by the press of the button, Scarecrow's eyes flashing dangerously.
"Alright," said Scarecrow. "Have it your way then."
Scarecrow pounced on Gabriel. The knife was inches away from impaling Gabriel's jugular when a deep drawling voice said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you, asshole."
Scarecrow and his cronies all turned around and gaped at the sight. Standing in the doorway was a very tall, stalwart of a man. He had sweeping auburn hair, streaked with gray, a goatee, and a stoic look etched on his rugged features. His eyes were the color of pale emeralds and were colder than an Alaskan blizzard.
"Where'd you come from?" Scarecrow asked, "a convention for western movie fans?"
"Never mind where I came from," said the large stranger, his voice as cold as his eyes, "but I'll tell you where you're going to be, and that's in a tightly concealed casket under six feet of tightly packed earth if you don't let go of that boy."
Scarecrow jumped over the counter once more, his eyes narrowed.
"Someone's got a death wish, he said to his cronies. "Well you're in luck, Van Helsing, your wish is about to come true."
The stranger let out a derisive laugh.
"From the looks of it, you couldn't knock a sick whore off of a shit pot," he said. "But if you're feeling froggy, Sid Not So Vicious, then jump."
"My pleasure," said Scarecrow lunging at the stranger with the knife.
The stranger caught Scarecrow's arm that was holding the knife, and head butted Scarecrow. Then, grabbing him by his jacket, threw him into the rack of Cheetos. One of his cronies, a fat oily haired man, with multiple piercings, bellowed like a wild bull and charged at the stranger, but was met with a stiff knee to the face. The other two ganged up on the stranger, punching every part available. For a moment, they looked as if they had the upper hand against the stranger, until he took them by the back of their necks and slammed their heads on the counter so hard, that the counter cracked. Then he took one of them and belted him with an uppercut that lifted him off of his feet. He landed on the floor, unconscious.
Scarecrow staggered toward the stranger, blade in his hand once again. The stranger quickly grabbed a pitcher of hot steaming coffee and shattered it on Scarecrow's head busting him up pretty nice. Scarecrow fell next to his unconscious comrade.
The stranger wrapped a large hand around the fourth cronies' throat, lifted him up in the air, and hurled him into the store windows. Glass shattered everywhere as the poor bastard went through the window. He didn't get back up.
The stranger heard a groan. Wheeling around, he saw Pierceface crawling to the door, dotting the floor with his blood splashing on the floor. The stranger walked over to him and pulled out of his leather duster, a Ruger Redhawk .44 aimed the gun at the back of Pierceface's legs and said, "Suck on lead, fat fuck."
There were two deafening noises as the stranger blew off the both of Pierceface's kneecaps. Pierceface howled in excruciating pain. Apathetic to the carnage he had caused, the stranger walked over the bodies and gathered up several , who had hitherto remained silent throughout the whole tumble, said, "Thanks, mister,"
"Don't mention it, kid," he said coming back to the counter, grabbing a pack of Winstons, before making his way to the door, stepping on Pierceface as he went.
"Wait, sir, " Gabriel said, "aren't you going to pay for those things?"
The stranger turned around to face Gabriel, with that glacial viridescent gaze. Gabriel felt a sense of foreboding.
"Right," he said.
He took out a wad of cash from his pocket and threw a few bills on the counter.
"Keep the change," he muttered.
As he walked out, Gabriel shouted, "Thanks for choosing Stop & Plunder!"
The stranger mounted his bike, a 2006 Harley V-Rod chopper that was painted black pearl with ghost flames on it. It felt good to bust some ass. The malicious joy he felt when he heard that fat bastard's screams after he blew his knees away was exactly what he'd been wanting. None of those would be crooks knew who he was. Had they known who he was, they'd have crumbled like cheap store brand cookies and ran with their tails between their legs.
To the underworld, he was known as Em Cal. Just the name alone struck fear in even the most bravest of men. Ruthless, cold hearted and stolid, Em Cal worked as a hit man for the McMahon Crime Syndicate, one of the most notorious Irish-American mob families in the metropolis. Whenever some other foolish gang threatened the MCS or some restaurant wasn't paying their protection money, the boss, V.K. McMahon, always sent his most vicious dog, Em Cal to take care of things for him. And Em Cal always got the job done.
Throughout the course of his career, a total of one hundred and sixty-two people died by Em Cal's hand. He was proud of the violent and bloody legacy that he had created. Try as other hit men might, there never be another as sadistic and brutal as Em Cal.
Em Cal had retired from life of crime a year ago. He had suffered a big loss that diminished his passion for the underworld life. He had grew bored with the whole gig. It wasn't much of a challenge like it was when he was young.
Em Cal made a right turn on Starkweather Street. He parked the V-Rod in front of a brown bricked six story apartment building and went inside. He took the stairs; He did not like elevators. He felt that it was a contraption invented for the fat and the lazy.
He finally reached his door, which had 4B on it. He reached inside the chest pocket of his duster and pulled out his key.
His apartment was moderate with Sicilian cream ceramic floor tiles, walls that were painted a Tuscany gold, on which posters of noir film and Mafia films hung. He had windows that were floor to ceiling, giving off a nice view of the Titan City skyline.
Em Cal hung his duster on the coat rack and placed his .44 back into the cigar box he hid it in. Then he went into his liquor cabinet and sank shots of Jack Daniels chased with a couple of beers. Around two o'clock, he went through his pre-bed rituals; smoking 5 cigarettes, doing four hundred reps with the barbells and taking a long hot shower.