I'm not a church goer. Yes, I am religious. I read the bible, I pray to god, and I do confess my sins. But, I do not go to church. My Da goes to church, my Ma goes to church and so does everyone else I know. So when Sunday rolls around and everyone's off praising the lord I found myself sitting in the back room of the bar, cleaning my gun.
Right by the trigger there was a small splatter of blood, long ago had it dried, and it was proving difficult to wipe off. I used my thumb to try and wipe the blood away, but nothing was happening so I dampened a cloth and started to scrub at the horrendous blood splatter. When that proved inconclusive I went to the bathroom and pulled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
"Yes!" I cheered when the blood came off.
I made my way out of the back room and into the bar so I could wipe down the tables. Something that I had been doing a lot lately, even when they weren't dirty. My best guess is that it's a coping mechanism of sorts. I turned the TV on so I could listen to the news and see what the cops or whoever had to say about three dead, fat Russians.
"Good morning Boston! However I am afraid it is a not so good morning for the people of South Boston. Last night twelve men, believed to be members of the Russian mafia were killed. Three of them were found shot in various places in a small apartment down an alley. The police are still investigating, they have no leads. The nine other men that were killed were all shot then laid down, arms crossed over there chests with pennies in there eyes. The police do not believe these two murders are related. Now back to Cindy with the weather!" She didn't sound to saddened by the deaths, but then again I have always found it hard to read reporters.
Twelve dead, and I didn't even kill half off them. I'm gonna have to pick up some slack.
I quit washing the tables and went in the back room to change and grab my things.
When I was out on the street my gun was stuffed in the back of my pants, a sweater that was just a tad to big covered up the obvious bulge someone walking behind me would have seen.
It had been a while since I had any friends in South Boston, but there was one I remember, he knew everyone and there business, hopefully he's still alive.
"Jackson! Jackson are you there!" I screamed, while pounding on the back door to his mothers house. "Jackson!"
"Jackson sweetie, I think someone wants to see you!" His mother called from the other side of the door. "Oh! It's a girl Jackson, she better not be pregnant!"
I laughed, "I'm not pregnant Mrs. Smith. I just need to talk to your son." She opened the door and let me into the kitchen. "Well, he's in the basement. You can just go on down there Nicola."
"Thanks Mrs. Smith." Well if his mom remembers me, he better.
The stairs down into the basement creaked with every step, and the door squeaked when you moved it, just an inch and a horrible squeaking would fill your ears. Worlds best burglar alarm.
"Jackson, you down here?" I asked when I came to the bottom of the steps and was greeted with a small opening and two doors, which one to take, I wasn't sure.
The creepiness of the situation cause me to pull out the gun from the back of my pants. I cocked it and held it in my right hand while opening the door to my left.
It was empty, asides from a small bed and a set of drawers to keep ones clothing in. I went on to the next room, which I knew from the process of elimination that the room I was about to walk into was the room where Jackson did all his work.
"Jackson, just come out. Quit playing around. It's Nicola, I need your help with something." A short, skinny boy with reddish-brown hair came out from behind a computer screen and sat down in a chair. His hair was wild and pointed up in almost every direction. "Can you please put the gun away, Nicola." He shied. "You know I don't like those things." It was true, the poor lad was horrible in a fight. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know how to shoot a gun.
It's amazing the kind of friends I keep.
"I need you to find some people for me. Russians, bad Russians. Can you do that for me?" I asked. "Oh please, Russians, that's all you want me to find? Some bad Russians?" He laughed. "I'm talking mafia here Jackson, I need bad Russians. Rapists, murderers, robbers, drug trafficking, dons, soldiers, hell give me there Godfather." I went off.
Honestly, I had no clue what I was talking about, everything I had just said came from what i had learned watching old police detective shows on my small television at tree in da morning.
"Sure, yeah I'll have all of them printed off that are on U.S. and Russian records. So, if you don't mind me askin' Nic, what are you gonna do with all these names?" He asked.
"As a matter of fact, Jackson, I do mind you asking." I took the papers that had just came out of his printer, "I'll see you later Jackson." I left up his stairs and out the back door, the way I had came.
"Bye Mrs. Smith, was a pleasure seein ya again." I called before the backdoor slammed shut.
When I was back at the pub I sat at the bar and sorted threw all the papers. I tossed the ones I knew were dead then organized the rest by the severity and there 'nobility' in the Russian Mafia.
I'd take out the little guys first, then work my way up. By the time I got to the 'nobles' they would all be scared shitless. Nobody would leave their houses without backup, everyone would be jumpy. I'd just have to get them all in one house together, and kill them all off. Slowly.
I know it's short, but I just wanna give you a little feel for whats gonna be going down in chapters to come. Review and tell me what you think.