Drake weighed his options carefully. Luther was the dead, the Lords were momentarily leaderless, he had left a weak follower on his home with a broken nose, and his stomach was growling.
Right now, his best bet would be to approach his old gang before they found anything out. There were still plenty that remembered his legendary stint as Lord of Lords, and they were not likely to forget. They would listen, if persuaded properly.
He continued walking, careful to look inconspicuous and untroubled. When he reached the old Budweiser factory with the graffiti painted along the sides, he stopped. He took a deep breath, put on an authoritative face, and kicked the door down.
The table in the center, surrounded by scruffy, tattooed teenagers, sent its poker chips flying. The teens themselves reached for weapons.
Quick as always, Drake sent a knife into the arm of a Hispanic that had been going for a gun. Blood ran down his arm, but did not gush or spew, ensuring that no vital artery had been hit. The boy grabbed at it and bit his lip until blood came from it too. Drake smiled the same sordid smile he always seemed to have. "Honey, I'm home."
He assessed the situation. There were only five guys there at the moment, all older and stronger than him. He counted three guns total and a blade for every Lord. However, Drake only recognized two of them, so he was the best fighter out of anyone there. Plus, if he could get the embedded knife back, his blade total would equal their's.
"I'm not looking for a fight, guys," he started. "But the spirit is willing, and if you've heard anything about me, you know the body's not weak." He spat in contempt. "Look at you. Is this what Luther turned you into? When I was boss, you would have been planning the next rumble. Now what are you doing? Playing cards, waiting for your precious Luther to come back and tell you what to do."
A black kid, looking to be about 16, with a skull tattoo on his right arm, spoke up. "Where is Luther? He said he was bringing a new guy back with him. Are you the new guy?"
Drake gave a genuine laugh. "New guy. Ha, that's a good one. Every heard of Drake Baxter? Founder of this little group? First and only real leader of the Lords?"
The kid stared at him suspiciously. "Yeah, I've heard stuff. You him?"
Drake's smile never wavered. "Ask the guy about to faint from loss of blood."
The Hispanic, Roberto De Santos, nodded drowsily. "Yeah, that's him." He struggled to get his T-shirt off to cover the wound. "Who else could pin me like that?"
Drake replied, "Not Luther."
The black kid spoke up again. "Where is Luther, man? I already asked once, I won't do it again."
Drake let his smile fade into a smirk. "He took a tumble off my roof. Not my fault, I'm sorry to say. Your buddy Brian's up there too, but he's damaged goods at this point."
Roberto, pressuring the wound, asked if Luther was dead.
Drake frowned. "Yeah. You need a new boss, boys. Thought I should tell you now instead of having you find out on the streets. You got anything to eat around here?"
"Same place it always was, fridge full of pizza and beer on the second floor."
"Good. I won't stay long."
One kid, a white guy about 20 years old with a brown buzz cut, whipped out a switchblade. "I don't think so, buddy. You don't walk in here and take your pick of our food. I don't care who you are."
"You will," Drake muttered. He too pulled out a knife. "Pull back everybody; it's time for a show. Anyone else want to help out?" No one moved. "Didn't think so. Let's get this over with."
The guy, about 200 pounds from the looks of him, rushed forward, knife held high. Drake landed a rock hard kick to his stomach and grabbed his right arm. Pulling the wrist back as far as he could, he heard a snap and Buzz Cut came crashing down, his knife falling to the floor. He grasped at his wrist, but rose, snatching his knife with the other arm.
"Gotta give you credit, you've got more guts than the other guys I fought this morning," Drake remarked as he sidestepped another bull rush. "Less sense though." Cocking his arm, he uppercut Buzz Cut. A bloody tooth popped out onto the poker table.
"Full house!" shouted Drake as he flipped his attacker onto the poker table. He took a running start, jumped as high as he could, and landed his feet on the stomach with all the force he could muster. The unused knife clattered to the floor as Buzz Cut fell into unconsciousness. Picking up the knife, Drake locked it back and dropped it into his pocket.
Wiping away the first bead of sweat from his brow, he continued to the kitchen. "Anyone that wants pizza can join me!"
The pepperoni was cold, but so was the beer. No one in the gang had disturbed him since the fight, and that had been 20 minutes ago. "I should probably go check on them, he thought. He gulped the last swig of beer and threw the bottle against the wall, shattering it instantly. It was an old Lords tradition, destroy what you don't need. Memories, good and bad, of gang life came rushing back to him.
How a fifteen year old had every risen so high he would never know, but when this had been his home, he had been confronted by ten kids near his age asking for a handout. He had not so kindly refused them, and they had all drawn knives. Beaten to a bloody pulp, he had offered them his home and food if they would spare him. They accepted.
Throughout the following weeks, he had not slept more than 2 hours a night, working his body to its limits, training for the day when they would come back for another handout. The desire for revenge and to make himself better than he was consumed him. He spent four days straight once lifting weights and doing pushups, stopping only for an apple and a dozen bottles of water.
The day came, and when he again refused, this time there were ten bigger pulps on his floor. Again though, the offer came from his lips. If they would respect him as a leader, he would give them his home and food permanently. They accepted.
The Lords were formed under him, and it was universally understood that he could take down anyone that opposed him. New members came, but no one left. Until that fateful day when he caught Luther on the phone.
His best friend in the gang, Luther had been on the phone setting up a drug deal. Drake chose to do nothing about it, allowing his anger to stew until two nights later. The Lords approached the site of the deal, but the dealer never showed up.
Questions arose, and Drake answered them in full. The deal was off, he said, and so was he. Taking off the Lord of Lords jacket, he had flung it in Luther's face, as well as all of its burdens and responsibilities. A fight had ensued, the hardest Drake had ever fought, but in the end, only he was left standing, and the jacket remained on the incapable back of Luther.
The legend was over, and so were the Lords.
Breaking away from his memories, he descended the stairs. It was eerily quiet. Ambush, he thought. They never learn, do they? Looking around, he could see no one. But then, his eyes bore into the corner, and spotted the bodies. Buzz Cut, Roberto, and the others were piled on top of each other, five dead bodies in a stack. He stepped back, appalled.
"An ugly sight, is it not?" asked a deep, chilling voice. Behind him, floating above the ground in purple and red, a majestic figure of authority and power, stood the Master of Magnetism. Magneto sneered, his eyes narrowing. "I've never like mass graves."
