There were only two things on the waking earth that Malachi was afraid of. The first was death. The second was The Punisher. But then again, everyone was afraid of Frank Castle. Death and the Punisher were old friends, very old friends. He was like the devil to devils. And no matter how much Malachi wanted to believe it, he could never be as scary.
The body count was simply too outweighed.
Malachi leaned back in his chair, drumming his dark fingers impatiently on the surface of the desk. He wanted to lash out verbally at the two armed doormen, demanding to know how much longer the Vallancis would keep him waiting. But he decided against it, looking up coldly at Rahey's chest, standing behind him with his massive arms folded neatly behind his back. His brown eyes were focused ahead, perhaps staring down the two gunmen, or perhaps they were off on some distant, killing field, enacting ungodly deeds against whomever happened to be there, stuck in his dreams. Malachi breathed, hoping it wasn't him.
"Where th' fuck are these fuckin' clowns?"
Malachi shot a look at Boston, frowned slightly, then nodded, deciding he was somewhat satisfied that the man had taken the time to read his thoughts and spout the stupid question before Malachi's impatience did.
"Relax." Malachi's calm, Brooklyn voice helped to soothe the man's annoyance. "Once they get here, it'll be worth it." He then frowned, remembering what he was answering. "And watch your language."
"This is a big fuckin' deal, Malachi." Someone justified his words, "You sure you're up for this shit?"
Malachi, at first, wanted to shoot him. But his second thought was that doing so would probably not be the best of moves, so instead he regained his crumbling composure and simply nodded, his dark eyes waning slightly, perhaps in hurried annoyance. The loud mouth caught on and shut up.
"Yo, Malachi-" One of the bouncers stuck his head through the door, and the two gunmen turned slightly towards the crack out of habit, only to sink back into their positions after realizing they didn't have to kill anyone. "They'se here."
He sat forward and wrung his hands together in sudden anticipation, nodding quickly. "Yes, of course," He looked to the gunmen at the door, then to his associates around the table as if to ensure that they were ready. Satisfied, he set loose another rampancy of nods and coughed out, "Let out guests in."
Malachi was fixing his tie when three Vallanci spooks came through the door and found spots to stand alongside the walls, followed by a beautiful young woman in a ritzy dress and a tall, handsome man with slicked back black hair and a winning smile. "Sorry we're late."
Malachi stood up, outstretching one hand to shake the guest's, then the woman's, and motioned to the chair across the table from him with a smile.
"I'm glad you've decided to join us…" Malachi trailed off his sentence, implying that he wanted the man to finish it with his name. It was a brash, somewhat informal move, but Malachi wanted to play this as smoothly as possible. If all went through, they were going to have more assets than liabilities, and that was what they needed most desperately if they were going to fight the war fought on all fronts.
"Johnny De Marci." The man was so Italian he smelled like a boot. "And this is my girlfriend Gabrielle Vallanci." He glanced at the beautiful woman, taking a seat after one of the Vallanci gunmen pulled the chair out for her.
She smiled and sat forward, "I was told you had a business proposition for my father, and before my family does business with you, I would like to see what you have to offer us."
Malachi smirked. "Of course."
Rahey turned slowly, taking hold of the suitcase resting on the table behind him- next to the loaded Uzi- and set it down on the table in front of Malachi as if he were prompted to do so. The Irishman flipped open the top and pulled it open, stepping back so Malachi could take over and explain the glowing blue liquid stored in transparent glass tubes in the satin briefcase.
"Diacetylmorphine hydrochloride. Concentrated, diluted, and over-spun. But there's something very different about my stuff." A sinister grin spilled over the man's dark lips, and he almost laughed.
Both of them sat forward, instantly interested in what this man was showing them. It was heroin. Obviously… but there was something incredibly different about this man's Horse. Something that grabbed their attention, pulling them towards the ocean blue fluid instilled in its glass containers. Malachi continued, his pleausure infinate.
"Imagine a narcotic undetectible by any means available to the police, completely concentrated, and without the side affects such as nasea and hypotension. So completely perfect in every way and in every respect. This stuff is a work of beauty. Addictive, yes," He chuckled, "Very addictive."
De Marci lowered his eyes. "How much?"
Malachi jerked his head to the side with a grin, as if to say 'you'll see' and slowly pushed the suitcase towards him. "Take it. Consider it a gift." He looked over at Gabrielle and winked. "Take it home, show your father, and call me in the morning." The dark-skinned man laughed again, "And tell him there's plenty more where that came from."
Gabrielle frowned slightly, her brown eyes focused on Malachi for several seconds before her gentle lips parted and spoke the words everyone in the room was anticipating, dreading, and wondering all at the same time.
"What about The Punisher?"
Malachi smiled.
Sarah Wright is afraid of the dark.
She opened her eyes, and when she couldn't feel Michael beside her, she sat up. The beautiful, straight, shoulder-length brown strands of her hair fell down her face as she propped up on an elbow, the covers sliding off her naked form as her blue eyes searched the room, a concerned expression across her face that asked the darkness where she could find her husband.
Ever since she was a little girl, Sarah had been afraid of the dark. When she was eight she accidentally locked herself in a closet for several hours, weeping quietly as the walls closed in on her and the boogeyman explained what horrible, terrible things he was going to do to her as soon as she opened her eyes.
"Mike?"
The sound of her own voice frightened Sarah a little, and she pulled the sheets up higher on her body and clutched them to her front with both hands, pushing off the bed to sit upright. Still her eyes would not respond to her dark need for awareness, and when she could stand the cold night air against her bare back no longer she slid out of bed and donned her nightgown, clasping the silk tails closed with one hand as she made her way out of the bedroom, her eyes pressed to see through the cloaked darkness that suffocated her apartment before she realized she could turn a light on and suddenly felt very silly for being so afraid.
Mike wasn't in the room. He wasn't sitting on the couch with a big smile on his face reading the paper. He wasn't preparing breakfast… or waiting for her to fold into his arms so he could comfort her.
The balcony door was open.
Sarah faced it with open eyes. Her hand fell from the tails of her robe and her lips quivered. Feet came forward without the brain sending them messages and she was moving towards the open doors, her brain trying to grab desperately on to the wall and stop herself but curiosity, worry, and fear banded together and beat logic down. Her stomach bound up in bunches and she let out a shivering breath, stepping out into the rain. Her feet bled against the wet concrete, the cold of the balcony burning them when a chill wind flowed up her robe and struck out against her nakedness.
Sarah Wright is afraid of the dark
Ever since she was eight years old and she locked herself in that closet. The night scared her down to her very bones and shook them twice as hard. Around every corner a rapist, a murderer, and a psycho waited for her. Maybe that's why she didn't want to look down. But fear is funny that way.
You always look.
Her breath came out in gulping seizes and she balked, falling back into the house and crashed to the floor, grabbing at her face and screaming out in grief, as if to pull the sight from her eyes before they burned into her memory. She collapsed on the floor and cried with her eyes squeezed closed, her fists balled against her forehead. She wept and sobbed until her trained mind was able to compose itself long enough to do something, anything.
"H-help!"
The attempt was hardly noteworthy.
Sarah Wright gave up instantly, lying there on the floor with only her tears and the rain streaming through the window…