SATURDAY NIGHT
APRIL 15th, 1989
MIAMI, FLORIDA

Samuel checked his wristwatch with a huff.

Christ, he thought, it's not even ten o'clock yet. He trudged up the stairs to the apartment block's second floor, and the buzzing of nearby fluorescent lights did little to help his nerves. He shoved open the door into the hallway and walked the corridor's length as he meddled with his keyring, mail tucked under his arm.

"What bullshit," he grumbled to himself as he unlocked his apartment door.

He visualized what the party going on now must be like, and what fun he would be having had he not been kicked out by the host. Samuel wasn't even sure what it was—something he said, a rule he broke, what?—but they kicked him out without so much as a warning. He even brought the beer, too!

He slammed the door and stormed up to his desk, tossing onto it his bundle of papers and packages as he eyed the NES and television in the other room. So, it looked like game night. Again.

Whoop-de-fucking-do.

However, as he stepped over to his shelf of video games, a thought crossed his mind. He changed course and approached his phone, putting the receiver to his ear and playing back the answering machine.

"You have one new message. Today, 7:34 PM."

"Hey, it's 'Adam' at the auto shop."

Samuel could not hide his smile; it was Adrian's voice.

"I was wondering if you could cover my shift for me tonight. I'm feeling a bit... 'under the weather.' Our new location is on Southeast 118th Street, in case you've forgotten again. Do a good job for me, okay? I'll meet up with you for beer when you're done."

Samuel placed the phone down and glanced over at his desk's bottom drawer, clearing the thoughts of the party from his mind. If Adrian was calling him in code like this, he was tasked with a mission, and either having a bad day or wanting to bring his friend along. Judging by his tone of voice, Samuel bet on showing up alone this time.

Samuel reached into the drawer and felt around, detecting thin rubber among papers and tools. He pulled out the mask he was searching for: a snarling timber wolf stared back at him, pink tongue showing ravenously between its jaws. It was the second mask given to him by Adrian as a gift, as well as the latest. With care, he stuffed it into his hoodie pocket.

As a combination of excitement and anxiety began welling up inside of him, Samuel scooped his keys off the desk and donned his favorite pair of aviator sunglasses before stepping out the door. It looked like he would be having some real fun tonight after all.

• • •

Samuel gazed up at the bright neon sign on the building across the street as he brought his motorbike to a stop.

Palm Drive Gentlemen's Club, it read in an eye-searing shade of magenta.

He dragged his gaze downwards to the sleek black sports car pulled up in front of the building. The guards at the front door, clad in familiar white uniforms—Russian gangsters—gladly welcomed in a man wearing a fancy suit that matched his chauffeur's vehicle. One guard shook the VIP's hand as the other twirled the end of a golf club, attentions diverted away from the man across the street. The guest strolled into the club as the guards followed in behind him and sealed the doors shut. The car pulled away and sped off into the humid night.

Presuming the entrance to be locked tight, Samuel sneaked into an alleyway and made his way around the building. He came to a stop at the corner and listened, catching a conversation between two Russians, talking about prostitutes and some kind of show. As tension began to flutter in his stomach, Samuel let out a breath and tucked his shades into his pocket. Then he slipped the mask over his head and prepared to strike.

All too swiftly, the wolf was on the attack. He punched the glasses from one mobster's face and snatched the knife he dropped. As he reeled from the blow, his assailant slashed the blade through the second man's throat and kicked him into the side of a dumpster. Before the first gangster could lift himself up, the masked attacker thrust the knife into his chest.

The predator stepped back from the scene. Both Russians bled out, turning their white jackets a sickly shade of dark red. Samuel's breath circulated hot and humid in his mask, and his veins flowed with adrenaline, the stuff he lived for. He whipped his head to the strip club's rear entrance as the pounding bass of electronic music emanated from deep inside.

Now it was time for the ultimate high.

He clenched the knife tightly and barreled into the door shoulder-first, knocking it open. One mobster, his back to the door, looked over his shoulder before taking a stab to the spine. The wolf wrenched the knife out and hurled it blade-first into the eye of a second gangster at the end of the hallway, dropping him instantly.

He thrust open the nearest door to find a changing room, surprisingly vacant. He snatched up a baseball bat leaning in the corner before a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the hallway. It was a young woman.

A door slammed open in the corridor, and there came two more voices.

"What the fuck happened here?!" one exclaimed.

"Over there," said the other, "that door!"

The wolf brandished his bat as dress shoes clacked against the tile.

He thrust it around the corner, smashing in one man's face and causing the other to bring his handgun to the ready a moment too slow—a few hard blows to the head took care of him.

The wolf stood to his feet, catching his breath, and noticed that the screaming had stopped. He glanced over to see a prostitute, scantily clad and pale as the bodyguards' attire, stumble back into the open doorway behind her and faint. He looked back down at what little was left intact of the mobster's head and picked up his fallen pistol. Following the music, he made his way into the club proper and decided to hold the gun like he saw on television: sideways, knuckles-up. He stepped over the fallen woman and turned a corner into a hallway as his high began fading like a dying lightbulb.

Thankfully, another gangster managed to rejuvenate it.

He came from one of the several doors lining the hall, and upon seeing the masked man shouted before taking a bullet to the torso and collapsing.

The wolf gripped his wrist in pain at the startling amount of recoil his gun had.

"Fuck me," he growled.

As five more doors flew open, he ignored the pain and took aim.

A woman screamed from the only closed room as his gut clenched.

He had no cover.

Things were about to get interesting.

As soon as he saw a white uniform, he opened fire. After only a few quick seconds, the slide locked, and he tossed the empty pistol aside. One bad guy down.

Two.

Three?

A shotgun cocked.

"Die, bitch!"

The wolf dashed forward, snatching up a golf club as he went. He turned into a doorway and struck the armed mobster across the side of the head with an audible crack. Someone yelled behind him, and he ducked as a baseball bat flew over the top of his head, close enough to touch his mask's hollow rubber ears. He turned and swung his weapon, only for the gangster to catch it and wrench it from his hands before preparing for another swing of his own. The wolf punched him in the stomach and sent him reeling empty-handed into the hall, breathless.

The criminal and the predator stared each other down as the former fitted himself with a pair of brass knuckles. A sneer crept across his square jaw and his bald head shimmered with sweat.

"American bastard," he snarled before swiping his fist at his opponent's face.

The wolf dodged and flailed his arm in an attempt to connect it with something, and a fist like steel slammed into his chest, surely breaking a rib or two. He threw another punch, contacting nothing but the cold, dry air. The second set of knuckles pounded into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Breathless and panicked, he ripped the mask from his head and looked his opponent in the face as the man drew a revolver from the floor.

Samuel's heart kicked into overdrive as he tackled the Russian to the leopard print carpet and began pounding both fists into his face and jaw. The flesh of the man's cheeks swelled and bled as he continued his assault. He only stopped when he could feel his bloodied hands contact raw flesh and bone, and he stared down into a pair of deadened eyes.

"Holy shit!"

He whipped his head towards the other end of the hall at the suited figure staring at him in terror: the VIP. He must have escaped from his room during the brawl.

The guest bolted for the exit as Samuel put on his mask and slipped the revolver into his back pocket. For good measure, he stooped down and readied a submachine gun before resuming the chase.

He sprinted down the hall in hot pursuit, following the bloody shoe prints trailing along the carpet and tile. The pounding music from deep within the building became louder the further he ran, and the bass practically shook the ground. The cold, sickly blue of the back rooms' fluorescent lights gave way to neon pink against black decor. He whipped a curtain out of the way to find himself on a runway and halted in his tracks. Surrounding the stage lounged a crowd of gangsters and hookers, the former of whom drew firearms at the sight of the armed, blood-spattered intruder in a rubber animal mask. The women cried out in terror and ducked their heads, barely audible over the deafening beat of the club music.

The wolf raised his weapon and leapt from the stage, opening fire into the congregation.

Wine glasses exploded, blood spurted, and bodies dropped to the hypnotizing beat of the music. The bass shook the floor, almost in sync with the rifle fire. Blood, alcohol and tobacco smoke flooded the wolf's nostrils as he tossed the emptied gun aside and drew his revolver. He kicked in the double doors leading into the lobby and sank a few bullets into the guards waiting for him.

There only remained the VIP, futilely pulling at the club's front doors. When he saw the wolf, he pressed his back up against the locked handles.

"F—fuck!" he gasped, pounding on the door. "Wait! You speak Russian?"

The predator put a bullet between his eyes.

• • •

A cheery tune drifted through the nearly vacant bar from a jukebox as Samuel strolled inside, hands in his pockets. His eyes scanned the room from behind his reflective shades and found Adrian sitting across the way with his nose in a newspaper.

"Hey, man," Samuel said as he approached from behind. Adrian remained silent. Samuel cautiously sat down in the booth chair across from him. "You okay, Adrian?"

Adrian peeked over his paper with dull brown eyes.

"Hey, Sam."

He put his paper down to reveal a gaunt, pale face. His auburn hair was messy, and his soul patch seemed to rest uncomfortably on his chin.

"Whoa, you look like sh—" Samuel stopped himself and reworded his thoughts. "Uh, you don't look too hot."

"Glad to see you've shown up." Adrian's smile was weak and short-lived. He tossed the paper onto the table. "I've been waiting for over an hour."

The policeman took a swallow of his icy drink.

"Sorry, man. Is that vodka?"

"What? Hell no. Do you really think I'd let myself near any alcohol after a day like this? It's just water."

This bar being their natural hangout, Samuel never expected his friend to come and not share at least a beer or two.

"A day like what?" Samuel asked.

"Lindsay left this morning," his friend muttered. "Just took her things, walked out and left me a little note. Said I 'wasn't around anymore'—go figure."

He took another sip of water and picked his paper back up. Samuel caught a glimpse of a news story on the side facing him:

"Another massacre has been reported on Northwest 184th Street. A man wearing an animal mask was said to have been leaving the scene."

"Looks like we're making headlines," Samuel said with a grin in an attempt to lighten the mood with a more exciting topic.

Adrian turned the page over and scoured it with tired eyes. His mouth twisted into a scowl.

"That's not us," he grumbled, returning to his own reading. "Just some other poor bastard with a gun to his head."

"What?"

Adrian let out a sigh and put his face in his hands. There came a bout of uncomfortable silence after the jukebox by the door switched off.

"You know that organization I signed up for a while back?"

"Yeah, that patriotic program. What about it?"

"They left a death threat on my answering machine yesterday. Implied they'd kill me if I didn't... do what I was told."

"Death threats? Really, from a group like that?"

"That's what my department said, too." Adrian continued with a hollow voice, letting his gaze fall to his feet. "Call me crazy, but I just know Fifty Blessings are the ones who have been leaving those messages for me—I practically started getting them as soon as I signed up. I know that they're patriots like us, but I didn't think they would be so literal about 'fighting the Russian menace.'"

"Well, what were you expecting?"

Immediately Samuel grimaced, wishing that he could take the absentminded question back. Adrian shot his friend a glare and brought his tone down to a hiss.

"I wasn't expecting to be blowing their fucking heads off! Jesus Christ, Sam, do you really need to ask me that?" He checked his watch and hurriedly collected his newspaper. "I've got to go. It's after midnight already."

He stormed from the booth, and Samuel followed.

"Come on, man," he said as they reached Adrian's Mustang, "what's the big deal? They're criminals, they don't deserve to be fucking with our country. Bolshevik scum, the lot of 'em, what should they mean to us? Communist sons-a—"

"They are human beings, Sam!"

Adrian was left huffing after letting out such a cry, and his face was beet red against his blue denim jacket.

"I'm going home," he growled, stepping into the driver's seat of his car.

He slammed the door shut and sped off into the hazy night without even buckling up.

Samuel was left standing on the street corner. He walked back to his motorcycle, removed his shades and gazed up into the starless sky.


I hope you're all enjoying the story so far! I would greatly appreciate some feedback.