AUTHOR: Wow, didn't think I'd been getting so many great reviews! Y'all tell your friends, please? Anyway, can't take all the credits, Very special thanks to Dierdre who beta this chapter and pointed out misspells on my part that just me feel shamefull. I would also like to use this opportunity and thank Reinbeauchaser who beta the first chapter. Truly hope she'll forgive me for forgetting to mention it.
WARNING: This chapter has swearing, violence and there are mentions of some drug use. You have been warned.
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...the stench is so powerful, my eyes are almost watery...
...a brown river of waste...
...I look down and see four small red stones attached to my body...
...they are melting, the redness slowly spreading everywhere on me...
...voices...
...they're hunting someone...
...they're hunting for me...
...they're going to kill me...
...can't let them find me...
...I...
...I...
...I don't want to die...
...something bursts through the smelly water...something big...
...it attacks the hunters...
...begging...
...screams...
...shooting...
...a demonic roar...
...I see it now...
...a giant of a demon...
...glowing yellow eyes...
...it sees me...its roar as it charges towards me shakes everything...
...it moves at an impossible speed given its size...
...saliva leaking between its many sharp teeth...
Oh God It GOT me it's so angry so FURIOUS
It opens its massive MOUTH oh God it's going to DEVOUR me-
It's-
I wake up with a muffled scream inside my throat as I fall off my bed. I lay on the floor for several minutes, breathing hard and trying to convince myself it was just a nightmare. Only... I've been having the same nightmare for months now. Not every night, but... twice, often three times a week. Sometimes more. And it doesn't always happen in that smelly place. Not yet, anyway. Sometimes I'm in that warehouse where I first started my killing spree six months ago. I think... I am running from something, or someone, and then I fall down a dark hole that opens up in the ground. It is then that I'm in that place of stench. I continue to run until...
The nightmare gets too chaotic at that point for me to remember. I can feel several parts just disappear as I wake up. But so far, it has always ended with that... thing coming towards me to grab me, its massive bulk shadowed so I can't see what it isBut its piss-yellow eyes are glowing and fixed on me, and there is no love in its gaze.
I take deep breath through my nose and then realize that I need a bath. Badly.
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M.J. stood in front of the bathroom mirror, clean and wearing nothing but a fresh pair of boxers. His gaze slowly traveled over his body, while he tried not to look at his own face for too long. M.J.'s body frame was nothing spectacular, though some parts of his pale skin told that he had lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time. Other then that, nothing really stood out, except for M.J.'s tattoos. Across the center of his chest, where his heart was, were the words Grove 4 Life inked in bold words. And on his left forearm was a tattoo of a revolver aiming at whoever looked at it, as well as a cross with a snake around it on his right. But M.J.'s gaze was not at his tatts, his skin or his body frame, but on something else.
Spread randomly across his chest and belly were four... pink-ish spots. The spots weren't big. In fact, when M.J. firstrecalled seeing them, he thought it was some kind of heat allergy since the summer was coming up, or possibly the chicken pox. But after they had been on his body for over three months --God only knew how long they had really been there-- it was clear to him that it wasn't going away anytime soon. In fact, a couple of weeks ago M.J. had taken a closer look, slowly tracing the spots on his skin, only to find that they were part of his flesh, like a scar or something.
Perhaps M.J. had been wounded and hadn't realized it? Doubtful. Maybe a sign of stress or something similar? Possibly, considering what M.J. had been doing for half a year.
It could also be cancer, but that was a possibility M.J. preferred not to dwell on.
Grunting in slight frustration, M.J. turned away from the mirror and walked back to his room.
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To call my newest apartment a dump would be an insult to all dumps everywhere. The biggest of the three rooms is a living room with a kitchen in the corner, followed by a bathroom and my bedroom. The walls, and what little furniture I got, all look like they're slowly rotting. The less said about the smell, the better. And to top it all off, my place is near a subway bridge, where a train passes by every hour. This is my third apartment in four months, but believe me, my second was a whole lot worse. Been switching now and then, if only to decrease the chances of having someone tail me after I've done my thing, or having someone living nearby put two and two together. You'd be surprised how many people have too much time on their hands; they gotta pass it somehow, if only by spying on their neighbors.
M.J., fully dressed, yawned hugely and looked at his watch.
10:03AM. Shit, only got about three hours of sleep this time. But I've had shorter. Guess I'd better have a double espresso with breakfast. Heh, funny. Last year I hated the stuff and could only wonder why people would willingly drink coffee. Now, I'm practically injecting the stuff into my veins.
Still, the insomnia that I've been having for nearly six months now doesn't really surprise me. After all, guilt is a chilling feeling.
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45 minutes later, Franco's Diner...
M.J. hadbarely touched his bacon and eggs, choosing instead to take his sweet time eating, even though the food was starting to get cold. Aside from a couple that sat near the doors, M.J. was the only one inside the small restaurant.
Wanna hear something funny? Well, it's probably not funny to you, but when I think about it, sometimes I just can't help but shake my head at how absurd it is that I'm still alive. Well, maybe not alive, but still breathing.
I wasn't a soldier in Grove Street. I was a driver.
Yeah, that's right. A driver. Whenever there was an illegal street race or a drive-by that needed to be done, most of the time I was the one who sat behind the wheel. Just before Grove Street fell, I had been its driver for nearly five years. Sure, I wasn't exactly THE best, but I came pretty damn close. And driving while the guy riding shotgun is shooting at someone or getting shot at, or while making a break from the police, takes nerves of steel and even better reflexes. Which is the best explanation I can come up with as to why I haven't gotten myself killed yet.
Being a driver in a gang, you don't think… you act. Whether you are about to start a race or are just cruising down a street, the situation and everything in it can change in less than a heartbeat. And if you make a mistake, you usually don't get a second chance. It's about having your instincts in control and listening to your guts, allowing you to see what's in front of you and to decide in an instant how to best overcome it when it tries to bite you in the ass.
That was what I did six months ago. Before that, the only gun I had ever touched was the one that was given to me on my initiation day, that damn antiqe. But now I have more.
I learned.
I adapted.
I suppose I see the methods of driving and killing as the same thing, but I know there's a difference. A big one, too. For example, there's a difference between driving over a hundred miles per hour through a narrow street while being chased by the police, and charging into a room and killing everyone with a Purple Dragon tattoo on their body. Maybe some people somehow manage to just... go through with it and never look back, like I did with driving, but... I can't. I just can't. I continue to try, to adapt, to just... disconnect myself and yet remain active, but no matter how hard I try it always comes back to me. The memories. They haunt me.
I don't think its fair, considering what the Dragons have done to people. They shouldn't haunt me like that, damnit! I've been killing scumbags, the lowest human beings humanity has to offer! I should feel... I should feel...
…..feel...
...who knows, maybe I did die at that warehouse, but just haven't realized it yet.
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4 hours later...
In one of the many not-so-very clean streets of New York, where the streets were mostly lined with apartment buildings that looked like they belonged in the 60's, one house in particular stood out. While the rest of the rundown buildings in the area had people struggling to survive while unemployed, or burdened with not-so-very profitable jobs, this one had a lot of activity coming from it. Nearly all of the seven story building was covered in spray paintings, with a different style on each level, and on nearly every floor there seemed to be some sort of a party going on. Outside the building some Purple Dragon gangsters had gathered, showing off their cars, playing dice or just sitting on the stairs smoking pot.
Everybody in the neighborhood knew that coming near that place while being a nonmember was a bad idea, so everybody stayed a respectfull/fearfull distance from it.
A couple of blocks away, sitting on a rooftop while spying on the Purple Dragon building with a pair of old binoculars, was M.J.
Damn, looks like there's nothing important about that place. It's not a crack house, a chop shop or anything that the Dragons use to get money. Looks more like just a place to hang out. It's probably not even one of those recruitment places where the wannabe Dragons come and fight in those rings to become members. Heard there's a new one near one of the east docks, but I ain't got no intention of hitting that kinda place. Nah, I wanna hit the Dragons where it hurts, and that building over there ain't one of 'em.
M.J. stood up and was about to leave, when a car with its speakers on full volume drove towards the building. Its frame was marred with all kinds of colors and patterns, and while M.J. was no spray artist, he knew a horrible taste when he saw one. And there was also something familiar about the style, if you could call it that.
Huh, wonder who that is. Probably someone high-up in the gang, since there's no way some average gangster would show himself in that horribly painted car and get laughed at behind his back, without having the power to take care of 'em himself.
The ugly car stopped in front of the building and the gangsters cleared a path between it and the car, confirming that it was definitely someone with straps. A figure stepped out, and when M.J. looked through the binoculars he was too surprised to burst out laughing.
The guy was horribly dressed in pink and looked like a wannabe pimp. He even tried to walk cool, but looked more like he was staggering. He was flanked by two meatheads as he walked up to a gangster and spoke with him, and when the gangster handed something to him, he slapped him hard. Maybe because of a debt the gangster couldn't fully repay, or maybe because the wannabe pimp simply demanded his money and wasn't happy with how much he got. Regardless, his shrieky voice almost carried all the way to where M.J. was, who could only wonder why that girly-man hadn't been shot by his own crew. After all, there wasn't much surprise or reaction from the rest of the Dragons when he slapped the gangster, so it must have been a regular event for them.
The pink-dressed pimp started staggering around the gathered gangsters, probably telling everyone that they should pay him what he wanted or else. But if the clothes hadn't completely ruined the intimidation effect he was trying to have, then his high-pitch voice certainly did.
Although he had watched the whole thing from a distance, up until now he hadn't gotten a good look at the pimp's face. When the man turned in a poorly dramatic move, however, M.J. finally saw his face…
And nearly dropped his binoculars in shock.
What the..? No way, that can't be him!
But there was no denying it. He finally remembered where he had seen such horrible spray paintings like the one on that car, and knew that only he could also have a similar taste in clothes.
It's him... B.B.
M.J. slowly lowered the binoculars away from his stunned face. For a few seconds he didn't move, but then suddenly his face twisted into an expression of total fury.
"That... BASTARD!" He almost tossed the binoculars off the building, but managed to smash them against the roof at the last moment as he cursed for nearly two minutes straight, leaving him straining for breath again. Gathering his wits, he quickly picked up the binoculars, cursing once more when he saw a lens was broken. Looking through the other one, he just barely caught sight of B.B.'s back as he entered the building.
Just three minutes ago M.J. had no intention of going near that place. Now, he was determined to torch the entire building if it meant getting to B.B. But first he needed to acquire some weapons.
"You're dead, you hear me? Dead. An' nothing is gonna stand in my way."
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25 minutes later...
"For the last time, NO! I ain't got time for this shit, Casey I gotta do something that just needs to be done! You got it?"
But of course, the knucklehead didn't get it.
"Aw, come on,M.J.! I really could use some help here, y'know. I gotta teach them punks over 'ere in dat arcade a lesson or two dat Casey Jones is da champ in Virtual Hokey 2000!"
"Then what the hell do you need me for?" M.J. replied angrily, while trying to remove Casey's restraining hand from his shoulder.
"Well, the thing with dat game is dat instead of just havin' two players playin', two more can join in an' help out. Y'know, one bein' the goalkeeper an' the other one goin' for da goal and stuff. Da other guy has his pal to back 'im up, an' just as it looks like I gotta win all by myself, I see you walkin' by an' remember once hearin' dat you were also into da arcades! An' it's been over two years since I last saw ya! Imagine dat!"
"Yeah, imagine that. Look, Casey, for one thing, I haven't been into an arcade for over a year now-"
"Aw, 's okay, it'll come back to ya! It's just like ridin' a bike!"
"And second, I got other plans an' time is not on my side!"
"Hey, don't worry 'bout it! Remember, yer talkin' to da champ 'ere! We'll nail those punks before dey can say Golden Puck!" And with that, Casey effortlessly dragged M.J. back towards the arcade, showing no signs that he heard M.J.'s loud protests.
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3 hours later...
"WOOOOHOOO! YEAH! WE KICKED SOME BUTTS!" Casey shouted at the top of his lungs as he exited the arcade, jumping up onto the nearest bench to continue his hollering. Some distance away from Casey, a very unhappy looking M.J. walked out of the arcade, trying extremely hard to ignore Casey and the victory dance he was doing on the bench.
'Don't worry, M.J., I'm da champ! We'll have dose punks runnin' away before ya know it,' MY ASS!
"YEAH! I'M CASEY JONES AN' I'M STILL DA CHAMP! REMEMBER DA NAME, BABY!"
M.J. walked away as quickly as he could without getting noticed, while 'da champ' jumped up and down on the bench, which began to look like it would break any minute.
Yeah, you just stay there and tell everyone how great you are, while I just walk away. And please don't yell-
"GOONGALAAAA!"
...you just had to say it, didn't you?
"Yo, M.J.! Where ya goin! We gotta celebrate!"
Oh no...
Casey was quick to catch up with M.J., probably because the people who had just seen him in action kept a healthy distance away from him. Something that M.J. had been trying to do, up until now.
"Hey man, thanks for all yer help! We sure showed dem Whadda ya say we go an' celebrate? My treat!" Casey made a move to grab M.J.'s shoulders again, but M.J. quickened his pace.
"Casey, I don't have time for this. There's something that I need to do, and it's probably too late, no thanks to you."
"Hey! It ain't my fault dat da guys wanted a rematch! An' just so you know I think dat you could have done a lot better! More'n six times dey almost scored 'cause you were too busy lookin' at yo watch!"
"There was a reason why I did that," grumbled M.J., putting as much venom in his words as possible. Casey didn't even blink.
"Ya know, ya shouldn't worry so much 'bout time and hurrin' to places. It ain't good for yer stomach! An' speakin' 'bout health, you look kinda pale an' more skinny then I remember you. Oh! An' how come yer still around? I thought Grove Street didn't exist no more."
"Casey, someone's trying to steal your bike," replied M.J. without even looking.
"WHAT?" Casey turned around and ran towards wherever he had parked his bike. Upon seeing it safe and sound, he turned back where M.J. had been heading, only to find that he had disappeared into the crowds.
"Hey, ain't no one tryin' to steal my bike, man! M.J.? Where you at!" But no response came and Casey was left alone, rubbing his head in confusion.
"Wassit sumthin' I said?"
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Casey fucking Jones.
Haven't seen him for over two years, up until now. And even then I barely knew him. At best we chatted now and then, but it seems like he's the type that, after just talking to someone for a few hours, will pretend like they're best buds. Even heard he invites himself into people's homes and has a hard time taking a hint when to leave. In fact, he has trouble taking any kind of hint.
I suppose the only reason I still remember him is the same one that everyone else who was at that street race two and a half years ago has. It was a race meant for cars only, as usual, but Casey suddenly arrived with his bike and wanted to race. Just about everyone told him no, so he decided to prove that bikes were just as good as cars, if not better.
After his little demonstration, everyone who was going to race, along with some innocent bystanders, ended up chasing him with crowbars and iron pipes.
Please don't ask.
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The time was almost 20:00PM when M.J. finally returned to the street where the Purple Dragon building was. To his immense relief, the ugly car was still in front of the building and loud music still emanated from the house itself. And since it wasn't there to make money for the Purple Dragons, it meant only one thing:
They're having a party. Perfect.
Wearing a used leather jacket M.J. had bought from someone who needed cash a few weeks back, if only to look tough, he slowly edged closer towards the house, holding the binoculars in one hand and a purple marker in the other. Hiding behind a truck, he slowly peeked at the entrance. The big doors were open with guards flanked on either side, but anyone who walked in or out of the building made no hand signals or anything like they usually did. Which made things a little more difficult.
Damn, this place is for Purple Dragons only. Won't matter if you know the hand signal; if you're not wearing the mark, you won't get in.
M.J. knew it was a long shot --as long as it could get--, but M.J. turned to the truck's mirror and slowly started drawing on his face with the purple marker he had remembered to take from his apartment.
10 Minutes later...
Ah hell, looks more like a tentacle than a dragon's tail.
M.J. glared at his 'handy-work'. What was supposed to be a Purple Dragon tail that started just below his right eye and traveled down to his neck, did not look very convincing up close. It was, at best, sloppy.
But I can't back down now, damnit. B.B. is just around the corner, that asshole, and he's gonna get it even if I have to shoot everyone who gets in my way.
Concealed under the leather jacket was the SMG he had bought the other day, including all three clips and his 9mm. But even if he had brought ten clips with him, it looked like it wouldn't be enough for even half the people that were already inside the building.
M.J.'s thoughts on how to get in were interrupted when a voice spoke behind him, "Hey, bro, got a light?"
Turning around, he saw a Purple Dragon gangster dressed in black leather, the tattooed head of a dragon on his right cheek. Obviously high, he held out a joint towards M.J. with a stupid grin on his face.
A few seconds later, M.J. returned with a fake grin that wouldn't have fooled a five-year-old child.
"Sure do, bro."
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Both of the guards checked their watches almost simultaneously. More than an hour left until the next guard shift. One of them noticed Stone coming back, high as usual, and he seemed to have found someone he knew, for the new guy told something to Stone and he burst out laughing. This wasn't exactly surprising, since when Stone was stoned he thought a picture of William Shatner on a coffee cup was hilarious.
Stone sat on the stairs with the newcomer beside him, probably exchanging stories or something. The guard noticed a purple line on the right side of his face that looked to be a familiar dragon's tail. Immediately losing interest, his attention was drawn away when he noticed more people heading towards the building.
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"-an' then he said in that damn girly voice; don't you talk to me like that, foo'! I'm gangsta! I got straps! Boys, kick his ass!" Stone burst into his fourth bout laughter since he started talking to the fellow Purple Dragon he'd just met. His tatt looked really cool. Needed to remember to ask him where he'd gotten it.
"Sounds like this B.B. dude is a total wimp."
"Oh, dude, you don't know the half of it! He talks big an' all, but when it comes to shovin' he, like, hides behind his nearest bodyguard. An' ever since he was given this place to run last year, he hasn't, like, done a goddamn thing except lock himself up in his office, suck base up his nose and hold parties like this one. Will be 8 months next week since the last time we, like, sent any kind of profit to Hun. An' believe me, it's only matter of time before that giant pays little ol' B.B. a visit. The sooner the better, I say! That damn idjit B.B. knows he's comin' any day, but does he actually try to get some dough? Hell no! Instead he takes it from us!" Now feeling pissed, Stone took a deep drag from his joint, and could feel his nerves calm down as he blew the smoke out. His head tilting slightly with a stupid grin on his face, his eyes slid half shut as he leaned against the stairs.
"So...Stone, sounds like you know what's goin' on at the top. You know someone high up or sumthin'?" For a few moments Stone looked like he didn't hear his new buddy, but after couple of seconds he blinked and looked at him, his grin widening even further.
"Hehehehe, you could say that," he replied, and then reached into his right pocket and pulled out a small round amulet with the Purple Dragon insignia on it. "Here's my source, right 'ere."
The other gangster blinked, lips slightly parted.
"No way..."
"Yup! I'm one of 'ose potentials, the ones who got a shot at rising up. 'Course, if I had known I'd end up babysittin' that piece of shit, I'd told 'em to shove it," polishing the amulet with his dirty sleeve, he placed it back in the jacket's pocket, before taking another drag of his joint and leaning back. The two gangsters sat in silence for a while, until the other one eyed the joint.
"Y'know, that stuff will kill ya one day."
Stone woke up with a start at hearing that, looking hurt. "Whaaa? You too, buddy! Yo gonna lecture me 'bout what I do? Aw man, that's totally unfair! Hell, you probably never even had one!"
The gangster blinked, slightly turning his head away from Stone. "...well..."
"Well then, that won't do, now will it! Here, have one, it's on me! I insist," said Stone. He handed the joint to the gangster, who looked at it for a moment and then shrugged, accepting it and taking a puff. Almost immediately he started coughing uncontrollably while Stone laughed his ass off.
"AAHAHAHAHAAAA! Oh man, don't tell me that was yer first one, foo'! Hahahahaaa!" The coughing gangster made a move to stand up, but tripped and slumped against Stone, who laughed even harder and didn't notice as a hand reached into his jacket and pulled something out of it.
The gangster managed to stand up this time and made a run towards the entrance doors, half retching as Stone yelled after him, laughing so hard tears were running out of his eyes, "Hey, guys! We gotta ourselves a newbie here!"
One guard chuckled while the other simply shook his head, as the coughing gangster ran inside the building.
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15 minutes later...
In a toilet room that had every square inch of the walls covered in graffiti, M.J. bent over the dirty sink and splashed cold water into his face. Now breathing normally, he looked up into what was left of the mirror, noticing that his eyes were still slightly bloodshot.
Jesus, and some people almost do this for a living.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out Stone's amulet and looked at it, an expression of slight disbelief on his face.
I'd hoped I could mingle with the guy and maybe just walk inside with him, but...Jesus, I sure as hell didn't see this one coming. With this, and if that stoned asshole wasn't exaggerating, then whatever guards that bastard B.B. has will practically give me a gun to kill him.
B.B. tended to have that effect on people back in the day, and it looks like he hasn't changed much. B.B.'s gonna get what's coming to him.