Nicholas: Yes, this is a bit intense. For those of you that would be mad that I hurt the twins (cause I do...a lot now that I think about it), there is a happy ending if you look for it. Oh, and AmandaNut will appreciate a certain line in this.

It was dark. It's always dark on assignments like these. I was followin' me brother through some fuckin' labyrinth o' back alleys in some fergotten slum south o' New York City. Usually the dark didn't bother me much, but that night was different.

I had this scary, sorta forbodin' feelin' in my gut. Ever had that sure feelin' that yer bein' watched, er somethin's gonna jump out at ya if ya let yer guard down? That's what I felt. That's what was makin' my stomach do jumpin' jacks and loop-di-loops. I had no idea why.

"Murphy, I have a bad feelin' about this," I muttered, the impendin' dark and quiet of the deserted street makin' me voice go a bit soft.

"Oh, calm down. We've done it a hundred times." He wasn't hidin' the nervousness in his voice.

Right, we had done it a hundred times, maybe more. Still, this was the first time since Da passed. O' course, I mean, since Da was shot in the back o' the head by some punk-ass mob peon. Fuckin' coward couldn't even dare to hit a sixty-year-old man face-to-face. The memory made my stomach lurch violently. This was not a good night.

"I'm gonna vomit, Murph."

He stopped an' turned around. "What? Now?" Fergive me if his lack o' compassion seemed a bit annoyin' ta me. He was doin' nothin' fer my head ache. "Ya sick er somethin'?"

"No, I'm nervous." I didn't expect him ta laugh, an' he didn't. Fer a moment my gag reflex went haywire an' I bent over just in case I really did throw up.

"Shite, Connor…" He looked around carefully and walked up to me. "Ya sure as hell know how ta pick a fuckin' time ta have a fit."

"Fuck ye."

I felt him rub my back an' knew he was tryin' ta be comfertin' no matter how much he just wanted ta get on with what we were doin'. I felt a bit bad that I was bein' a dead weight. "Maybe ye should go wait in the car," Murphy suggested.

I'm no fuckin' good at card hustlin'. It's harder than it looks in the movies an' shite, but that doesn't matter much right now. The guy across the table looks more pissed off than me ma got when Murphy'd put a family o' frogs in her bed fer her birthday one year. Murphy was always doin' shite like that.

I'm afraid ta put my hand down. Does this guy suspect anythin'? Even if he does, who cares, really? The worst thing he could lawfully do is curse at me an' get me kicked out, right? Damn, this would be so much easier if Murph was here ta help me. Goddamn it…I feel like cryin' again, an' don' give me any shite for it, either. What would ya do if yer brother, the person ya spent every second o' yer life with just up an'…died.

Fucker left me alone.

"I'm not waitin' in the fuckin' car," I snapped. I held my aching belly an' straightened my back awkwardly. "Not unless ye come with me an' we both go home right now."

Murphy rolled his eyes and turned away from me. "Why're ya doin' this now, huh? Now that we're out here and ready and shite, you decide you want ta wimp out? What the fuck?"

"Hey, fuck ye, alright!" I think I was shouting at this point, even though that was probably not the best idea. "Goddamn it, Murph. Don' ya feel the least bit apprehensive? Yer a fuckin' liar!"

He'd tried ta say no. He'd tried ta shake his head an' deny that he was just a scared as I was. I knew fer a fact he felt what I felt, we'd been through this before when Da died an' the most horrifyin' thought I had was that this was another premonition an' that Murphy wouldn't make out o' this one.

"I wanna go home."

"Then go home, I'm not stoppin' ya!" He shrugged the duffle bag off his shoulder an' set it on the ground. Then he unzipped it, took out two hand guns and handed the bag ta me. "Go home, take some Vicodin an' go ta sleep."

I tried ta hear the concern in his voice—'cause there was something other than flat out annoyance. "I'm not leavin' without ye, Murph."

"Christ, Connor…What d'ya want, a fuckin' hall pass?"

I never got a warnin'. Neither o' us even heard the shot until I saw Murphy crumble ta the ground. An' my heart just about stopped. There was a bullet in his back. Time seemed ta be gracious an' slow down so I could take my time an' realize: Murphy'd just been shot.

"Fuck!" My knees stung with how fast I'd fallen ta his side. I didn't think about that. "Murphy?" I touched an' he twitched awkwardly. I gripped his arm gently and tried to pull him up a bit to face me.

"No, don't!" He took in a deep breath (a deep, pained breath). "I can't move my legs, Conn."

Abruptly, I saw movement in the darkness before me. It was three men, an' the moment I saw guns I was seein' red as well. I grabbed Murphy's handgun from his right hand an' he didn't even move ta stop me. I stood.

Eight rounds followed; there o' them were mine. It's a miracle I wasn't hit, but my shots counted. Well, two o' them did at least. Two men fell an' the third took off like a fuckin' pussy. I fired again, but missed. Again, another miss. Once more, he disappeared around a corner. I was about ta follow that cocksucker, but I heard Murphy.

He said my name. Well, it sounded more like a croak. His breathing was comin' in gasps an' his face was twisted with the pain I thought was so frighteningly real that I felt it.

"What is it, Murph?"

"I can't move. Why…why can't I move?" I noticed then that he really couldn't move. His legs an' arms were completely still.

"I don'…I don' know." I looked him over, assessed the damage as I've been in the habit ta do. The bullet hole in his shirt was right between his shoulder blades. Right in the spine. "I think yer…yer paralyzed, Murphy."

It hurt ta say it an' his reaction hurt worse. He let out a quiet cry an' squeezed his eyes shut.

I take another sip o' beer 'cause that's all I seem ta do these days. It really can't be healthy, but since when do I care, right? Not much I seem ta do these days is very healthy. I picked a fight last week an' got me ass handed ta me. ("Excuse me, sir. Is this yer ass? I found it over there, where I kicked it.")

I haven't done a hit since "the incident" happened. I don' think I could survive it all alone. An' all alone has never sounded worse. I never wondered what it would be like to be alone (ALL ALONE). No Murphy, no Da, no Rocco…it's painful.

I haven't done a hit since it happened, but as I look across the table at the man before me I remember what it felt like when me brother and me had first started. I could tell that this guy was a regular scumbag just by the look o' him. For the first time in months, I have the desperate urge ta hold a gun again, but I've made a vow.

"I'm sorry, Conn. I'm sorry." His fingers twitched slightly, but that was the only movement I saw. "Ye were right. As usual."

That's when my heart threatened ta claw its way outta me chest. I felt that pain surge up my throat that, into my eyes an' I knew I was cryin'. "Don' start…Don' do all o' that sentimental bull."

He looked like he was struggling to breathe, an' I felt the same. "Shut up." What followed mighta been a laugh, but I couldn't tell. "Promise me somethin', will ya?"

"Don' talk like that, yer gonna be fine. So what if ya can't move, I'll help ya. Don' ya dare die on me, Murphy."

"Connor shut the fuck up fer two seconds!" Any other situation I woulda smacked him upside the head once er twice fer good measure. "Live, okay? That's it. I want ya ta live, even if that means ya never pick up a gun again. Just live."

"Alright." In all honesty it seemed like a stupid thing ta say.

"Promise?"

"Aye, I promise."

"How many aces are in the deck?" The man across from me asks. It's good enough distraction from my current thoughts ta keep me from burstin' out cryin' er blowin' chucks all over the table.

"Four last time I checked." Those four that are in my hand. Now is where the real apprehension sets in. What if he has another ace? (I'm fucked six ways to Sunday.) Keep a straight face, Connor, yer doing fine. But that wasn't me thinkin' just then. "Ya callin' me a cheat?"

"Nah, I'm calling you a lying piece of shit." Well, at least he's not callin' me a cheat, that'd be fuckin' tragic.

I laugh slightly at my own sarcasm an' apparently this idiot is mistakin' me fer laughin' at him. What am I ta do, really? He draws a gun. Yep, so hadn't seen that one comin'. Didn't I say he was a fuckin' scumbag. "What, yer gonna shoot me?"

I saw a flash o' frightened indecision in his eyes tellin' me that he did, in fact, have a conscience. Ev'ryone with at least a bit of a sense o' right an' wrong thinks twice b'fore shootin' some stranger in a club in downtown Miami. "You lack the courage o' yer convictions, sir." I'd heard that in a movie, it seemed ta fit the moment.

In most situations like this I've been scared shitless o' what the guy with the gun would do, but now I only feel a bit o' that fear. This guy wouldn't shoot me, an' even if he did…who the fuck cares? Ev'ryone dies.

I got kicked out, o' course, so now I'm just walkin' home. Yeah, real bright: walk home down the dark midnight streets in the ghetto-est place in Florida. Sure, compared ta South Boston, this is a fuckin' walk in the park, but without Murphy…I'm not much of a fighter by meself—as was proved last week when I had the shite beaten outta me. I'll never ferget that, either.

The night's nice an' warm—like always. I still don't want ta take off my coat 'cause it's actually Murphy's an' I wear ta God I'll never take it off. O' course, I don' sleep in it on, that'd be weird.

Ah, fuck!

My head is suddenly flyin' off ta the side of it's own accord, takin' the rest o' me slammin' into a wall. Ouch. I don' have ta look, I know someone was probably pickin' a fight, or tryin' ta mug me, or just a serial killer er some shite like that. Or there's more than one o' them.

Two pairs of arms have mine gripped tightly b'fore I can think ta recover. I'm falling backwards an' hit somethin'—a man. I open my eyes (I don' remember closin' them).

"Well looked who it is," I hear meself say, "the fuckin' cocksucker that took off with his tail set firmly between his legs last time we met."

A twisted grin on my opponents face an' I can now realize that this is in fact one o' the jackasses that killed me brother. What am I ta do now? There's two strong guys—fuck if I know where he picked up these fucks—holdin' me back from releasin' the wrath o' God on this dickwad. Wow, my language is getting' colorful there, en't it?

"I think you got the worse end of the stick, mate. Wouldn't you agree?"

Jack ass…fuckin' bastard. I try pullin' my arm free, but that is not happenin' any time soon. "Ya killed me brother, ya fuck!"

"You killed two of mine."

Now's when I smirk like the jerk I pride meself as bein'. "An' ya think I got the worse end o' the deal? 'Least Murphy's in heaven. Yer two brothers're prob'ly roastin' in hell."
Socks me in the stomach. Fer just a moment, those guys let up on their grips. I'm not quick enough ta take advantage of it. They want me on my knees an' I en't fallin'—FUCK that. "I'm sorry, yer right. No probability about it. They're fuckin' damned." I've never sounded braver, an' I feel pretty good as well. Well, aside from the ache in me gut.

Now it's my face. I close my eyes again an' just feel the blows as they come. Three ta the face, one ta the chest an' a few more in the stomach. There's somethin' warm runnin' down from my nose. Blood, most likely.

Yep, that's my blood on the ground. The only reason I'm lookin' is 'cause there's a change. No more punches. Somethin' grabbin' me hair—I mean someone o' course. My head en't too clear right now. I'm havin' a bit o' trouble seein' what's goin' on around me, but I'm pretty sure that's a gun in Dickwad's hand.

I'm not gettin' out o' this one this time. Usually I can rely on Murph ta save my ass, but not this time.

"Get down on your knees," he says.

"Fuck ye." I spit at his feet, but it's mostly blood mixed with some saliva.

Gun slams across my face. Ouch. More o' that sweet, red liquid an' a tooth swish around in my mouth. "On your knees, prick." Damn it all fer repetition. That's one o' me least favorite literary terms.

I glare at him, just long enough fer him ta know it en't happenin'. If I could flip him off, I would, but as I think about doin' that I realize that he doesn't need ta be pissed off any more than he already is. Two gunshots. Two excruciatingly painful holes now where me knees used ta be. FUCK!

I won't shout. I fall 'cause I can't stand anymore an' that's as far as I'll go as far as pain goes, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much those tears sting my eyes. This bastard won't see it, I won't let him. I look up just in time ta come face ta face with that oh so familiar 45. an' I see a grin on his face. This really is it, en't it? Wow, I never thought I'd be so calm. Sorry Murphy, but this guy's so insistent, I just don' think I can refuse.

Yer beyond stoppin' him, Connor. That is definitely not me thinkin'! It's like I'm hearin' it, but in my head. Who is it 'cause it definitely en't me! I want ta think it's Murphy, but that's just silly. He's dead, but then again, what am I in the next few minutes?

An' then, suddenly, I'm not seein' that gun anymore. I'm not seein' much of anythin'. I can't feel the pain anymore. The overwhelmin', familiar feelin' of arms wrapped around me takes over the pain. An' that smell…I can't ferget it. Years, a lifetime o' that smell an' this touch an' the brush o' his hair on me face.

"Murph?"