Prologue


It's funny how an instant can change everything. That split second. When everything slows down and then, speeds back up again. You set off as one man, things have changed, you believe yourself to be different. Maybe it doesn't have to be by much, not a huge alteration but just enough, to make you slightly believe that you aren't completely as you once were and then BAM! It is like the sands of time, reversed up the hour glass, of no accordance or conscious volition from your side of the spectrum, you are set back. Like the hands on a clock. Only this isn't something that can be witnessed. Your appearance doesn't change. No. You are not transformed in a way that can be observed from an outside perspective. You do. From within. Though in truth it is more of a regression. A shift in your thought process and the way you carry yourself. So subtle and yet, so drastic. The perfect juxtapose.


The best part is that you, yourself don't feel or notice the difference. From your very own perspective. It as if things are, as they always have been and how they will forever be. Madness in its true form, still it's quite beautiful. How this can occur, so swiftly and easily. Like a well formed dance, practiced and choreographed with pristine accuracy, performed with absolute perfection. Flawless is the merge, one moment to the next, such as a wave overlaps a shore or the constant repetition of a snap. The prose in poetry from verse to verse. The fit to a groove on one gear, atop another. It is the perfect alignment that can't be duplicated or copied on purpose, only done in sync with instinct and essential, deep seated qualities. Summoned from within. Resurrected and reborn. Sprung to life by nothing more than that tiny variation. That proverbial U-Turn. It is serendipitous.


Showcased in its finest hour, when things are counted at their most invaluable. The moment of truth. When shit hits the fan and mistakes cannot be made. What separates the standing ovation from certain demise. When everything comes to a crashing halt, waited and anticipated upon baited breath, the culmination of events is the real, true thing that matters. What will define what this manifested metamorphism will mean and how it will shape what's to come. Will it mean the past has pulled you backwards, like venomous, vile demons trying to propel you in reverse, in order to revert you back to a place of sheer torment and destruction or shall it be the proof that your history is the fundamental groundwork, that supports a grander future to come. Alas, like the conveyance from current to former, the cession inconspicuous and unforeseen, it is unknown and remains to be perceived.

---

With eyes dead set, focused straight forward, I march with a single, solitary purpose. Movement more machine than man, my objective is clear. Though from an outsider's perspective, I'm just a dude headed to the fuckin' bathroom. In reality, this couldn't be further from the truth. Through the crowd, I pass like Moses parting the waters, only to reach my destination. Several centimeters from the unmarked door with no knob. Glossed over and hidden against the backdrop of the wall. This passage goes undetected by most but I am not most people. There's no guard in sight, nowhere near this point of entry anyway. A stupid choice but the quality of being a nefarious, overseer of illicit acts doesn't always come with a capacity of immense intelligence. Especially, when you're surrounded by oblivious morons and imbeciles, twenty four-seven. Something that can dilute your sense of being aware and give you a false air of assurance. This faulty insurance and unwarranted confidence is the thing that brings about most crime bosses' demise. Like clockwork, it's only a matter of fuckin' time. I am not the police though, my mission has brought me to this place for one, sole purpose. To locate Mr. Luck. So that's what I'm going to do.


Lighting a cigarette as I turn my back to the door, I gradually back up and then, simply push through. With the ease of a hot knife through butter, I pass to the other side. Smirking at the stupidity, that falls in kind with the previous utter lack of intelligence regarding the security precautions, I am greeted with a short stretch of hallway and a darkened stairwell. Beyond the stairs there is a plastic curtain and a dimly lit room. Okay, it's time for me to get stupid now and align right into the trend that I've witnessed, thus far. I take a drag from my cigarette and toss myself down the fuckin' steps. Yes, that is precisely as it sounds, I literally throw myself, down the stairs. It's quite the art form really. Making it look realistic. Enacting it perfectly, so your body travels the distance that it needs to while you simultaneously take on as little damage as possible. This needs to be executed just right and also look completely accidental. Though I'm sure, one outta ten motherfuckers could pull it off, without a hitch as a sheer mistake laced in poor judgement and an utter lack in coordinated movement.


So I crash down the stairs, hitting the wall before I ever make actual contact with the steps and roll through the plastic curtain. Winding up on my back, eyes pointed to the ceiling, instantly surrounded by men in suits. Nice, custom fit suits. A couple are even wearing fedoras. One guy, looks exactly like John Lewis' manager. I actually do a double take in this guy's direction, before I proceed to burst out laughing. This part isn't planned, I simply can't help myself. Then I proceed into a grandiose and overly emphasized, attempt to rise. Making certain to fail the first time. I eventually right myself to a standing position, deliberately knocking into the clone of John Lewis' manager. These two dudes, could be the same person, no joke and since I don't remember John Lewis' manager's name and sure as shit don't know what this man calls himself, they very well might be. That's how close they look to one another. It's at this point, I realize I lost my cigarette, on my tumble down the stairs. Excellent. That means I get to ham it up even more.


First searching in the left pocket of my leather jacket; I know it's empty but I stick my hand in there anyway, I am greeted by an air of unease, shifting around and the sound of guns being subtly drawn out, to which I respond to by moving on to the right pocket, where I retrieve my pack of smokes and a lighter. Purposefully placing the cigarette in my mouth, the wrong way but still, lighting it. Clone of John Lewis' manager has grown tired of my antics by this point and yanks the cigarette from my mouth. Inside my head there's a tiny, cartoon version of myself, clapping in entertainment, when this occurs. Still, I muster up the most offended, yet half cocked, off kilter expression that I can possibly manage and channel, Vinnie Lane for inspiration.


"Whoa... dude, not cool."


It may not seem like much but trust me the tone, delivery and even a bit of the accent, is one thousand percent accurate. From there, I cast my gaze over to a table in the corner, where Oliver Last, sits uncomfortably. Along with a few other fellas. Oliver is the only one I'm concerned with though. He was actually the first person that I noticed when I stood up but to play it off in a way where someone wouldn't have even the slightest inkling of suspicion, I bumped into the imitation of John Lewis' manager. Mr. Luck seems uneasy, clearly something is awry. I'm willing to wager that the man that is seated directly to his left, has a gun pointed at his gut. Then with a tilt of my head and a cock of my eyebrow, I smirk and ask, whilst semi-pointing towards the table. Slurring my words a tad cause that just adds to the spectacle, that I have become. It is literally the quintessential, icing on the cake in this moment. Anyhow, I ask...


"What the fuck is going on there?"


Oh my fucking god, some of the men around me, actually turn and look. This just keeps getting better and better. This is also my cue to kick it into fucking gear. In one swift momentum, I grab the copy of John Lewis' manager around the throat and use him as a human shield, while I also reach into the back waistband of my jeans and pull out my Colt 45. Never leave home without it. This thing goes where I go, so it is always on me. Even when I show up to participate at wrestling events. My Colt 45 goes, where I go, end of story. I'd say it was a hired gun thing but having a weapon on me is something I did from the time I was a kid. The only variation is the type of weapon and the damage it can cause. Anyway, my actions bring forth immediate repercussions and soon it is by definition, a fire fight. Eventually, my human shield is rendered useless, due to being dead. If that really was John Lewis' manager, I suppose when the guy doesn't show up for work in the morning, I'll have my confirmation. I'm next to the table by this point, so I slide on over it and take it with me, turning it on its side in the process. Oliver Last is on the floor already and remains there, putting him right beside me. Guess it's always good to have Luck by your side.


"'Sup dude?"


I ask this nonchalantly and he just stares like a deer in headlights for a second.


"You're Griffin MacAlister."


Did not see that comin'.


"Yeah. I am. And you're Oliver Last - Mr. Fuckin' Luck."


He smirks.


"Yes, I am."


"Alright, Lucky tell me something, how do you get outta this one?"


"Ha! Wait for it."


"What?"


"Wait for it."


Suddenly, the room erupts in screams and shouts of agony. Violent blood curdling shrieks and bellows of immense pain. Along with the screams, there's also gurgles and choking noises. Accompanied by the sound of slashing. Yes. Slashing. Like the noise of something incredibly sharp, slicing through bodies. Thrusting, stabbing and ripping shit apart. Quick and precise, almost as if a deadly assassin were cutting down their targets. Wet splashes and splatters, can be heard hitting the walls and various other objects in the room, confirming this assumption. With the heavy thuds of bodies dropping to the floor and the lighter thumps that might come from limbs, smacking against whatever they're tossed at when they're swiftly removed, backing up this otherwise confirmed assessment of the situation. It is seriously like the entire room of gun wielding, wannabe mobsters, was fucking slaughtered with Oliver and I; right there, listening to it all. What comes next is an eerie silence, laced in the smell of blood, bile and human excrement. Rising to my feet, I see that my theory, created from behind the table was correct. The whole room looks like it was the set of a slasher, horror film. Blood, guts and gore, cover every inch of the room. Even the fucking ceiling! It is pure carnage. Literally vomited all over the place. There are mangled bodies and limbs, strewn everywhere. In midst of it all, there's a man that's holding a big ass, fucking sword. He too is covered in blood, a various assortment of bodily fluids and pieces of internal organs. Dude looks like he swam through a virtual lake of human carnage, that's how much he's coated with it all. Skin completely stained crimson, hair wet and matted down, clothes heavily soaked and drenched in blood. A severed head, rests next to his foot and with a smirk, he stomps on it. The head cracks open and gets instantly crushed down from the weight of his boot, smashing it directly into the floor. Brains, fragmented bone, blood, teeth and eyeballs, mash outward onto the floor. All in a sick sorta paste. Like he smushed the human head version of a grape with his boot. The mystery man then throws his sword over his shoulder, looks straight at me and says...


"Greetings and salutations. I'm Dillinger D'Marco and I think it's time we get the fuck outta this shithole, don't ya think?"