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JackCain · (05-05-2017)

**The camera fades up to a rain drenched street. A torrential downpour soaks everything, the asphalt on the road, the concrete slabs on the sidewalks, the red brick of the buildings. The force of the rain distorts the reflections of neon lights of diners, apartments and bars being reflected in the growing puddles gathering in the gutters and pitted holes in the cement. Slowly the screen begins to close on a ramshackle bar on the corner of the street. Thunder cracks in the night air sending a deep echo between the buildings, making it sound like a monster has awoken. The camera moves through the door, lingering for a second on the "O'Shaugnessy's" sign outside as it passes. Half spoken conversations are picked up, from guys talking about cheating on their wives, women talking about men they've slept with, money problems, drink problems, threats of violence, threats so depraved they make normal men and women recoil in fear. Behind the bar a large, red headed male bartender wipes dirty glasses before placing them on a worn shelf behind him, where spirits of differing age and quality reside. Half a dozen people sit at the bar itself, away from the crowded chatter of the booths. They sit in silence. One passes a small envelope to the other. Half a grin passes his lips before he places a bottle to them and takes a long swig of the golden brown liquid inside. The camera sweeps further towards the end of the bar, where Jack Cain sits. In front of him a newspaper, and a half-consumed glass of water. He silently reads the headlines as the background noise begins to quieten. the rest of the background imagery becomes a blur, with only Cain in focus as he raises his head and begins to speak.**

This bar's been here nearly 120 years. One time or another, every mick tryin' to make a name for himself passed through here. The Italians like to think they came up with the idea of "made men", but these boys? They've been at it since the 1800s. These fuckers would get together and plan everythin' from how to steal your neighbour's farm to cuttin' off the head of the town mayor if you thought he was gonna take your money through taxes.

The Irish've always been tough motherfuckers. They fought wars like people you wouldn't believe. I knew a couple'a SAS guys from the UK, said dealing with these bastards when the IRA was in full swing was like tryin' to put down a rabid dog. No matter how hard you keep hittin' they just keep comin' back meaner, badder, and more determined than the last time.

The other thing they used to say was that the Irish were great planners. That's how they kept makin' life difficult for the British for nearly 30 years. Outnumbered, outgunned and outmatched, they fought one of the best equipped armies in the world for longer than both world wars and Vietnam put together. They plan. That's what they'd do. Always made sure they were broken down into cells, never used the same safe house twice, always bought guns from different dealers. They were smart. When the British started closin' in, they were always one step ahead.

So Thomas, Danny, what you gotta think is what happened to them, with all their plannin', all their care, all their precautions?

They still lost.

They couldn't keep goin'.

Sure, they still had splinter groups, still had the odd nasty motherfucker dyin' for the cause, but they were just a few loose ends. The SAS knew the minute the cash ran out, and their leaders sat down with British government, the IRA as a threat was dead.

So Thomas, if you think I haven't addressed you "concerns", then you're wrong. I'm not dumb enough to think that your flattery ain't sincere. If you think you can give me some respect and then expect that to work for you, then you're wrong. I don't really give a damn if you wanna be my best friend or gut me like a fuckin' fish. You're gonna plan for me? Have an idea of what I'm capable of and stop it? Good luck, plenty tried.

Plenty failed.

The best laid plans get fucked up when you don't know what's comin', and the fact is Thomas, you don't. I've only had one match, you don't know what I can do, what I'm capable of. I know from experience, you can't plan for what you don't know. You need intel to make a plan, and without that, you might as well be pissin' in the wind.

**The camera pulls back to the two men who exchanged the envelope earlier**

But a plan, in the right hands, can make all the difference.

Just like you, Danny ain't got no plan. Danny's just so in love with his TV title that he don't really understand the gravity of what's going on. He's got this Main shithead and his AX3 boys bustin' him up and all he wants to do is run around in fields playin' lovebirds with a fuckin' title belt.

He can't see the bigger picture here. At least you're tryin'. At least you're tryin' to have some kinda strategy to work on the two people you're facin'. This fruit loop? He's tryna bang an inanimate object and then avoid gettin' his clock cleaned by a bunch of scumbags who think they run the show.

If he had a plan, he might just hold on to that title a bit longer. I know you think you're cleverer than him and me, but what I'm tryna say, is it's impossible to plan, when "unforeseen circumstances" start happenin'.

**The two men at the bar catch sight of Cain, and their air of camaraderie dissipates**

Take these two fucks over here. The one with the beard? He makes films of little boys doin' what they don't wanna be doin at that age. He leaves 'em in the dumpster out back, and then the one with the fuckin' glass eye turns up and hands him a couple of grand as a thank you. No credit cards, no paper trail. All nice and clean. They think it's a good plan.

**The two men drain their glasses and start to walk to the door**

But they ain't planned for all the angles. They ain't counted on the unforeseen. They ain't thought that some concerned citizen might tell the guy by the door that his little boy was in one a' these movies. That ain't a lie, that was research. Intel. Once you got that, you come up with a better plan than the guy with fuck all intel.

**The man near the door blocks the duo's path. They turn and walk towards the back entrance through an inner door. Cain never takes his eyes off them**

And maybe you tell that guy by the door that he can keep his hands clean, as long as he makes sure these two don't go out the front door. They ain't planned for that.

**Cain reaches into his jacket and pulls out a wad of used bills. He hands it to the bartender**

And maybe you tell the bartender that if he locks that back door, so these fucks ain't got no escape route, you'll make sure he's well compensated. They ain't planned for that either.

If you plan properly, you win. You don't plan, or you plan without knowing everything, then things end badly.

**Cain reaches into his pocket and stops without taking his hand out**

But it don't pay to show all of that plan. Some things you gotta keep hidden right until the very end...

**Cain follows the two men through the inner door as the scene fades to black**

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