With his hands tied behind his back and a burlap sack pulled over his face, Casper Biondi had no idea where he was, but it didn't take a genius to guess it wasn't going to end well for him. When his captor forced him into the room they were now occupying, he'd been forced to his knees and in that position he remained. The minutes felt like hours as he waited, his knees beginning to ache as they were pressed against the cold concrete floor. Still, he remained silent. He wasn't going to crack…. it wasn't worth giving them the satisfaction.
Then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Heavy, stomping footsteps, drawing closer, closer, closer until finally they came to a stop a few feet in front of him. Resigning himself to his fate, Casper took a deep breath and let it out slow, emptying his lungs as his captor removed the sack from his head.
Is this him?
The man in front of him didn't bother giving Casper a second glance as he barked the question at his keeper. However, he was the only thing Casper bothered to look at. The man stood, leaning heavily on a wooden cane for support. Casper was certain the suit the man was wearing cost more than two months rent, though he couldn't help but notice the sizeable red stain on the cuff of the man's white dress shirt.
You know who I am?
His attention finally fell upon Casper. He took a couple more steps near him and dropped down to a knee, so that he was at eye-level with the captive.
Pretty sure I do.
The man chuckled, gesturing for Casper's captor to follow along.
Wise guy, eh?
Just like that, his face contorted into a scowl and he backhanded Casper across the face. The force of the blow forced Casper to fall to his side, rolling over onto his back and pressing his arms further into the concrete.
D'Ambrosio might like wise guys, but I ain't him.
Casper felt a heavy hand clamp down on his clavicle and pull him back up to his knees.
So…. tell me, Biondi, who do you think I am?
You're him. The Mad King. The Grim-fuckin'-Reaper.
Casper licked his bleeding lip and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva that splashed against the Mad King's cheek and streaked down his face.
His eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief.
You got a whole lot of nerve….
He wiped his face and then dropped the handkerchief on the ground. Casper looked from him to the fallen handkerchief back up to him with a wide smile spread across his bloody, bruised face.
Fuck you.
That was it. The straw that broke the camel's back. The Mad King reached into for his shoulder holster and pulled out his Ruger LCP. He undid the safety and cocked the pistol, pressing it to Casper's skull.
You're gonna ruin your suit.
I'll get another.
He chuckled as he pulled the trigger and Casper's blood splattered all over him.
II
Casper Biondi's body was dumped on West Hastings St. Right by Fosco Park and right smack dab in the middle of Little Italy. There's no doubt a message is being sent, and odds are it's coming from The Mad King, eager to assert his control over the Chicago underworld. Also, there's no doubt this action will lead to all-out war on the streets.
But that's not happening tonight. No, tonight things are much, much simpler. It's a shame that I'm eagerly waiting for the bodies to start dropping, for the pandemonium that will no doubt erupt in just a few short days, if that, when I currently have a gun pointed at my back. What can you do? It isn't my fault this guy's reciting the generic street thug script pretty much verbatim. Gimme your fucking money this, no seriously gimme your fucking money that, it's all so…. oh what's the word I'm looking for? Uninspired! Yeah, that's it. It's all just so uninspired that instead of even feigning surrender, I stand absolutely still and clear my throat.
No.
Of course, Mr. Thug doesn't really take hearing no very well. No, he decides the most appropriate way to respond is fly off the handle into something vaguely resembling a temper tantrum, complete with screamed profanity and all. If I were to turn around, I'm sure I'd see him kicking something close by. The gun isn't loaded.
However, the last thing he says, as he begins to calm himself down strikes me.
You got a death wish or something?
He's really trying to sell himself as a threat. However, it is a valid question…. much more valid than he could understand without knowing who I am. Do I have a deathwish? I've never really considered it, but look at what I'm doing. Diving headfirst into the dark underbelly of the fantastic city of Chicago with intentions to fight crime? Yeah, I can definitely sense a bit of a death wish there.
Potentially.
I can hear him take a deep, deep breath. I'm guessing he doesn't quite know how to respond to that. A man with an unloaded gun follows a woman into a dark alley with hopes of taking her money and potentially other things, finds that the supposedly easy target is very much the opposite.
His footsteps echo as he steps closer to me. It's like there are only two people in the whole wide world right now. A few more steps, and I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and his body casts its shadow over mine. One step closer and….
My hand shoots out and grabs ahold of his wrist. His grip on the gun tightens, almost on instinct, no matter. He looks up from his hand, the first time he sees my face. Or, at the very least, the parts that are visible behind the eye windows of my gasmask.
Then he freezes. Just a moment's hesitation as he studies the features of the mask. Looks like I'm a bit of a local celebrity.
That moment of nothingness on his part is all I need twist his wrist until it snaps like a twig. He lets out a squeal that sounds almost inhuman and drops the gun. The gun bounces and skids across the ground, and he looks at me, begging, pleading for mercy.
The thing is, I don't feel very merciful. I never do. I'm guessing it may be genetic, considering rule number one in the unwritten rulebook for vigilantes is "you have to have daddy issues". Especially not when you're dealing with a two-bit thug who doesn't even have a compelling backstory or a legitimate excuse for his life of crime. At least, I don't think he has either of those. Not about to play Twenty Questions with this creep.
So, instead of letting up, I continue my attack. By headbutting him right in the mouth. His bottom lip splits like the Red Sea, and he stumbles backwards, before pressing himself up against the wall of some rundown apartment building. He strikes his fighting stance, a bastardized perversion of a boxing stance and comes in swinging with a slow, wild overhand punch that I sidestep out of the way of before grabbing him by his broken wrist and pulling him in close.
With his arm trapped at my side, I fishhook his nostrils and slam the back of his head into the brick wall of the apartment building. Then, pinning him to the wall with my forearm against his throat, I lean in real close and whisper as menacingly as I can muster.
You think you're going to do this again?
No!
I push away from him, and give him just a second's worth of reprieve before the knockout blow…. pulling him by his broken wrist into an upward palm strike to the nose. Out like a light. He falls to the ground in a heap, face busted and bleeding.
I let go of his wrist and make my way out of the alley, walking into the night with blood on my hands and my insatiable thirst for the blood of scumbags at least partially quenched.
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