*As I prepare to write chapter 3 of Desmond's story before the Saints, I am enjoying a Cinnabon, and musing on some old memories. Most specifically, I remember Thumper, an old family pet, who ran off years ago. Thumper was a bunny, and no, he wasn't passive or timid. He was a bad mother fucker... literally. I guess that's less gross for bunnies, but still. Besides being a incestuous nut case, he was also the most audacious bastard I've ever known. You see, we had numerous bunnies at the time, but Thumper was just mean. He would force himself on the other bunnies, male or female, related or not. We moved him into the general area of the hut they lived in. Thumper was the only one of our pets who had a living area all to himself, and it was the biggest one, too.
*The next day, we found Thumper pacing around his little home area. He had chewed through the chicken wire to get into the other bunnies' pens and beat them up, and had gone after the chickens, too. Yes, we had chickens. That's when my dad started calling Thumper 'Pacer.' Of course, he pronounced it 'pay-sah,' because we are from the northeast of England, such is our accent (We're Geordie, for those of you who are curious). Anyway, Thumper ran away one day, which brings me to the point I wanted to make. I dedicate chapter 3 of this story to Thumper. Evil little bastard he may have been, but he was MY evil little bastard! D=
Spring was starting, and the way it rain you might think that God and the Angels had gotten together and decided to piss all over New York City. It might have been depressing to most people, but the Clovers weren't most people. Skye's plan had worked so well, that they started robbing other Mafia controlled banks, and then burning down their drug houses where the deals went down. The Clovers were taking over strip clubs and bars; anywhere the Giordanos were involved, the Clovers were butting in, and making a mess of things.
When the death threats started coming in, Desmond smiled. Mick thought he was insane, and Shane just shook his head. âTrust me, its gonna get even better.â Desmond had told them. It did. Death threats became offers of a truce. Aldo Giordano, the 'Don' of the crime family, wanted to meet with the people running the Clovers and negotiate. That made Desmond laugh. But they went anyway. Hell, may as well hear him out. And if not, they could always shoot their way out!
Stewart was the driver again. He was the only one who didn't constantly break the speed limit, just on the freeway. Desmond sat behind the driver's seat with Skye in the middle and Mick on the right. Shane sat up front, so the two huge masses of humanity could talk about what it was like to be terrifying. Or at least that was how Mick had described. âSo what are you gonna ask him for, guys?â Stewart asked, smiling a little.
âEverything.â Desmond said, staring out the window as the rain fell hard. It was almost a storm, but there was no lightning, and it was still kind of easy to see. You just couldn't step outside with getting drenched.
Stewart and Shane both laughed from the front. Not because they thought Desmond was joking, but because they KNEW that he wasn't. âWhat if he says no?â Shane asked, grinning a little bit.
âThen there will be nothing left for us to talk about.â Desmond said, like it was obvious. Of course, in his mind it WAS obvious. Stewart pulled up outside of the bar where Aldo had arranged the meeting to take place. Desmond, Shane and Mick all got out. As Skye was about to get out Desmond put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. âHey, uh... why don't you stay here with Stewart were there aren't any ass holes around?â He suggested.
âBecause I grew up with him protecting me when I didn't need it. I finally get to make my own decisions and now you're going to start acting like you own me ?â Skye said, starting to sound angry. In the front seat, Stewart rolled his eyes and sighed.
âNo, no... Skye its not like that I just... look, I don't trust these guys for a second. If things go wrong in there and thereâs bullets flying around anyone could get hit. You and I both know you wouldn't be able to kill any of them, even if they were going to kill you if you didn't...â Desmond said. He took a hold of Skye's hand and looked into her green eyes. âPlease, stay out here...â He said.
Skye was looking up at him. Desmond was right. They could give Skye the biggest, baddest gun you could get, but she wouldn't use it. It wasn't in her to kill. She could handle knowing her friends did it, but she wouldn't be able to do it herself. âFine...â Skye said. She sat back in the car. âJust... don't get shot, alright?â She said, looking up at Desmond.
âI'll try.â He said, closing the door. Desmond jogged up to Shane and Mick, who were waiting by the door with stupid grins on their faces.
âSo, someone finally gets you to settle down, sis?â Stewart asked, looking over his shoulder at Skye.
Skye stuck her tongue out at him. âShut up.â She said, sounding a little indignant.
Desmond, Shane and Mick walked into the bar, and were escorted to a back room. âI don't like this. This is how all those rape stories you hear about go. Handsome guy like me will get torn apart by a bunch of Godfather wannabes like these bastards.â Mick said, laughing at his own joke.
Shane chuckled along a little. âWell, at least maybe you'd stop bitching about wanting a girlfriend, 'cause you'd get to be someoneâs girlfriend!â The tall man said, laughing at Shane expense.
The doors into the back room were opened. Inside were four men. They all looked similar, but one was clearly older. That was Aldo Giordano, and the three younger guys had to be his sons. âGentlemen! Welcome to my favourite haunt. Can I offer you a drink, cigar?â Don Giordano asked happily. He sat behind a desk, his three sons all standing against the wall to the left, trying to look bad ass and wearing their sunglasses even though they were indoors.
âNo thanks.â Desmond and Mick said in unison. Shane though was happy to take a cigar. It was probably a Cuban. Giordano was known for breaking the law just for the sake of doing it.
âI'll be straight with you boys.â Don Giordano began. âThe Clovers have impressed me, and you've been worthy opponents in this little game. But its time to call an end to this war, before it ceases to be profitable for us both. My offer is this, and none negotiable. âYou can keep the money you stole from our banks, but you will all leave this city, drop your flags, and never be heard from again. Do you have any questions?â Giordano asked.
Desmond laughed a little and walked up to the desk, Don Giordano had a glass of port in front of him, as well as a hand gun. It looked like a Glock. Desmond looked down at Giordano, the smile that accompanied his laughter turning into a frown. Desmond spat into the glass of port. âI was expecting your offer to be 'I run my ass back to Italy, and New York is yours.â Desmond said, his voice angry.
Giordano reached for the Glock, but Desmond slammed his left hand down on the gun, pinning it to the desk. âNo, no, no... You asked if we had any questions. I do, as it were.â Desmond said. Quick as a whip, his right hand came across, and he slapped Don Giordano hard, knocking the old man out of his seat. The three younger Giordanos tried to jump in, but Mick and Shane were ready for that. Mick broke one poor bastard's jaw and nose and teeth by head butting him in the face about a dozen times, while drove his elbow into one guys ribs, and then rammed the third son's head against the ground a couple times for good measure.
Desmond grabbed the Glock off of the desk, and walked around it. He crouched down next to Don Giordano. âListen up, Aldo,â Desmond started, staring at the old man. âYou don't get any chances. I'll tell you this one time, and one time only. New York is ours, now. I don't care where you go or if you stay, but you're done. You're done, and you'd better just stay the fuck out of our way. If you cross me, or anybody I care about...â Desmond continued. He forced the barrel of the Glock into Aldo's mouth. âThen I'm going to fucking kill you. No questions, no chances. If you fuck with me, in any way, shape or form, you're gonna fucking die. Got it?â Desmond finished.
Aldo nodded, his eyes wide. âGood.â Desmond said. He took the clip out of the Glock and threw it across the room. âRemember this moment, Aldo. I could have kill you without any trouble at all. And I could do it again. Don't forget, ever.â He threatened.
Desmond stood up, and he, Shane and Mick left. On the way out of the bar they got some dirty looks, but no one tried anything. They got outside and into the car, Shane taking the front once more.
âHow did it go?â Skye asked. She smiled at Desmond, Mick and Shane before looking at Desmond expectantly awaiting an answer.
âWorse than I'd hoped, but about as well as I'd expected.â Desmond said.
âThat bad, huh?â Stewart asked. He pulled away from the bar and started driving to the Clovers' hideout. âWell, I'm sure Shane was happy. He certainly won't stop smiling up here.â The former boxer added.
âHell yeah I'm happy! Desmond slapped Aldo so hard I swear he's going to be tasting his food with his ass for a week!â Shane said proudly. The way he talked, you might think Desmond had won the lottery and was buying them each a private jet or something. Mick and Stewart were both laughing at this point.
Skye's eyes widened, and she looked at Desmond with a little concern. âYou slapped a Mafia Don?â She asked. Skye's voice was a lot less approving than Shane's had been.
âAnd spit in his drink, and shoved a gun in his mouth.â Desmond said as if it wasn't a big deal. He looked at Skye and saw her frowning. âWhat, I didn't get shot! Just like I promised. Hell, no one got shot!â Desmond said, as if it was some kind of achievement.
Skye just rolled her eyes and kissed Desmond on the cheek. âWell, at least you kept your word.â She said, approval now present in her tone.
**Every great hero (or bad ass) has a great villain. Batman has the Joker. Superman has Lex Luthor. Richard Cypher has Darken Rahl. Neo has Agent Smith. You seeing a pattern here?
***This chapter will not follow Desmond. In fact, chapter 4 will follow the great villain who makes Desmond Wright a great hero (or bad ass). Victor Amsel.
- 8 days later -
The call had finally been made. Aldo Giordano was losing control in New York City. Everything that the Mafia Don had controlled for years was being ripped from his grasp, no matter how he struggled to maintain the status quo. Aldo knew he couldn't win a gang war with the Clovers. They were getting guns that blew his people out of the water â literally in some cases. He was left with only one option. Aldo Giordano had to start calling in favours. And that was the call he made. One Dr. Fellows, a government scientist whom Aldo had funded about a decade back, was happy to oblige.
The jet landed at JFK airport, the harsh whether of the previous night not having slowed the arrival of the people on board in even a slight manner. The press were gather, knowing that someone important was coming, though who that was specifically remained to be seen. The only detail they had was that one of the individual on board the jet would be taking over the position as head of New York City's law enforcement. Everything else would be revealed to those patient enough to play the waiting game. So did the commissioner of police, and the higher ranking members of the city's police force.
A stair platform was wheeled over, and attached to the jet. The door opened, and a couple dozen men and women began to file out. There were pro filers,, military advisers, CIA and FBI agents. But none of them said a word, or took any position of authority. None of them responded to any members of the media.
Finally, someone who did carry a certain air of command about them started climbing down from the jet. He was probably a couple inches better than six feet tall. His hair was windswept, and slightly grey about the crown of his skull and above where his side burns would have been if he deigned to grow facial hair. A pronounced widows peak and some lines on his forehead suggested that the slight bit of grey wasn't from stress, but that this man was middle aged.
He walked with a purpose, staring straight ahead, and not turning to look at anyone, no matter who they were. As he made his was down the stairs, he reached into his jacket and produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Hit lit up a smoke, and returned the lighter and pack into his jacket once more.
His sunglasses, which he wore despite the dull day, lacking in bright light due to the overcast of clouds filling the sky, were pitch black, on the lenses and arms. He could be considered handsome, if in a devilish sort of way. Akin to how a large cat might look beautiful as it stalks its prey. He wore a suit and tie, with fine dress shoes. He finally reached the bottom of the stairs and was swamped with reporters who practically clawed their way over one another to get to him.
âSir, are you the one taking charge of New York's law enforcement?â One woman asked, trying to reach her mic as close to him as she could.
The man kept walking, the other people who had boarded the plane and members of the police who were already there helping him get space to walk. âYes, I am.â The man said in passing. He continued ahead. He was probably the only one who knew what was coming. If the press thought him showing up was big, then his first official act was going to floor them.
âSir, can we get your name? The citizens should know who is running the law in their city.â Another reporter asked. The young man looked to have nearly gotten through the other government officials.
âVictor Amsel.â He said. Victor kept walking. They weren't going to get any elaborate answers form him, though it amused him to hear and see them try. He suppressed a grin and kept moving.
âMr. Amsel, what are your plans to clean up the city's crime filled streets?â Another reporter asked.
âYou'll see.â Victor said. More question were thrown at him. For the most part he ignored them, not really caring about the press and media. He didn't do what he did for their benefit. He did it because he was good at it, and enjoyed it.
Several limos rolled up, ready to take Victor and the officials he had chosen to accompany him on this assignment to what would become their base of operations. Before going to his limo, though, Victor had something he needed to do. He walked over to the commissioner of the New York City police. Victor came to a halt, standing before the portly man. The commissioner was taller than Victor by several inches, but still it almost seemed as though Victor was looking down his nose at the man.
Victor took a long drag on his cigarette. All of the reporters and journalists gathered around, waiting to hear what Victor Amsel had to say. So they should. Drawing several gasps from the crowd, Victor blew all of the smoke he had breathed in right into the face of the commissioner. With his free hand he reached up, snatching the man's badge from his shirt, and dropping it to the ground. âYou're fired.â Victor said. With that, he flicked his cigarette at the man and turned around, his expression blank.
Several people began pushing harder, trying to get Victor to explain his actions. But Victor Amsel didn't explain his actions. He never did. Anyone who needed an explanation simply wasn't worth the time nor the air it would take to enlighten them, and Victor Amsel didn't waste his breath on anybody.
He got into the closest limo and they soon set of to what would be, for all intents and purposes, his new home for a variable length of time. âSir, what IS our plan?â One of the CIA agents asked Victor. Normally, the CIA wouldn't be involved in this task force. But the Clovers were getting illegal weapons from overseas, and obviously were involved with foreign criminal interests. That was all it took to gather the interest of multiple government organizations.
âBefore we make a plan, we need to see what we're up against.â Victor said, looking out the window. He almost sighed. Why did people ask so many stupid questions?
âSo... we don't actually have a plan?â Another person asked. âDidn't you read the files that the FBI sent you?â She asked.
âI did.â Victor said. He took of his sun glasses and looked at the woman. âThe problem is that those people aren't here, seeing what is happening. Reports and filtered, censored. We can't form a viable strategy unless we get the whole story. Really, for government officials you're all awfully naive. These are dangerous criminals, who are very good at what they do. No government report will help you deal with them.â Victor said.
There was no more argument. Victor turned and looked back out the window once more, eventually putting his sun glasses back on. He smiled just a little bit. This was going to be fun...