What I'm Working On

[mangolicious]

New York's Warrior:
(Title is subject to change.)

Thick smog hovered around the room, choking the men assembled and slowly constricting the circulation of oxygen through out the large office. Frank stood in front of the large oak wood table; his bulky figure was greatly slimmed due to the off-white pinstripes fabricated on his dark suit. He held a cigar in one hand, and in the other was a small folder.

More than half of the men did not smoke, but every puff Frank blew at them added to the smog already circulating the room, causing their hearts to pump harder and reassuring that by age fifty they would develop some form of lung cancer.

The other half the men were all ready well on their way to an early death. Not just from excessive chain smoking and daily consumption of hard liquor, but just by being part of this particular family.

A faint smirk appeared on Frank's large round face as the men seated around the table gawked at him unbelievingly. It wasn’t every day a group of grown men, all well over the age of forty, were told their new boss was a fourteen year old child. The men murmured to each other, each one just as astounded as the next. This disrupted their very existence. If there was any doubt that Frank was insane it had now been diminished.

Franks smirked widened, the shadows cast upon his face made him look, if anything, more deranged. "I can assure you," He began, " My nephew is more than capable."

Frank blew out another puff of smoke, it rose upward masking the all ready dim lights. The shadows cast against the men’s faces made them look ancient. As if they had been thriving at the same time a villager on hash had sworn God had spoken to him and the bible was written.

"I know he may not look it, but the boys exactly what we need." Franked paused briefly, his dark eyes scanning the room. He laughed to himself when he noticed the door opened ever so slightly and a head of straight dark hair hidden behind it. Come in Demos.

A small looking teenage boy came through the doorway. His dark hair hid his expression as his gray eyes slowly shifted around the room. He was dressed in a black suit and wore a black tie over his pale white shirt that almost matched his skin tone. Such a look was common among this group, but there was something different about the boys suit, something disturbing.

The white of his dress shirt was barely visible under the dark crimson liquid that stained his front. A smear of blood lay across one of his cold gray eyes. In one hand was held a knife six inches long with a narrow blade stained with the same dark liquid covering his shirt.

Frank gave a triumphant grin as he draped an arm around the boy’s shoulders in a father-like fashion. "Today young Demos fought off a pack of those French bastards in defense of his cousins." Frank announced sounding quite pleased with his adopted nephew at the moment.

There was another wave of hushed murmurs before Antonio, one of the oldest and most highly regarded member of this particular organization, stood up slowly. "Gradisco questo bambino. Il dio di maggio lo colpisce giù se mi trovo, Io accetto la sua direzione." He said before bowing his head slightly to Demos. "Sporgenza Benvenuta." he added before reclaiming his seat at the back of the room. Once Antonio gave his consent the others were sure to fallow.

Frank looked around the room, ignoring the rising of murmurs and whispers. "Are there any objections?" He asked as a faint smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. When the clicking sound of Tony's gun was heard the room fell silent. "None? Good.”

"That’s how it started, when I was fourteen. Killing People I mean." Demos held his gun to the mouth of the quivering figure before him; a slight smirk crossed his face as he continued. "But one of those ‘South Side punks’ got away. You." He thingyed the gun slowly. The man in front of him let out a pained sob, the tears seeping through the strap of cloth bound across his eyes. "nuts..." Demos said calmly as he ran a hand through his dark hair, "I'm rambling again." With that he pulled the trigger, the splattered lifeless form at his feet had given a final sob before he hit the ground, his head scattered across the white marble floor. "I forget, not every one is interested in my life story." Demos inhaled deeply from his cigarette. He pulled it from his mouth with two fingers, breathing out a smooth cloud of smoke at the lifeless heap. “Pathetic.” He whispered to himself calmly.

Demos looked up at the sound of sirens, police sirens. "f**k." He said in a low growl as he turned away from the heap of a body and placed his cigarette back in his mouth before he jumped up on a pile of light brown crates probably containing some sort of coffee bean or actual beaner. He made his way quickly to the top of the crate pile, coming to a window. His fingers traced around the window's frost bitten glass before he reached a hand in his pocket, bringing out a sort of gray clay. He spread it out around the window edge before pulling out his lighter. He brought his arm over his eyes to shield them before he held the light to the clay. A small explosion sounded before he could hear the window shatter. He gave a grin as he uncovered his eyes and moved his way outside the window. It wasn't till now that he realized how badly he just burnt his hand. The skin had turned a darker almost black color, greatly contrasting to the rest of his pale skin. He'd find help for that later right now he had bigger problems.

He turned in the direction furthest from the police and took off at a dead run. He winced, holding back any sound he might have made as pain finally reached his hand. He gritted his teeth, giving a juicy curse as he tried to find his nearest mode of transportation, or what the hell he did with his cell phone. He brought new meaning to the word ‘f**k’ as he stopped, no longer able to ignore the pain shooting through his damaged hand. He always seemed to find some way to get himself hurt, always. He sunk down on one knee before picking up a handful of snow with is good hand and applying it to the burned skin of his other. It gave small temporary relief as he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out the cell phone he had been in too much of a hurry earlier to find. He hit the speed dial, had a ten second conversation and waited for his ride as he slumped against a building's outer wall, keeping his hand practically buried in the snow. It was just another one of those days…