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May-23-2010 09:30

Every second that is wasted on the battlefield in a war, is every second that a wounded soldier is bleeding to death. Every chance a medic got to save a life, they got killed. As I sit in a bar and reminisce about the days in the war, I realized just how much my life changed.

I watched in horror as people died. I held people as they died in my arms. I came home from the war. And no one, not one person, knew the horrors that me and my fellow brothers in arms saw. No one even thanked us for serving our country when we came home. So here I sit, inside this bar with my flask in my hand drowning myself with pure alcohol flashing back to the war.

I start to feel the alcohol taking affect as it runs through my body. Someone comes in and sits down next to me. It is a scum bag of the streets; a scam artist who steels what little money the poor and those in poverty have and keeps it for himself.

"How 'bout it?" He says as he sits down next to me. I merely stare at him and look away. He orders a drink. Gin. He orders shot after shot as I gulp the whiskey from my flask.

"You might want to slow down there, chief." The bartender says.

"Oh shut up!" I snap. I can't even remember his name or the name of the bar I'm in. I then look over at the dirt-bag next to me. How neatly dressed he is. With his crisp hat and pressed suit. I compare myself to him and realize I am dressed no different and smile to myself. But as I sit and stare at him, something in me changes. I become angry. A little voice in my head starts to talk in a dark, deep whisper.

"Do it," it says to me.

"No," I say to it. "I can't do it."

"Yes, you can," it says to me, "you know you want to. He's scum. He won't be missed."

An argument starts in my mind. My pure thoughts fighting that little voice. The small whisper wins.

Something in me snaps and I crack my neck with the turn of my head.

"Hey buddy, you okay?" the scum bag asks.

"I'm fine," I snap.

May-23-2010 09:34

I grab him and drag him outside and into the alley where I beat him to a bloody pulp. Everyone watched as I drug him outside but know one cares to move to stop me.

As coughs through the blood running out of his mouth and down his face, he asks me what I'm trying to kill him for.

"Because, you are scum of the streets," I say to him. I throw him down into a pile of trash. I pull out my pistol, and put two bullet holes into his chest.

I holster my gun, and walk away into the night.

May-23-2010 15:34

With a frown, I make my way through the streets, hoping it doesn't rain before I can get back to my apartment and my daughter. I've already had a tough enough day, I certainly don't need to look like a half-drowned cat whilst I'm at it.

Taking a cigarette out of my engraved silver case, I had just lit up when I heard something of a commotion coming from a nearby alleyway. As I stopped and listened intently, I hear two gunshots fire in quick succession, and my blood runs cold. Not even stopping to think about it, I slip into a crouch and pull my gun from its thigh holster.

Suddenly a man, a very familiar man exits the alleymouth and walks away as if he doesn't have a care in the world. I squint my eyes, not entirely sure if I've identified him correctly, but I figure the most important thing is to find out what happened. So, gun still out, I head into the alley and immediately encounter the fallen man inside.

He is well-dressed, blood spreading from two round holes in his chest, eyes already closed against death. His face is severely bruised and battered, matted with blood, but even in the semi-light from the cheap outdoor lamps, his face is quite recognizable.

He is my half-brother, Nicholas de Maltesse, and the man who shot him was none other than my dear friend Marc Lacrimosa.

The sky suddenly opens up as if it had understood my thoughts, and rain pours down on my head and the prone body of the last family member I had ever counted on.

May-23-2010 22:16

Marc awoke with an early start. He turned on his pot of coffee and took a shower. He dressed himself in his bath robe, walked outside and grabbed the newspaper, and walked back inside to sit down and read it.

The headline caught Marc's attention. It read:

"BODY FOUND IN ALLEY
The body of 33 year old Nicholas de Maltese was found late last night by a passer by in the alley next to the Tricky Mister Bar. So far there are no suspects or leads as to who could have done this. The bartender will not give up any information as to who could have done this. All he is saying is that the victim and one other guy were in here. The other guy grabbed the victim and drug him outside. He says he didn't get a clear look at the face."

Marc read on, sipping his coffee until he saw the name of a friend. She was the victim's half-sibling. When Marc saw Molly's name, he nearly spit his coffee out.

"Oh my lord!" Marc said aloud to no one. He picked up the phone and then hesitated. Maybe now wouldn't be a good time, Marc thought to himself. Within an hour, Marc was dressed in his light gray suit and out the door, ready to begin another day and another case.

May-24-2010 09:58

Molly was definitely wallowing. She sat at a bar, nursing one state-of-shock with a glass of giggle juice on the side. It was rather early in the day for her to start boozing, but she had been at it all night and figured the party didn't need to stop on account of sunshine.

She also had one very good motive for indulging in this particular vice. If she was tanked, she figured she didn't have to dwell much on the fact that one of her closest pals had pulled a gun on her brother like a common goon. Even in her addled state, Molly was forced to wonder what had caused the confrontation, and she was forced to conclude that it probably wouldn't hold up to her standards, much less those prized in a court of law. Marc had a habit of behaving like a damn gunsel at the best- and worst- of times.

And this time, he had gunned down family. She could forgive him most days for being a hothead, slap him around a bit those days she couldn't, but this was inexcusable in any sane persons eyes.

She glared at her glass of whiskey in disgust. She had always been able to hold her alcohol annoyingly well. The idea of being in a bar all night was so that coherent thought wouldn't be an issue the morning after. Her body was not cooperating with this particular philosophy.

With a long-suffering sigh, she motioned the barkeep over.

"Parties over, egg. Bring me some city juice, will ya?"

He raised one bushy eyebrow but set a glass of wildly unappetizing water before her. Grimacing, she downed it in one go and slid off the stool, slapping a few bills on the counter.

As she strode out, she slowly deliberated. She could call Joseph Zeo. They had never been the very best of friends, but if Marc had gone off the edge, the coppers might handle it better than she could. Because she still couldn't bring herself to promise she wouldn't plug the bastard when she caught up with him, and she'd avoided being tossed in the joint for this long.

May-24-2010 11:25

Marc found the alley behind the small hole-in-the-wall pub. The body had been moved and there was police tape around the area. As always, the police had looked at the scene, didn't notice anything different, and left.

Marc stepped over the tape and into the crime scene. In front of him was a perfect outline where the body had fallen. Near by were two bullet shells. Marc bent down. He put a glove on his right hand and picked up the shells to examine them. There were no finger prints. Next to where the body had lay, there was a small caliber revolver.

The victim had probably reached for the gun but it was too late; he had been shot. In the middle of the outline there was a large spot of dried blood. Judging by how much blood there had been, Marc guessed that the vic had been shot in the chest.

Shooting center mass was easier to hit than aiming for the head. Marc pocketed the two shells and the small pistol and walked back to his office, where his secretary, Grace, sat filing papers and folders that were stamped "CASE CLOSED".

Marc sat down at his desk and began looking at the bullet shells, digging through books and pictures to find the right caliber of the shells.

May-24-2010 21:26

Murder.

That was the first thing present on Molly's mind as she exited the hospital, the antiseptic smell of the morgue laced with death lingering in her hair and on her clothes. She was quite simply going to kill Marc Lacrimosa, and that would be all she wrote.

She picked up speed as she made this decision, already pulling out her gun as she neared his building. It was only a dim shape; her eyes were too blurred with tears to really be able to see anything properly.

Impatiently she dashed those tears on her expensive white silk glove, and rushed up the stairs, her heels clattering loudly on the steps. Without much preamble, she shouldered open the door to Marcs office and pointed her gun at his secretary, Grace.

"Get under your desk." she snarled, and white-faced, the woman complied.

Molly marched across the floor space and kicked open the door to his office, her gun straight out and pointing at Marcs forehead. Though tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and she was sniffling, her arm was steady, a characteristic that anyone who knew her properly recognized. Unless her arm was about to fall off, Molly never missed her shot.

"Any last words, you scumbag?" she hissed, eyes narrowed at the man she had called friend for too long.

May-24-2010 21:59

"As a matter of fact, I have several," Marc said. He leaned back in his chair placing his feet upon his desk. "Grace, you can come out, and go home. Take the rest of the day off while my friend here, and I have a little chat."

Grace left, her hands shaking from fright and Molly stood in place with her gun leveled directly at Marc's face. "Molly? What on earth is the meaning of this?" Marc asked calmly.

"You son of a bitch!" She cried. "You killed him. YOU KILLED HIM!" She screamed through her tears.

"I killed who? I haven't killed anyone in three weeks-"

"You liar! I saw-"

Marc jumped out of his chair with anger raging through is mind. "You saw me?! You saw me kill who? Huh? Who did you see me kill-"

"SHUT UP! " Molly yelled. She shot Marc's desk light, shattering the bulb. "You killed my brother. I saw you, you son of a bitch! I swear the next shot won't miss your miserable face!"

"Let me tell you something Missy!" Marc screamed back. "Who the hell are you to come into MY office with your gun out accusing me of some absurd and ridiculous accusation?! HUH?! Unless you have proof that I myself killed your brother, I suggest you leave!" Marc said pulling out his gun.

Marc was not about to be brought down for something he didn't do. And for this woman, a dear friend of his, to barge into his office accusing him of killing her brother; it was outrageous!

Marc held his gun aimed at Molly who had hers aimed back at him. They were both at point blank range, both aiming for a kill shot and not a "neutralize the threat" shot.

Silence filled the office each one waiting for the other to make a move so the other can pull their trigger.

May-25-2010 08:43

The silence stretched on, the tension so thick it was palpable. It nearly had a scent, the cloying anger swirling through the room stinging the senses like cinnamon and something muskier. Tick, tick, tick went the clock.

Suddenly, Molly dropped her gun to her side, green eyes going round and glassy with a film of tears. Slowly, delicately, perhaps like watching a particularly becoming souffle collapse, her shoulders fell forward and she dropped to her knees, now sobbing outright. She said nothing, just kept one hand over her face, bawling like an infant.

In record time, Marc had holstered his gun and rushed to kneel next to her, awkwardly murmuring, "hey, hey now...". One of his hands snaked up to find her chin, but instead of a grief-stricken expression, he encountered a cool smile approximately a second before she slammed her gun into the side of his face.

Molly moved forward as he couldn't help but fall to the side, momentarily stunned. She pulled his gun out and tossed it clear across the room, pressing the barrel of hers to his forehead. Dispassionately, she wiped the rain of tears from her cheeks and lit a cigarette deftly with one hand.

"You know how this works, old boy." she said calmly, inhaling. "Any sudden movements, I blow your head off. Refuse me the answers I want, I blow your head off. Course...wouldn't it be ironic to perform on you all the casual cruelties you crank out on our suspects? Well, you're the suspect now, but I'll reserve my judgment. Tell me why you killed my brother, oh won't you pleeeease, mister?" she twisted the barrel of the gun and winked at him almost flirtatiously as she did so.

May-25-2010 11:32

"If you're going to blow my head off, then do it! I dare you" Marc hissed. Molly was serious. She cocked the hammer back on her gun.

Marc let out a crooked smile. "Molly, Molly, Molly....you've clearly underestimate what a former soldier can do." Marc reached quickly for her gun. He slapped her hand loosening her grip. With his other hand he grabbed the gun, kicked her back, just hard enough to push her away. Marc stood up and disassembled her gun throwing it away behind him.

"You have no proof that I killed your brother. And I know I didn't. So unless you have proof, go home."

Molly stared at him, her face turning several dark shades of red, flushed with anger and rage.

"You have no idea what you have just gotten yourself into, Marc." She said quietly, "and I assure you, that I'm not done with you."

And with that, she left leaving Marc confused about what happened.

May-26-2010 11:27

Molly paused outside his building, rolling her neck as she reviewed her options. The nerve of Marc to deny he had killed her brother. Well, if he was so high and mighty, should she let him deal with her...contacts...in the city mob?

Too easy. She needed someone smarter than the common thug, someone she could trust to be both intelligent and ruthless. Flipping open her wallet, she dug for one hastily scrawled number, and went to use a phone box.

The phone rang once, twice...then a deceptively pleasant voice sounded.

"Jack Billings."

"Hello, darling." Molly said, and was pleased to hear a sharp intake of breath that could only mean she had caught the man off his guard.

"As we never truly divorced...after all, a murder attempt isn't legally binding... I do remember you vowing to try to achieve my happiness at all costs. I need a favor."

She waited in silence for her husbands reply.