First word: Cargo. Last word: Ashes. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

The old man stood on his balcony, watching the cargo ships drift into port. Every morning he would take a mug off coffee and sit outside, drinking in the morning sunshine. The rising sun brought a bit of peace and happiness to him. After 30 years in the mob, few things made him smile anymore.

Only a few moments into his time of reflection, three quick knocks where heard from his door, then a man quietly entered the room. By the concerned look upon his face, the old man knew something was wrong. He motioned for him to take a seat next to him on the balcony. For a moment, there was silence, then he patted the new comer on the arm.
'Franky my boy, lay it on me. Something must be happening for you to come over here so early in the morning' said the old man.
Frank licked his lips, mumbled a curse, then spit.

'Boss, We lost one of our own last night. The newest made man of the crew, Mikey. He got into a fight with some boys across town last night. They shot him dead in the streets and left his body laying there. Three of his fingers...'

'What, what in the hell!' scream the old man.

'One of my button guys, a made member of this crew gunned down in cold blood?! I’ll not stand for it. Do we know who did it? If we don’t know, we must found out now Franky. This can’t be allowed to go unpunished' said the old man in a quiet, angry voice.

Franky paused for a moment, staring out into the bay. He wasn’t sure how to explain things to the boss, there was so little details to offer.  As he stood there, he had but only two certain facts, Mikey was dead, and his fingers where sitting on the crew’s front door step.

'Well boss, all I really have is what I told you. Mikey’s dead, they cut three fingers from his right hand off, then tossed ‘em on our porch. The bastards didn’t bother moving his body out of the street, they just left it there. One of the bartenders knew his association to us, so he sent a waitress down to my place to pass the word along. By the time I got over there and saw it for myself, I figured it would be best to come get you right away'.

As Franky spoke, the old mans face was turning redder by the moment. He knew his old friend couldn’t handle but so much more of this. The old man sat steaming for a few moments, then he turned back to Franky.

'Round up everyone, and I mean everyone. Buttonmen, advisors, associates. I want all hands on deck in two hours. We're gonna have a little talk about some things, then we're gonna find out who did this to our guy. No one kills a member of the family and lives. When we find the crew that did this, we're gonna burn them to pieces and throw their ashes in the Hudson River.'

First word: Ashes. Last word: Labor. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

Jeremy poked at the ashes of his dying fire from the night before.  He stared as if in a stupor at the smoldering embers wondering what life he had chosen and what the results would be.  He wondered to himself if he shouldn’t have thought of these things before.  A sharp knock at the door jarred him back into present reality.  He carefully opened the door, but nobody was there.  A hastily scrawled note was stabbed to the door with a blue handled switchblade.  He knew who it was from.  He pried the knife out and read the note.

“Jilly’s Saloon.  One hour.”

Jeremy knew this was important.  But, what did it have to do with him?  The knife meant they were in deep trouble, but all he ever did was collect protection money from some of the local businesses.  He ran back inside and opened his top drawer and pulled out his pistol.  He stuck it in his holster.  He’d never really used it before.  He had just shot some cans on his last trip into the country.  He put the knife in his pocket, grabbed his hat and coat and started towards the door.

“Damnit” he thought to himself.  He double checked his gun to make sure it was loaded, grabbed another box of bullets, and ran out the door.  These were just the kind of mistakes that could cost him his life at either the hands of his enemies or the hands of his bosses who didn’t suffer fools.  He thought about taking another drink of bourbon, but decided the bosses wouldn’t care for the smell on him.

He grabbed the first bus heading east.  He sat down near the door and stopped to catch his breath.  He began to steady his nerves when he looked into the rearview mirror and saw a man sitting in the back of the bus.  The stranger’s hat was pulled low and his collar pulled up high over his neck.  The stranger stood up and walked towards the front of the bus.  The man put his hand in his pocket and sat down on the bench directly behind Jeremy.

At the next stop, Jeremy bolted off the bus.  The man followed.  As soon as he got out, Jeremy slugged him with a right hook that would make Jack Johnson proud!  He jumped back on the bus and threw a sawbuck at the driver and told him to keep going.

Jeremy sat back down wondering who the stranger was.  He didn’t know what was going on, and he hoped he did the right thing.  Maybe he just busted the chin of a priest who wasn’t wearing his collar?  He began to doubt himself.

The bus stopped only a few blocks from Jilly’s Saloon.  Jeremy got out and decided to take the long way around, just in case.  The wind started to pick up.  This wasn’t how he wanted to start his day.  He round the block a couple times and entered Jilly’s load-in door.  He walked passed the kegs and extra bottles to a room in the back.  He walked through the door to see several men with guns drawn and pointed at him.  He took a step back and gave the pre-arranged knock on the door.  The hardened, seasoned Mafioso rolled their eyes and holstered their weapons.

Franky walks up and gives Jeremy a playful but attention getting slap on the face.  “Whatsa matter with you, Jerry?  We could have killed you!  Can you imagine if I had to tell your poor pregnant wife we shot you?  Something like that might have sent her into labor!”

First word: Labor. Last word: Father. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

Good grief, don’t let her go into labor yet  Jeremy felt a sick feeling deep in his guts at the thought, followed by a quick jolt of terror, realizing that, though it was said in jest, it could have been a very real thing. He looked around at the men, the strong scent of Cuban cigars and aged whisky permeating the room, the muffled sounds of the saloon barely breaching the thick paneling and stacks of barrels.  Shaking his head to dispel the sense of unease, he muttered,” Okay, so who else are we waiting on, Franky?”

 ***

 Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, glancing around the nearly empty street, knowing she wasn’t normally out so early but not having any choice.  When the boss called for everyone he meant everyone, from the lowliest gangster, fresh off the boat, all the way up the line to the women, quietly working behind the scenes to make sure the men got what they needed, whether it was a  drink or a little info from a loose-lipped patron.   She walked into O’Malley’s Tavern, glancing around hurriedly.  She knew that, if the Gambino family found out she was in cahoots with Franky, she’d be swimming with the fishes, if she was lucky. 

She put on her smile, the one she reserved for the dangerous men she served and grabbed a tray and some water glasses, approaching the table.  “Morning, gents…Can I get you anything?    

 “The usual, Sugar…we’ll wave at ya if we need refills. Say, you could bring over a bottle of that red you got in the other day.  There’s a girl…” The burly man, his face obscured by cigar smoke smiled as he leaned forward, piggish eyes deep in his moon-shaped face.  She beamed at him, feeling her spine stiffen at the pet name.  As she turned to go he swatted her ass, much to the delight of his associates and she smiled at him, as though welcoming the touch before she sashayed over to the bar.  Big Jim stood behind the long expanse, wiping down glasses. Their eyes met, one of his bushy red brows lifting at her showing up to work so early.  “Ruthie asked me to come in this morning Jim, honest!”

Margaret got the tray together and walked slowly toward the table, careful not to bump into anyone as she wove through the sparsely populated room, dodging the occasional chair and groping hands.  As she walked closer, she overheard the men speaking in low tones and felt her heart stutter.  “Mikey Dinovio…message…Franky and his bastards…” She slowed her pace, trying to get more of the conversation. 

Unfortunately, pig-face saw her and glared, snapping his fingers.  “Come on doll we ain’t got all day!  Get us those drinks!”  She hurried toward the table, feeling her face heat. “I..I’m so sorry, I felt the tray tilting and didn’t wanna…” She clammed up as his glower deepened and placed the tray on a nearby table, enduring the stony silence of the heavyset men as she put the glasses in front of them.  “We’ll pour, sugar… get Jim to cook us up some breakfast, will ya?  Hey Jim!  How about some of that corned beef hash you’re so proud of..and some eggs.  Waddaya call it…a full Irish? Yeah that’ll work!”  He bellowed, nearly making her cringe at the boom of his voice.  She hurried back to the bar and hissed at Jim, not daring to glance back.  “Jim I...I’ll be back right back...I forgot something. “ Not giving him a chance to respond, she hurried out.

She headed over to the St. Francis’s, the doors wide open and welcoming.  Knowing Father Pat would be hearing confessions, and that he’d know what to do with the information, she stepped into the confessional and knelt, making the sign of the cross.  “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

First word: Father. Last word: Hunger. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

Father Pat was sitting in the confession booth of St. Francis'. He'd answer the call to join this church over 2 decades ago... and as soon as advanced from secondary priest to head reverend, he also became a criminal. He'd been an informant for the family for nearly as long as he could remember yet he still served his purpose in the church. Part of this was duty. The real reason behind it was information. He'd often sit in the confessional awaiting his sheep to come in and purge their souls of sin, by incriminating themselves. Something that Father Pat was not opposed to passing along, for a price. Sometimes that price was money, sometimes it was information useful to himself. More often than not, it was to keep the alcohol flowing and his past in the past. He wasn't always a priest, some knew. Something he would like to keep out of common knowledge as long as he could.

He was reading the Bible today. Not a big day for confession, so he sat in the booth studying. He was unsure why. There was only one thing Father Pat was certain of. If God was real, He'd never let men like Father Pat see the gates of Heaven, so why waste his remaining days studying a deity that he was unsure even existed? He asked himself this question from time to time, but never came up with an answer. As he sat contemplating all this he heard the door to the booth shut. He slid over the screen and heard a voice.

A feminine voice, "Forgive me, Father" the same old story.

"Tell me your sins, my child."

"I come not to tell you my sins, but the sins of another." He knew this voice, yet he was still trying to place it. His ears were not what they used to be, and he was having trouble making out her words. One thing was certain though, she knew who he was. And what he was.

"Go on. What troubles you my dear?"

This is when she began to sing a song. She informs Father Pat of O’Malley’s Tavern and the Gambino boys. The large hog of a man and his gruff associates. She even went into what they ordered and where each was sitting. Father Pat was beginning to wonder where all this was going, but then it came. The mention of Mikey Dinovio, a man he'd heard of but was unfamiliar with. And then a name he recognized. Franky. Everyone knew Franky. A new cat in the crew but not a kitten anymore. He'd shown loyalty and that he was hardworking. A good lad. Father Pat hoped nothing happened to the poor boy. What would his wife do? Newlyweds, not even four months into their marriage. Father Pat squelched the thoughts from his mind.

"Is there anything further, my dear?"

"The boss wants everyone together. Now. I have to go back to O'Malley's..." That's when Father Pat knew who it was. There was no one quite like Margaret. Nor is there anyone who is capable of saying O'Malley's quite as Irish as that woman could. "If I don't there will be a stink from Jim, and that might cause uneasiness among the Gambino gang. They are still on the boss' turf. Anything out of the ordinary will seem suspicious."

"I will take the news my child. We'll need someone there if they leave so we know where they headed. Stay there. Stay calm. I will go to the meeting and inform the family of what you've just told me. Go now. Take haste." Father Pat heard the confession booth door open, swing shut and the "click click click" of a women in heels walking away.

"Odd," He briefly thinks to himself, "Heels on a waitress." He thought about the discomfort that would be associated with the blisters and bruising but then remembered who he was talking about. Margaret. And odd girl indeed.

Father Pat closed the screen and exited his side of the booth. He was running everything he just heard over in his head. Gambino crew. 5 or 6 guys. Mikey. Franky. He couldn't leave anything out. He needed to make sure every detail was covered. Right down to the corned beef hash. Even the smallest thing that seems unimportant can sometimes mean life or death in these streets. He hurried out the front of the church and hailed a cab. He nearly fell into the seat as he climbed in. In his age he had gained clumsiness that accompanied stress. Every time he heard something big, he stepped on his own toes ten times before making twenty-five feet.

"Where to, Father?" Said the cabbie as he turned to face Father Pat.

"Jilly's Saloon" rubbing his white collar as he responded.

A priest headed to a saloon. How silly he felt. The cab driver seemed as though it was nothing out the ordinary. Turned forward and began his drive. Father Pat just hoped he could get to the boss in time. Before the boss made an action without the information. Before the Gambino guys left O'Malley's. Hopefully they can eat a lot of corned beef and still stay hungry.

First word: Hunger. Last word: Benevolent. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

Brigid knew what true hunger was. Franky had taken her in off the streets, given her a job, and a place to stay. Now, two years later, she has to be reminded sometimes that she is married to Franky. It still seems a dream. Except when his friends come over and she has to serve them drinks and food. That is just part of being the wife of a mafioso.

Brigid was just getting her breakfast ready when there was a knock at the door. Glancing at the clock, she knew something was wrong. ‘I wonder who it could be at this hour,’ she thought as she left the kitchen. Before she could make it through the living room, there was a second, more insistent knock.

“I’m coming!” Brigid yelled before they could knock again.

Opening the door, she had to look down to see the street runner that was standing at her door. Just one of the many children on The Family’s payroll.

“Good morning, young sir. What do you need to pass on so urgently?” she asked. The boy just looked at her and handed up a folded piece of paper. Taking it with a smile, she turns for her purse to get some coin to give him, but the boy is long gone before she turns back. Shaking her head, she remembers many such errands of her own.

Turning and going back to the kitchen, she sits at the table before unfolding the paper. Scooting her now cold breakfast away, she begins reading -

Brigid,

There was some trouble last night with your friend Mikey. I’m afraid the Gambino’s decided to send The Family a message through him. I’m very sorry to have to tell you, but he didn’t make it. We will find out who did this. I promise you that.

Franky

Tears streaming down her face as she reads the hastily penned note, Brigid knows they will be meeting at Jilly’s. Knowing that she needs to be a part of this, she throws her uneaten breakfast away and puts her dishes in the sink. Walking back to the living room, she grabs up her purse and makes sure she has enough for bus fare. She locks the door as she steps out and hurries down the steps to the sidewalk where she notices the bus just pulling up to the stop.

Brigid runs down the sidewalk to catch the bus before it leaves. Taking a seat near the front, she wipes at her eyes to make sure they aren’t black with running makeup. Stepping off the bus, she walks slowly to the tavern as she collects her thoughts and emotions. It doesn’t do for a mafioso’s wife to be seen as over-emotional. Making her way to the back, she steps around the garbage and bottles of the previous night to make her way to the delivery door where everyone enters. She can only hope that The Boss is as benevolent with her grief as Franky has made him out to be.

First word: Benevolent. Last word: Ethics. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

As Scott stood above the stove, he knew his motives were not as benevolent as they appear. The quickest way to wake up and get rid of the two women in his bed was by making a ruckus in the kitchen. Breakfast in bed? What a sweetheart they would think, not knowing he had already grown tired of them and wanted them out.

Thinking better than to be by an open fire without any clothing on, Scott quickly grabbed a cooking apron and wrapped it around his waist.

Scott is what every kid on the block aspires to be. He was  rich. He was powerful. He was loved by the women. He was respected by the men. He was adored by the community. Everyone in the old neighborhood called him Squishy, although nobody really knew where or how the nickname originated.

Squishy tried to make as much noise as he could, banging the pan with a fork while "mixing" the eggs, hoping the repeated clanking would wake one of them up. 

This was proving to be a far more difficult task than imagined. With the amount of alcohol those two had consumed the night before, not to mention the workout Squishy had put them through, it was going to take a dedicated effort to get them up and out.

Almost as though the Gods were answering Squishy's mental wish, the phone began to screech. Squishy began to take a step toward it, when realizing this was a blessing in disguise. He stood still, letting the phone fill the room with its unwelcome clangor.

It was over 15 rings when Squishy decided that this may be an important call. He made his way to the phone and answered it. 

"Franky? A meeting at this hour? What.. Mikey? You've got to be shitting me. I was with him last night...." That last sentence transporting him back to the previous night. The two of them had finished making their rounds and decided to go out and have some drinks before Mikey went back home, to his girlfriend.

Squishy loved Mikey, but Squishy hated how Mikey was as devoted to his girlfriend as much as he was. The two broads in his room, well, one of them was for Mikey. But, Mikey didn't want anything to do with it. He had his girlfriend and remained loyal to her. 

"I shouldn't have left the fucking bar..." Squishy said to himself, hanging up the phone. Guilt began to fill his mind, knowing that because of his lust for women, he was not around to protect his family member. Anger consumed him as he walked into the bedroom. He grabbed an empty bottle from the nightstand and threw it against the wall. The smash of the bottle finally woke the two ladies, who screamed in terror.

Squishy, not to be bothered by manners, grabbed one of the ladies by the arm and escorted her out of the house, yelling at the other one to 'grab their shit and get the fuck out of here.'

He then quickly made his way to the bathroom and ripped off the apron from around his waist and stepped into the shower. 

He didn't really care to take a shower, but he really needed to relieve himself. It would burn severely when Squishy would pee, and he found that an ice cold shower helped relieve the pain. 

He slowly began to dress himself. He strapped his ankle holster. He strapped his shoulder holster. Walking out the door, he grabbed a third and final piece and tucked it into the back of his pants. He was ready to go to war, with whomever, whatever and however. 

Squishy arrived at the Jilly's Saloon and walked straight through the front. He was too upset to care or worry about being discrete. He walked straight through, ignoring the hellos and waves from the patrons. He went straight through the back, walking right past the guard of men and opened the door without bothering with the knock. As everyone jumped, Squishy pulled the piece from his chest and his back and pointed both guns at everyone. 

"Mikey is dead, and this is the type of security we have going!?" he yells out, still angry at himself more than anything else. 

"Your point is made and understood. Now put your guns away before we have to bury you as well." said the old man.

Squishy didn't anticipate the boss to be at the meeting this early. He felt a bit of relief, knowing that if the boss was here this early, this was serious business.

Squishy glanced around the room and finds an empty seat and sits down.

The old man stood up and walked around the room, pacing. He finally looked at the group of people in the room and spoke.

"These punks have no honor. To kill a made member, of our family? We need to send a message. When you go and break the rules, then you will be dealt with by means outside of the rules. I want every person even remotely associated with the killing of Mikey to be burned to ashes. All ethics are out the door."

First word: Ethics. Last word: Backstab. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

"That's right, ethics be damned, these bastards are going to pay" added Franky from his seat in the corner.

BAM!  The old man slammed his fist on the table.  Damn it Franky are you holding this meeting or am I, the old man asked as he gave Franky a look like "Shutta fuck up".  Sorry boss, please continue.  

"Thank you", the old mad said as he sipped his brandy and sat back down in his chair.

Slowly looking around the room, the old man pulled a cigar and lit it before continuing.

Father Pat came to see me today with some very interesting news.  It seems some of the Gambino boys are down at O’Malley’s Tavern and a few of them boys have a buzz on and have been overheard talking about Mikey Dinovio and something about Franky and his bastards.  Margaret heard enough and went right over to tell our friend Father Pat.

That's it!!  Let's go kill these sons a bitches, Franky yells as he stands up.  These bastards need to pay for what they did to Mikey!

Slow down Franky, the old man says, this is how mistakes happen.  We must slow down and figure out our next move.  Let's not rush in half cocked.

Ah, this is bullshit.  We need to be out there handling business! 

Franky get's a panicked look on his face as he knows he shouldn't be showing such disrespect to not only the boss but the rest of the button men at the meeting.

If you guys will please excuse me, I'm going to step outside for a smoke and cool off, Franky says as he makes his way towards the back door into the alley. 

"Ah, that's just what I needed", Franky thinks to himself as he finds his flask in his jacket pocket.

Just as Franky finished a large swig three shots rang out, PEW PEW PEW!

What the fuck was that, Squishy yelled as everyone jumped up and ran towards the back door to the alley.

It sounded like gun fire, said the old man as he began to stand.

OH SHIT!!!  THEY GOT FRANKY, Squishy yelled back into the room to the old man.  They shot him 3 times boss!!

How the hell did they know were we were, thought the old man.  As the boss looked around the room at his fellow mobsters his mind began to swim.  Do have I a traitor in my crew?  Could one of my very own button men have turned on me?  Could it have been Father Pat?   Shaking his head, the boss knows it couldn't have been Father Pat, he's been with me too long.  This leaves one suspect, that backstabbing bitch Margaret.

First word: Backstab. Last word: Rags. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

What the fuck we gunna do about Margaret, that backstabbing bitch has gotta pay for what she's caused here. Where the fuck can I find her, i'm going to kill the bitch.

The old man rose from his chair, his presence felt by all sitting at the table which grew quiet as he stood. While standing he took a quick glance at the body of Franky that was currently strewn next to Squishy's chair

Clear that body up NOW. NO ONE will be killing this girl until we have ANSWERS. WE NEED ANSWERS He roared at his crew who all nodded in appreciation of what was being said.Meanwhile the old man gestured towards a Made member to move Franky's body to somewhere less conspicuous

Now, Squishy, Jeremy, Frank. You three have to catch this son o' a bitch when she leaves O’Malley’s, and bring the bitch back here. You clear on that boys? ALIVE, she's no fucking use in a bodybag. All three just shifted their heads slightly to show their understanding of the situation.

***

Squishy thought of seeing Franky on the ground with three bullets in him, he'd seen it many times, but for some reason this one got to him more than normal, rage was beginning to fill him up again. All three boys waited just outside the back entrance to O’Malley’s. It was dark with just one overhead lamp illuminating them, hats shadowing their faces, making them unrecognisable to any person who happened to walk by. Jeremy checked left and right constantly making sure that no one would interfere with their job. The door clicked. Squishy immediately jumped and held his Colt to her head and immediately covered her mouth with his arm, not giving her a chance to scream. He indicated to the boys to bag her. They then moved back to their car, bundling her in the back and tightening the bag and poking the pistol in her back making sure she knew it was still there.

***

Margaret's bag was thrown onto the ground only meters from her, her head rocking while her eyes adjusting to the light

What did you tell them Squishy bellows at the top of his voice.

Crying, Margaret keeps her mouth shut, Squishy removes a pocket knife from his inside pocket and flips it open, scraping the cold blade of her neck, making all her hairs stand on end before making a shallow cut on the side of her chest. Squishy repeats himself.What did you tell them!!  She screams but says nothing more.

Squishy smirks while remarking to Jeremy that she's a stubborn little bitch. Squishy removes some pliers from the stove, where they'd been kept warm, glowing with heat. He pressed them around her pinky. Slowing pulling it from the finger until with one massive crack and a scream from Margaret Squishy removed the nail from the finger leaving Margaret weeping.

Margaret screams out, Alright i told them! I promise I didn't mean to... they made me, tortured me... Look look, they're meeting an investor tomorrow night...

She stutters trying to remember where 

Erm... The.. the... The warehouse! Warehouse 13... Downtown! 

Hearing what he needed to hear squishy pulled a rag from his pocket and drenching it in water. the soaked rag over her face still at last, her breath no longer moving it. 

First word: Rags. Last word: Murder. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

The Rag was still in Squishys pocket. He pulled it out and the other people in the car looked at it. They were still in shock as they approached the warehouse. Margaret had been involved with the family from the very beginning. To think she was a rat was unthinkable, and to think she was ratting out to the Gambino’s. Gambino’s had been this family’s enemy since the beginning but things had never got this bad. In the process of turning one of our own, they had also killed two of the families’ button men.

The motorcade pulled up a few blocks from the warehouse. There was a black van at the rear and the rear doors opened, and a kid no older than 13 hopped out on a pushbike and started towards the warehouse. 

The boss turned to Squishy “You sure this is a good idea? Sending a kid to scout?” 

Squishy turned towards the boss so not to appear to show disrespect to the boss in front of the others and whispered, “Think about it? The place is going to be crawling with Gambino’s. They know who we are; and if they spot any of us, it’s going to go South quickly. We send the kid and when he comes back he will give us the info we need to get our revenge.” 

The wait seemed an eternity but the kid came back round to the boss and told him what he saw. The main thing was there were two guards on static patrol who were alert but nothing spectacular. Squishy thought about it for a few minutes and began telling the plan to the family. Another boy appeared from one of the cars in the motorcade and set off after given his instructions. A few seconds later, the boy on the pushbike was off towards the warehouse again. Three of the family’s best killers sneaked off towards the warehouse, while everyone else checked their weapons and crammed into the back of the van, They slowly inched forward towards the warehouse. 

Outside the warehouse, the first kid was hanging out near the warehouse, close enough that the guards seen him. The boy on the pushbike appeared, threw his bike to the floor, and began to run towards the kid standing there. They started shouting at each other and next thing it was a full-blown fight. The Gambino guards stood watching and laughing. 

Then the door of the warehouse opened, the guards went bright red and quickly hurried towards the two scrapping kids. As they got closer, they saw the kids hardly had any marks on them. As they went to say something, they both heard a noise behind, but it was too late. Two of the killers were already behind them, each with a garrote wire. There was a whimper for a few seconds, but it was barely audible. They collapsed to the floor, and the third man appeared and helped the other two throw the bodies in the dumpster. The two kids had done their job and gotten their pockets lined with notes.

The three men headed back to the van and jumped in the back. Squishy looked at everyone in the eye. “You ready?” Everyone nodded; it was time. Squishy jumped in the front and placed his Tommy-Gun on the passenger seat. He looked in the wing mirror and saw the boss in his car surrounded by bodyguards. He looked up and said a quick prayer. He started the engine; his heart felt like it was trying to break out of his chest. He started towards the warehouse and saw what he was looking for. He took a deep breath and jammed his foot on the accelerator. The van jolted forward and began to pick up speed. He steered towards the shutter. 50ft away… 40… 30… 

“Brace yourselves,” he screamed to the guys in the back. 

He grabbed the Tommy-Gun, swung the door open, and jumped out rolling onto the floor. The van hit the shutter and kept rolling; it was game time. The van came to a stop, hitting a couple of people in the process. The warehouse was swarming, but the shock of a van appearing had done the job. The Gambino’s seemed frozen to the spot. Enough time for everyone to pile out of the van. They were out for revenge so it didn’t matter that they might die. 

Squishy was running through the gap, which previously had the shutter in the way. As he entered the warehouse he noticed movement on his left, his instinct kicked in - he swung his arms and head round and squeezed the trigger. The guy was down. He had two more in his sights, two more bursts from his Tommy-Gun, two more kills. He jumped behind some boxes and changed his magazine. Gunfire was going off all around as the family began swarming the Gambino’s, the air filled with the smell of bullets and fresh blood.

The last bullets rang out and it was silent. Squishy got up and shouted for everyone to check in. They all come round, a few sporting some fresh wounds but nothing the doctor on the payroll couldn’t fix. Squishy went round and checked the dead bodies. They had a live one who was now bound by the wrists and thrown into an office. Squishy had been through every dead body; none was the head of the Gambino family.

"Murder our button men, we will murder your fucking family", Squishy mumbled under his breath.

First word: Murder. Last word: Revenge. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

A scene of murder rarely held such muted jubilation, yet the relief was clearly apparent, though what remained was still an air of dissatisfaction about the mafioso. They had yet to locate the Boss of the Gambino Family. Squishy noticed the men seemed at a loss of what to do; however there was one person he could turn to in this situation.

Cedric. The man was reputed for being little more than a ghost in a room of rambunctious devils. Whilst the excitable mafioso crowded around the fallen bodies of the Gambino's, Cedric simply watched and absorbed the emotion of the situation. His impenetrable thought process was currently at risk of being derailed by his boiling hatred for the dishonorable crew, however he soon allowed it to simmer as he caught sight of the Squishy. He was standing among his men, watching solemnly. His eyes met with Cedric and he nodded.

The gaunt man shifted his steely gaze to the man in their captivity. He drew a quick assessment while the others watched in silent anticipation. It wasn't long before he came to a conclusion.

"Kill him" 

His voice was but a whisper, destroyed from a lifetime of substance abuse. It was fearsome and unnatural to hear, making most uncomfortable. 

The man squirmed as several Button Men approached him, all eager to enact their own blend of brutal retribution upon the man. He spluttered, blood dribbling from a wound on his bottom lip.

"W-wait!" He cried out, in an humiliating attempt to save his own life.

Cedric raised a hand. The men stopped. Among the crowd, Squishy smiled, appreciative of Cedric's talent.

A crooked nose and thin, white stubble came face to face with the battered features of the Gambino Goomba. Cedric crouched before him, taking care not to bloody his shoes in the gore collecting on the stone floor. The man's fear became apparent as his crotch dampened.

"Talk."

...

The men moved swiftly through the boxes as their quarry became apparent. As they neared the point in which they first entered, gunfire erupted. The loyal men of the New York family began reducing numerous wooden crates to splinters, until one found that which they sought. 

The group entered a hidden room swiftly, moving confidently and efficiently. Squishy brought up the rear, however had no difficulty in spotting the Gambino boss.

In a plush office off the hall, Gambino stood, patiently waiting. A smug grin across his arrogant face. Flanking him were two of his finest. Men of untold respect who had served him his whole life. They shifted their posture upon sight of the intruders, both eager to flex their own brand of mob violence.

"Squishy, we finally meet"

He did not receive the intended reaction from his little display of defiance, and his men fell to the sound of furious gunfire. He could only watch in horror as his council and Right Hand were subjected to vindictive and gruesome overkill, the immense reality of his situation became apparent. He stammered a pathetic plea, clearly expecting some form of mutual respect to hold some weight against the oncoming storm. Squishy only smiled, clearly pleased.

"Come now, Gambino, come see the fruits of your efforts meet their thrilling conclusion"

...

Gambino was dragged from his office by his neck. A tight wire made his features bright red and his eyes bulge. Every time he tried to stand, a vicious stamp to his ankles deterred him. 

He was grateful for the eventual darkness of the trunk. 

In the front of the saloon car, specially arranged for the situation, there was silence. Thoughts of revenge however, were deafening. 

First word: Revenge. Last word: Blinded. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

Looking at the old, stoic, man in the back seat – you would have no idea that revenge was the sole thought on his mind. He looked to squishy, seated next to him, and put his hand on his shoulder.

You did well today Scott, but I’m taking it from here. The old man said with an icy glare at squishy.

 Knowing his place, Squishy didn’t protest – despite his gnawing wishes for revenge.

After Squishy was dropped off, the old man’s driver took him and the Gambino Boss to the dock where his fishing boat was tied up, next to an old warehouse that used to be a fish market.

The Old Man paced tirelessly around the bound and gagged Gambino Boss, with a twisted smirk on his face. Taking a moment to look around, making sure he was finally alone; he crouched down behind the kneeling boss and said 'Remember me?'

At this, the boss began to tremble and shake, and cry. Each one of his muffled and choking pleas made the Old Man’s sick smirk grow wider. Grinning from ear to ear the Old Man broke out in laughter. The Gambino boss, still shaking and visibly sick, knew the Old Man’s reputation for cruelty.

Jackie! Jackie my boy, hold yourself together. The old man said as he gave the Gambino Boss a stiff slap in the face.

You and I see, we go way back… These new kids, they don’t know. They don’t know me. But you do.

The crying and muffled pleas turned to dead, grim, and absolute silence. The Old Man’s reputation wasn’t that prevalent these days but it certainly stuck in the mind of the older Mafioso.

The old man got on the same level as Jackie and spoke in hushed tones, ‘I wanna thank you for taking care of Mikey and Franky for me, good boys, but too greedy.’ The old man’s sick little smirk returned as he picked up a small can of gasoline.

He paced around Jackie, swirling the contents of the can around as the deathly aroma permeated the air. The Old Man just loved that smell…

As soon as that scent reached Jackie’s nose, he began to urinate himself and went back to his crying and pleading – even though he there was no hope.

Aww Jackie… You used to think this was hilarious! Remember? Don’t you remember calling me ‘fire bug’? You laughed when I burnt down that speak-easy that refused to pay up… You thought it was hilarious when I fried Tommy, that rat bastard. It’s only funny when I do it to others?

You know, normally I wouldn’t send out a friend like this… but poor Margaret. A pawn in your scheme. I pay your men to do a job and not get caught, they go blabbing in front of the biggest talk in town? What is wrong with you? Then you use the poor girl to take care of the rest of the job? What the fuck did you think was gonna happen, you fuckin idiot.

The old man crouched down to Jackie’s level just one last time… ‘Works for me though, you were steppin on my toes anyway, but for poor Margaret’s sake, you’ll have to suffer.’

The minute the old man’s speech ended, he had sliced Jackie’s stomach, all the way up to his chest. He then stood up to admire the bloody, muffled screams and coldly picked up the can of gasoline and doused him head to toe, lighting a match, in the middle of the warehouse, and lighting Jackie on fire.

The old man covered his mouth and nose with a wet rag to protect from the rancid smoke, and stepped back letting it waft out the large doors and windows. He then swept the remains of his old companion and stuffed them in an old industrial barrel and sealed the lid.

Once the barrel was stowed away on his old fishing boat, the old man contemplated what he would tell his men about his revenge killing, as he shielded his eyes from the blinding light of the shining sun on the horizon of The Hudson.

First word: Blinded. Last word: Boat. If this is the last post then the last word is: Cargo.

Looking out across the Hudson River, into the blinding sun and drenched in golden light, the old man couldn’t prevent a slow, satisfied smirk from spreading out across his face. Dusting off his jacket, he reached down into his pocket to retrieve a engraved leather case, with fine Cuban cigars stored inside. Taking one out of the tin, he lit it and inhaled deeply – the cigar acting as his victory cry. Getting back into his car, he decided to head back to the small bar in the back of his Headquarters, expecting a group of his made men to be gathered there, mourning the passing of Franky and awaiting news on the fate of the Gambino boss.

Driving back through the quiet streets, the old boss couldn’t help but think of all the young men who had passed through his organization through the years; the ones he’d had to kill, the ones who’d been taken from the family, as Mikey and Franky had been, and the ones like Squishy, who’d grown into key players in the family’s small world. He thought of the wars he’d fought and the decisions he made, and found himself touching the Rosary he kept in his pocket.

Pulling up at the Headquarters, he saw several of his made men gathered outside, enjoying a cigarette in the cool evening breeze. Nodding to them, he motioned for them to follow him inside, leading them to the bar where he found Squishy heading an enthusiastic game of poker in the memory of Franky, who was noted for his love of playing his luck. Nodding to the associate given the task of keeping the small bar, he placed his now smokey coat over the back of a chair, and accepted the large glass of fine Canadian whiskey passed to him by the barkeep. Moving into the centre of the room, he cleared his throat loudly, commanding the attention of every man in the room, from the group playing poker to the associates charged with attending to their needs. As heads turned his way, he began to speak.

“Our family has suffered tremendous losses today. I don’t need to remind all of you that we have lost not only two of our brothers, but our friends as well.” Turning to a man of around fifty who sat on his right hand side, he said softly, “Jimmy, you’ll take flowers to Brigid. Tell her Franky went out calling for the blood of those who killed Mikey, and that his death has been avenged. Help her make some arrangements for the funeral  - you’ll speak with our usual men for that, give him a good send off”. Addressing the group at large again, he continued, “Squishy lead our men into doing an honourable job of killing off much of the Gambino scum, and kidnapping their boss, who met a sad end involving spontaneous combustion just an hour or so ago.”.

Raising his glass, he asked his men to join him in toasting the shortened lives of Mikey and Franky, and the work they had all done that day. Draining his glass in a single swallow, he shrugged back into his coat, remembering one final bit of business he had to attend to. Collaring a skittish associate, he barked out a request to be driven back to the docks.

Returning to the place he stored his fishing boat, he picked up the barrel containing the ashes of the Gambino boss. Walking up the steps of an abandoned cargo container, he rested the barrel on the edge of it’s railings before hefting it into the river, and smiling to himself, muttered the eulogy, “Success! Dat bum’s swimming with da fishes!”.