Daniel Meehan - Agent Daniel Meehan - was a pathetic man. He was a man without accountability; every mistake he had made in his sorry life had been someone else's fault, someone else's cross to bear. When he dropped out of medicine school, it had been the Professor's fault because he singled out Meehan for being Irish. When he took his first envelope of money in a dingy alley as a cop, it was the city's fault for not paying him enough. When corruption became his main source of income as a narcotics agent, he justified it because he wanted better for his kids - and Nurse's college was expensive, too expensive for the meagre wage of a federal employee at the FBN. When the college fund was gambled away it was, naturally, the casino who hustled him.

Meehan was blissfully unaware of how he was perceived of course; in his own mind he was a tragic hero, a victim of the cruelest of circumstances. And so, as he sat in a scummy hooch joint at a 11pm on a midweek summer's night with winos and even the homeless as his peers, it was not himself that he directed his bile at; it was his poor, long suffering wife whom he berated in his head. He'd told her he was working overtime but he knew she could smell the booze on him when he staggered home to his long-dead marital bed, but of course she didn't call him on it because she was a good, dutiful Irish wife. Meehan's resentment of her not shaming him was the closest he would ever come to the realisation that he was a degenerate who brought everyone around him down.

His 'shadier' employers, the Chicago Mob faction led by Godfather Harris, were scornful of this wretched creature. To a group of people who took what they wanted from life and valued family above all else Meehan's vices were something to be pitied; but having an inside man in the newly formed federal bureau to tackle the narcotics situation was an invaluable asset to them and his indiscretions made him more susceptible to coercion and blackmail so he was tolerated.

This is not the story of a hopeless, corrupt government agent though. Daniel Meehan - forty-three with a wife and two grown children - was a pawn, a catalyst in a series events that would go far above him and carry repercussions that Meehan would only realise the magnitude of quite some time later.

When a man  in a long overcoat with a face obscured by his fedora appeared at Meehan's elbow as he sunk back yet another 2 fingers of cheap moonshine asked  to speak with him outside, Agent Meehan assumed it was a representative of Harris's boys and followed him out into the alleyway. As far as mistakes go this was a pretty big one; probably the biggest of his life.

If you ever talk to someone who has experienced a horrific event; they will often tell you about some sort of 6th sense. They'll tell you that 'something wasn't quite right', that they were uneasy or they felt some vague and unidentifiable sense of impending doom. Daniel Meehan experienced none of this as he stepped into the alleyway that night, sense dulled by booze. The first indication he had that something was wrong was when an iron fist came crashing into his kidneys, sinking him to his knees and causing him to bring up the acidic remnants of his last drink. Before he had time to react, a hood was jammed over his head and he was half carried, half dragged into a waiting automobile.

Had he thought logically, Meehan would have realised that his life was in no real danger - if this was a hit, his assailants would have no need for a hood. He was not thinking, though, every inch of him was gripped by a fear unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Initially he barely even registered the sensation of his bladder releasing but he soon became acutely aware of the mens' coarse, mocking laughter penetrating his fear; the shame burning his skin more fiercely than the wetness around his groin.

The car trundled along for around fifteen minutes before Meehan heard a repetitive, faint whirring sound that was strangely muffled through the thickness of his hood. Before he could speculate as to it's source, the hood was whipped off and a kinetic torch was shined directly into his face. These men knew their trade, they knew that the harsh synthetic light after so much darkness would prevent the agent making out any details - such as faces - whilst still allowing him to make out shapes and figures.

The first shape he did make out was that of the unmistakable .38 snub nose revolver being held inches from a chest, and as he began trembling he heard a whispered conversation between two of his captors.

"The phonebook, get the phonebook. It'll muffle the noise real good and there'll be less mess this way. Have you got it?"

There was no reply. Meehan strained to focus his vision but the swirling colours and patterns by the lingering light that danced across his line of sight prevented him from making anything out. The next thing he registered was a dull thud against Meehan's chest which he immediately realised with a sickening dread was the phonebook. There was no time for anything else; no time for thinking of his family or for regrets, no time for his life to flash in front of his eyes before an explosive noise so loud it felt like he was in his skull tore through the motor car.

For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened. All Meehan could hear was a torturous ringing in his ears and he could still see almost nothing; his already sensitive eyes were blinded further by the bright muzzle flash in the darkness. Eventually he began to make out a face looming over him and for a brief moment he wondered if he was dead until the man began to speak.

"You're a lucky man, Agent Meehan, it seems this phonebook has saved you. Since you're alive, perhaps I can make use of you. My name is Don Joseph Zerilli and from now on, you work for me. Any of those grimy little fucks from Harris' crew who you talk to you; you make sure you tell 'em what happened here, and you make sure to tell 'em that The Loop is mine and you work for me."

"We're on Sycamore drive, I believe that's just 2 blocks from your home, Agent. Don't forget what you've been told, here. If there is a next time, there won't be a phonebook and there won't be a gun. I want you to remember we know where you live and my friend here is something of a an artist when it comes to petrol boms. Your wife wouldn't survive but perhaps your two darling daughters would; though we're not sure how much they'd enjoy a life in the gambling dens beneath the boardwalk."

Without a further word a door swung open and the humbled FBN agent was pushed out of the car which sped away into the night, leaving him curled in a foetal position in the gutter, sobbing quietly. There was a new Don in town, and he wasn't playing games.

Absolutely. Fucking. Beautiful.

WOW AMAZING

I must say this is a work of art. I really enjoyed this and hope it gets more of a response that it so deserves! Your writing has always been top ranked in my opinion.

Very well written, great read.

will you be continuing this?

Amazing. Simply fucking amazing mate.

Many thanks for all your praise; showing your appreciation through monetary contributions is also highly encouraged.

It's something I had planned on continuing, John, if time (and Mr Pickles) allows!