A single, splintering kick sided with a satisfying crunch soon wiped that stupid grin off his face.

What concerned Fisk was the menacing pleasure etched across Dominico’s face, his own sadistic smile revealing the depths of his character. Fisk was a good judge of character, though any putz could see this Goomba was enjoying this more than necessary.

It had been an otherwise pleasant stroll through the market. The pair had been on a routine tribute collection through one of the more compliant districts. The colours and sounds painted a serene and calm scene. Stalls of fruit & veg piled high, fresh bread and cuts of meat sold at discount prices for those with the contacts. Fisk enjoyed the market.

The bloodied head of some scumbag pick-pocket now rolled off the kerb, his eyes searching the sky for orientation.  His expression was scattered, his senses desperately trying to return his focus. His outstretched arms made vain attempts to defend himself from the next blow

Dominico circled him for a few more moments, snarling obscenities and threats. Fisk didn’t care much for gore and violence, especially where it isn’t necessary. Safe to say his interest in the extended beating Dom was issuing was waning.

“Leave him, he’s learnt his lesson”

Dominico Vassi didn’t agree. He dragged the thug up against a wall and slammed him into the brickwork. He spat in his face, snarled some more and grasped his collar with both fists. There was barely and inch between the two, as the vicious mobster growled into the broken features of an exhausted thief.

Fisk wasn’t really impressed with either of them, he only witnessed with disdain as the altercation unfolded. He watched silently as the two scuffled, the man now fighting for his life, and barley raised his brow as the battered street thug suddenly plunged his fist into Dominico’s gut.

The Goomba staggered backwards, his expression now terrified and pale.

He stumbled off the kerb and into the market, the small crowd that had gathered crying out in fear. Grasping out for support, his fingers found a canopy, he fell.

The stall shook, the farmers produce collapsed and scattered into the street. A box of Pumpkins failed to balance amongst the chaos and tumbled down onto the bloodied body of Dominico Vassi, breaking around him. The glistening gore of the Squash trailed across the cobbles, mixing with deep crimson, as Dominico took his last breath.

Fisk caught a pumpkin under his foot, eyeing it for a moment, before glancing up at the terrified thug, clutching a crude shank.

“Fuck off”

He ran, the Chicago Soldato watched as he fled, then turned and continued about his stroll.