NOTE: This is NOT an entry for the Detroit contests.

I sat in a shadowy corner of Mike's Bar and Grill in Detroit with a cigarette burning in my hand, the only source of light illuminating me in the darkness. I took a drink of the whiskey that sat next to me and sighed.

A pair of men walked into the bar and up to the bartender, Mike. One pulled a knife.

"Listen, asshole, this is Los Muertos territory," said the man with the knife. "You wanna operate a business here, you gotta pay me and my gang some protection money."

I stood up and reached for my pocket and realized I forgot my knife at home. So, I grabbed my cigarette and whiskey and walked over to the scene. The unarmed thug turned on me.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

I smiled. "I guess I can tell you, considering you'll be dead within a week. My name is Fever, I am an associate to the Renaissance, a branch of the Riot. Yeah, you heard of the Riot? Run by a Godmother named Marietta."

"So fucking what? A godmother doesn't mean shit!" said the armed man.

I frowned and looked at him. "I wish you hadn't said that, I would have let you go in relative peace."

I went to put my cigarette in the ashtray on the bar and, when the thug started a stabbing motion, I threw the glass of whiskey into his face.

"Motherfuck! It burns!" he yelled.

He tried to stab me blindly. I grabbed his arm from behind him and hit his knuckle. He  dropped the knife, and I broke his arm. With the knife in my hand, I drove the blade through his throat.

"Say something against Marietta," I said. "Go right a fucking head, if you can."

He spluttered something about her, and I took my foot and stepped, with great force, on his 'jewels'. I kicked him in the side and told him, and his pussy of a buddy, to get the hell out of the shop. The city was about to plunge into a war, which would take both sides to hell and back. I just hoped that Detroit got back first.

TO BE CONTINUED.

I know your probably wondering why I'm updating this so soon after writing the first part. I'm waiting for my plane, and I need something to do.

Part Two: Assailant

I took a taxi to Marietta's castle. It'd be hell trying to get in, what with the guard dogs and trap holes...and the armed guards. But I needed to see her desperately.

Finally, after having my temper run almost short by one of her Asian bodyguards, who jabbered away in Chinese, a guard (thankfully, someone who spoke English) took me into the castle. Rourke was talking with Marietta at the table.

"I just got a report from Dominic, who owns that jewelry store down by Lake Michigan. He says three armed thugs burst into his shop and demanded protection money. They beat the hell out of his shop. It's war," said Rourke.

"How are we going to fight an enemy who we don't know who it is?" replied Marietta.

"Pardon me, but I know who it is. It's the gang Los Muertos. They just tried to take Mike's Bar, but I stopped it," I said quietly.

Rourke gave me a scornful look. "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

"My friends call me Fever, sir. I am an associate of Kates'. But, they broke in and tried to take the place," I said quickly.

"Interesting, very interesting. We still need to talk more about this, Marietta," said Rourke stiffly, the wierd look still in his eye.

I shook my head. I would probably never get Rourke to trust me. But, it was important that the Los Muertos were stopped. The duo started heading to the living room, when I noticed something. Across the wide street, I saw a glint. Like light reflecting off glass. I had a little time, and I acted.

"Godmother, get down!" I yelled, trying to jump in front of her.

She ducked as three bullets broke through the stained-glass window. Rourke, who had started to pull his gun, growled as he held his arm. Blood was dripping from the wound.

I was pissed. As the bodyguards rushed Marietta away, probably to some secret underground bunker in Cleveland or something, I worked to patch up Rourke's arm. I gave him a good healthy shot of whiskey before one of the bodyguards took up the role of nurse, and I worked on the injury.

TO BE CONTINUED.