"Why would I kill a man. That was my defence. A shit storm later, and I was holding an umbrella full of holes. Why would I. What would I have to gain? That was my response to their incessant questioning.

And the truck? What fuckin' truck. You tell me where it went. And if there even was a red ford pickup truck with a rusty flatbed lined with booze, a tail light out and a ding in the driver side door. What truck?

Eyewitnesses weren't foolproof. Especially when the fool could be bought. And reasoned with. On account of not wanting his family to suffer the same fate. And he knew they would. His eyes told me so.

It was brief, but long enough. His were fear filled. Mine, who knows. Our gaze didn't connect too long. He broke first. And focused on the smoking gun in my right hand. I don't blame him. It's one nice fuckin' piece. Gold trigger smith n wesson. When it came to handling a smoke wagon, I like to think I have the midas touch.

I never really feel the need to intimidate others. Not even when my ass is on the line. In more ways than one. I just know what makes a man tick. Family. Those in the life or not. It all comes down to family. And you just squeeze at it. And as if a man were an inanimate object adorning a fruit bowl, the juice eventually comes.

Some tears may be shed. But fear is what is the result, in one way or another. It seeps out of a man. Through his every pore. But the eyes show it the most. Maybe the body quivers. Sometimes other fluids join the potential going away party. It's all the same, either way.

So no matter how many times they ask, the answer is the same. A deflection. I'll let them prove it before I confirm it. And even then it wasn't me. I probably have a twin out there somewhere. Some bad mother fucker that has a knack for being exactly that. But me? I'm Easter all year round. Vic the fuckin' saint.

Just give me some water. Refreshed, I'll steal a truck full of wine. Hydration is important when making a buck or two from nothing. And this brings us full circle. The reason I'm still here, in this shitty excuse for an interrogation room.

I did kill him. You've got that much by now. But the question still persists. Why would I kill a man. For money? Power? Maybe he had a cock eyed stare? It's much simpler than that. I like the way the gun smells after the trigger is squeezed. The liquored up non-existent truck was just a bonus. A gift. A little something to get my foot back into the life. I hope it was enough.

But of course, let's not tell the stiffs that. It's just between me and you. Omerta and all that. Let them stew on it. I quite like this little home away from home. It really brings out my eyes."

Vic took a puff of the lucky strikes cigarette then let the smoke slowly escape. He looked across the table with a squint. His one good eye showing the ordeal hadn't dampened his sense of humour. His lips curled up, joining in. Otherwise he looked the bad side of a barn burner.

Besides the table and some chairs, the room was empty. Besides yourself, Vic, and whomever else was along for the ride that is. A window showed they were a story up and night was slowly creeping in. Some non distinct buildings, broken fences and the like. Some graffiti. The Tower Still Stands in thick white paint on a defiantly standing brick wall of a partly demolished building. Nowadays though, the neighbourhood seemed a quiet spot. Made sense.

It certainly wasn't every day that a man was arrested for murder and trafficking of alcohol in the same day without being a part of one of the families. The fact that the man he eliminated had been an annoyance was just a bonus.

The tip had come from an officer who owed Ravel a few favors and in such a tumultuous time how could he pass up a chance to meet someone with those kinds of skills? He decided to bring along one of his new guards, a Spanish man named Figaro who he'd picked up under very similar circumstances. If nothing else he'd make a good character witness and it's always best to have someone watching your back.

At first sight, Ravel was actually a bit shocked that the man had been taken alive. The gentleman...no, gentleman wasn't a term that would stick here. This guy was a regular goon. The goon was keyed up and looked like he had been through the wringer with room for more. The enthusiasm was commendable and the gumption to hold out and admit nothing in spite of the circumstances suggested the right kind of fortitude for the line of work. Truth be told it was almost too much enthusiasm. Almost, but not quite.

He had left Figaro outside the interrogation room to watch for any issues that may arise. Leaning forward and interlacing his hands on the table between them, Ravel couldn't help but chuckle as the man finished his tale. "I can certainly say that your story was worth the trip here if nothing else. However, if half of what you say is true, and so far you've given me no reason to doubt it, then you seem to have quite a skill set to work with. I know a handful of people who could use someone with your proclivities in their line of business. That said you did get caught and by the sounds of things you're in a spot of difficulty for it." Ravel's grin could have been mistaken for mirth at the man's expense, but in truth it held nothing but appreciation for his attitude. He could tell that given a direction the man could be prone to a profitable future. "I find myself in a position to assist in that particular circumstance, however I feel I must first ask you something. Did you happen to know anything about the man you killed and did you have a plan for what came after?" Ravel let the grin fade from his face and looked Vic directly in the eyes. He had been absolutely right about a man's eyes and now it was time for his to tell what he was feeling in this moment. It might make all the difference.

"Well, I guess you could say he owed me one. And I simply came to collect."

His smirk prevailed. Self arousal through humorous quips. 

"Listen. When all you got is nothing at all, then all you really got is your gun and a smile."

Vic slid his fingers into his mouth. After an extended jiggle and some goon like dentistry, out snapped a loose tooth. He took a look at it, holding it up as he spun it. Then flung it off to the side. Your standard government issued cracked molar.

"And as you can see, I'm slowly losing the real money maker." An exaggerated revealing of his pearly whites lingered a moment.

Vic wasn't trying to be coy. Or cocky. Or an asshole. He just saw things simply. A little raw, maybe. But he wasn't a complete nutter. He had a code. A way of being. It's just that compassion didn't make the cut.

A blob of blood and saliva was spat off to the side. Vic took a last puff of the cigarette then flicked it off in a similar direction as he did the tooth.

"I point, I shoot. That's gotta be pretty much the extent of my planning." He said as smoke parted his lips alongside his words.

There was more to the story. To the corpse. The real reason he became a stencil. And like all good stories, it could've been told. But where was the fun in that for Vic.

"So if you got a name or a job you need sorted, well, I may know a guy. He's good with a pistol. May be a bit of a pain in the ass though."

Rough, but quiet and efficient. Priority on doing what was done. That and the honestly with which he admitted to his lack of planning. This was a man who could be worked with. Never mind that the dead body was a footnote. In this business they rarely received much more of a eulogy from those on the other end of the process.

"Color me impressed then. There is an elegance to simplicity and a man who keeps to the point and does what needs done without a great deal of worrying is as elegant as any for which I could ask."

Watching Vic's display of pain tolerance and the subsequent mess, Ravel couldn't help but hope that some better manners might be acquired in time, however in the business they were in that was a secondary concern. Rising from his seat with a gesture to the door he put on his best serious expression and tried not to betray the satisfaction he felt at what was to come next.

"Seeing as you are rather obviously in need of regular employment, and I know a certain Irishman in need of reliable men, I think we can come to an arrangement. If you're interested in a position where you will be given plenty of things to point at and more than enough money to ensure you continue to have both of your two prized possessions, then simply step outside with myself and my man in the hall. I can offer an advance on your first contract as a bonus and not a single officer will so much as step in your path on the way to my car. Who knows? You might even find a third thing to rely on when everything else is lost. A family."

Ravel walked to the door of the interrogation room and paused briefly as he opened the door, a smile once again playing briefly across his features, this time with undisguised amusement.

"I think you'll find that you aren't the only one who can be a pain in the ass at times. That is, of course, unless you'd like to stay here and try your chances with the judges? I hear they've been very busy lately and expediting their work."

A way back in. It's exactly what he needed. Vic wasn't in a position to say much else but yes. Emphatically so. His luck might just be changing.

It was like that though. Lady luck. She was always about, tucked away in the crowd. With a keen eye you could spot her, usually at the back, between 'miss-fortune' and 'miss-take'.

"Now that sounds like a plan I can get behind." The new Seraphim Empire recruit stood just as quickly as the words parted his lips. 

His one good eye scanned the room, then he saw what he was seeking. He grabbed the jacket that was hanging over the back of his chair, sliding it on as he approached the door.

Vic took one last look at the squalor he'd been kept in the past twenty or so hours. Whether in it up to his neck, she was always about. Or maybe he was just that damn blessed. Vic the fuckin' Saint. Parting legs and turning nothing into something. The simple life of Vic Vega. The life of a gangster.

After acknowledging the space he could've smoked his last free cigarette, he turned and walked out, following his key to freedom.

"Irish, you say? I hear leprechaun's have pots of gold and bushy beards."