Setting Up

The rising tide of progress has finally grappled with the gloomy city. The old ways are drying on a gradual note, yet some hustlers still cling on to their old beliefs. Every day, new deals materialize from clubs, pubs, and other forgotten parts. Yet every night - as if part of a glaring cycle - bodies pile up. Such is the nature of the new world - great deals, great avenues of murder and retribution.

Neagan is aware of that goddamned fact. As clear as the day, he still remember the time he bested out the lowlife thugs looming on the smelly outskirts of Bowery. These thugs shattered the life of his wife, Lucille, and shaped Neagan's path towards deliverance. Oh, how he loved every swing of his spiked bat. He named the bat Lucille to honor his loving, beautiful wife. Beyond his vengeance, Neagan sought a bigger world; a world driven by money, business deals, whispers, promises, camaraderie, power, and death. A blissful world, Neagan remarked as he tagged along with the Rejected Misfits. Regular delivery jobs turned into burglaries. Burglaries into shakedowns. Shakedowns into contract killings. There is more to come.

Despite his busy life, Neagan spotted a blind alley frequented by teens who claim to be 'connected' to the Life. A blatant lie that deserves to be buried in a mountain of bullets. The teens were heavily influenced by a lone drunkard-slickster named Carillo. How dare he? And so, Neagan took his lovely bat, headed to the alley, and smashed Carillo's head to squishy bits. The same way he did to a young trader named Glenn Rhee. The alley group was disbanded, and Neagan claimed that little piece of smelly paradise.

He repurposed two cozy sofas, built a makeshift grog bar, and invited some fellas over. Lo and behold - Neagan found his small spot, all the while monitoring the daily hubbub of the streets.

"What I want to know, Mr. Tweedy, is how much you're goin' to pay me to give you safe passage." Neagan lit a cigarette and observed a plump, red-faced man carefully.

"This alley is usually free for all...it takes me easily to the Chinamen without passing by the Whisperers' territory. I found this alley first."

Neagan smiled. "I admire your goddamn balls, Tweedy. But this whole crap-notion is crappy wrong. You pay now. Five hundred bucks - one entry, one exit. The deal is clear."

Tweedy stood his ground. "I will tell this to the cops."

"Them coppers won't do you any good." Neagan stood up and grabbed Lucille. He felt the heaviness of the bat, remembered his wife, and thought about the future of the city. Tweedy has no place in a thriving city, Neagan thought.

Tweedy was about to speak, when he felt the thunderstorm gashed his face. He fell to the ground and tried to crawl away, but Neagan made his move. One, two, three...three bashes in, and Tweedy felt the pressure of the city lifting away. Blood flowed from his cracked skull, along with cerebral fluid and bits of mangled brains.

Neagan took a deep breath and wiped Lucille onto Tweedy's back.

"The Existentialist Alley. This place is a small heaven for existentialists. A place borne of murder, and will probably end in murder." Neagan spoke to one of his minions. He ordered the minion to make a new round of drinks.

"...And damn...I think I need a new sofa." Neagan remarked upon seeing the splash of blood.

Neagan's work has just began.

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