TipToeTimmy awoke on the pavement outside the Irish pub, his body shook from the cold and he wondered where he'd left his fedora hat. Pushing himself onto his arms he retched out the contents of his stomach onto the side walk. Falling on to his side he rolled pathetically on the dirty concrete as his body purged all the Guinness, Irish Whiskey and God knows what else out of his body. I'll never drink again he thought to himself as another wave of sickness sent a stream of projectile vomit out of his nose and mouth. 

Pulling himself onto his knees he looked down at his body and realized he was covered in ash and dirt. What the hell had been up to last night? Holding his head meekly to the sky he tried to ascertain the time, but the dark clouds which covered the sky left him no wiser. Reaching into his breast pocket he found he was missing his pocket watch. The last thing he remembered was entering the bar and fighting with a trio of rough looking Irish lads. That certainly didn't sound like an act he would be capable of? Was he dreaming? Slapping himself hard across the face he found he was not dreaming and climbed onto his tiptoes steadily. As he reached his full height a dizzying feeling descended on his head and he fell into a nearby pile of trash. 

The smell of the trash made him throw up once more. Dragging himself out from the stinking pile of trash he got onto his knees and tried to clear his senses. Had he really single handedly fought off three people in that bar or was he on some strange drug induced trip? Had he been eating the mushrooms his uncles used to feed him as a teenager? Something didn't add up and sadly he was in no state to figure it out. Reaching into his trouser pocket he thanked the Lord that his keys were still there. Walking towards his car he climbed in, knowing he was in no fit state to drive, but hell he wasn't in a fit state to walk either.

If he could just make it back to his apartment and get into bed he swore on all the God's he would never touch a drop of alcohol again. Nearly missing his turn he span the car into a wild right hand turn and nearly lost control of the car. He began laughing like a mad man as he sped through the streets of Chicago. Cats, dogs and people rushed out of his way as he wildly mounted pavements in his desperatation to reach the safety of his apartment. Thinking back, maybe this is why he always refrained from driving, shrugging to himself he realized he didn't really care. 

Pulling his car into the underground carpark below his apartment he half climbed, half fell out of the vehicle and lurched over towards the elevator. He'd need to take a seriously long, hard look at himself tomorrow and figure out what the hell had occurred in that Irish pub. His memories were all jumbled up and he was struggling to focus. For now he just needed a shot of whiskey and a hot shower, but wait hadn't he promised never to touch a drop of alcohol again? Who fucking care he laughed as he reached for a glass and a bottle of his favorite whiskey. Pouring himself a shot he gulped it down in one and lit a smoke.

Thinking back he was sure he'd gone into that bar and given the bastards a good beating. That's the sort of thing a TipToe of his stature would have done. Had he any sense he'd realized his Dutch courage was building again, and he had no idea what had happened in the Irish pub. Settling in for another sloshy night of drinking he was disturbed by his phone ringing. Putting down his drink he walked over and picked it up.

"So you said you had some work," stated an Irish accent on the other line. 

TipToeTimmy's confidence grew as he recognized the voice from his hazy memories, "I sure do, I'll pick you up tomorrow, make sure you bring those goons it's gonna need a little muscle," he replied confidently putting the phone down without a second thought for the fact that he had no plan or no real idea what the hell he was doing. 

TipToeTimmy pulled himself up from below his dining room table. He groaned as he tried to climb back onto his tiptoes. Hazy memories flittered through his mind as he tried to recall what what he'd done last night. Looking at the table was evidence enough. He'd polished off a bottle of whiskey and passed out underneath the table. Looking down at himself he noticed the damp patch around his crotch, great he thought, looks like I've pissed myself too. Well there goes another suit, pulling off the damp clothes he hopped in the shower and started to feel a little better as the warm water cascaded down his face. 

Drying himself he checked his pallid skin in the bathrooms mirror. Well god damn he looked as sick as a dog, his usual tanned skin looked grey and diseased. He really did need to stop drinking..... Lighting himself a cigarette he spat a glob of phlegm into the sink and slicked back his hair. He'd have to worry about his failing health another day, today he needed to come up with some work for the crew. He knew he had to consolidate his new position as a capo, and anyways he always enjoyed breaking the law. 

Dressing himself in a clean black suit and tie he donned a black fedora and pulled his trench coat over his shoulders. He dreaded to think how much his tailor bill would be this month, having soiled every suit he owned in one way or another. Well today was a new day, for a new man. On the tips of his toes he crept down the corridor not wanting to disturb his neighbors at this early hour. Walking into the elevator he lit up another smoke and started to think about the best places to rob or scam.

Cruising down the streets of Chicago TipToeTimmy spied a couple of places of interest. A federal bank, the Chicago Post Office sped past as he busied his mind trying to come up with a plan. Stopping as the light turned red he watched as a truck pulled out from below the federal bank, thinking on the tips of his toes he swerved into the right hand lane, did a u-turn and followed the security truck careful to keep his distance. He smiled as he watched the truck pull into a non-descript lot. Climbing out of his car he decided to get a better look.

Leaving his expensive coat, hat and shoes back in the car TipToeTimmy did tiptoe towards the compound. With feline grace he scaled the wire fence and dropped onto the concrete on the other side. The place was a hive of activity as trucks laden with cash unloaded in in the bays which led further into the large building complex. Typical of the area it was made from rough looking concrete standing at three stories with reinforced windows covered in a heavy shading not allowing TipToeTimmy to take a gander inside. Satisfied that this would be a good mark he leapt over the fence, climbed back into his car and drove back towards the Irish pub. 

Pulling up outside he entered without knocking and sat down at a familiar bar stool. The words, "I'll have a Guinness," were on his lip until he remembered what had happened last time. No it would be better to keep a clear head, at least while he discussed a plan with his new Irish associates. The bartender nodded at him and whistled, the bushy eye browed ginger fella answered the call with his two goons close in tow. 

"Got a job for us?" the leader asked with a slight Irish twang to his otherwise Chicago accent. 

"Got something for you to look at sure, see what you think," TipToeTimmy responded turning on his tiptoes and asked him to follow.

Taking the short drive to the compound he began to point out weaknesses to the buildings defense as the leader of the Irish gang nodded his agreement. They both agreed it would be a tough nut to crack, but with the right guys and the right amount of force applied at the right point, they didn't see why it couldn't be achieved.

The leader, a man who TipToeTimmy later known was a wicked bastard nicknamed Paddy turned to him and stated, "I know just the guy to keep an eye on this place, as reliable as they come." 

"I'll take first posting, you guys get some weapons, a couple trucks ready, I'll contact you once I have a plan," TipToeTimmy responded not taking his eyes off the busy compound. 

The others climbed out of the car he'd stashed across the street from the compound leaving him to his thoughts. TipToeTimmy would have preferred to tiptoe into the compound and steal the cash himself, but he knew there would be a lot of heavy lifting involved and it always paid to have some hired muscle. Lighting himself a smoke he watched and waited making mental notes of the best approach routes and frequency of drop offs. 

He was interrupted by the arrival of another vehicle pulling up alongside him. The driver got out and explained Paddy had sent him to keep an eye out. TipToeTimmy had all info he wanted anyway so nodded and fired up the Lincoln Continental backing out of the parking space and hitting the road. Driving the short distance to the Irish pub TipToeTimmy sat down at the bar and ordered himself a pint of Guinness for a job well done.

Taking his drink over to the booth that Paddy occupied he took a seat and discussed their plan. They both figured that surprise and overwhelming violence would be the ticket to success. Happy that they now had a plan and a day for the job Paddy ordered a bottle of whiskey and some shot glasses to celebrate. TipToeTimmy took the offered shot thinking to himself, well there's always tomorrow to quit drinking. 

TipToeTimmy found himself sprawled across the floor of a freezing cold alleyway. Using the damp brick wall he pulled himself to his tiptoes and tried to make sense of his surroundings. A feeling of vertigo descended upon him and he fell to the ground retching out the meager contents of his stomach. Oh god, he thought, why had this happened again? Where the hell was he? Was that the sound of the ocean he could hear crashing in the background. With a drunken gait he stumbled towards the source of the crashing waves. 

It was the smell which hit him first, the smell of salt on the air mingled with the tang of seaweed and echoing caws of seagulls. What the hell was he doing at the coast? The last thing he could recall was drinking with that mean old bastard Paddy, had he drugged him? Was this part of some grand human trafficking scheme? Panic began to set into TipToeTimmy's heart as he continued to stumble towards the sea. As his feet hit the sand he fell to his knees, his final reserves of energy failing him. 

He didn't know how long he knelt on that beach trying to figure out where he was and how he'd ended up here. He wracked his fractured memories drawing up images of him, Paddy and his gang planning a grand heist. That was it, of course they were planning a job, but had they done the job? TipToeTimmy jumped back to his tiptoes as the seas cold waters began to lap around at his knees.

He must have entered a fugue state, turning to the sky he noticed the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, panic once again set into his heart. Slapping himself hard against the face he told himself to pull it together. He was a capo of the Feel Good Inc crime family, these were not the actions of such a man. Turning to his right he noticed for the first time the sprawling city which stretched out across the land mass. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he been drugged? He needed answers. 

Grabbing a passerby he asked what day it was, the surprised holiday goer responded that it was Saturday. Saturday he thought to himself, that means he'd lost two days. The last he could recall was a Thursday evening having a drink with that old Irish bastard Paddy. Stumbling towards the city in the distance he tried to get his bearings. He could see a pier stretching out into the ocean and a series of hotels and casino buildings, well lit against the darkening sky. A flash of images flickered through his mind, memories of his childhood walking that very pier. He was in Atlantic City, but what the hell was he doing in Atlantic City? 

Tiptoeing down the board walk he caught sight of himself in a nearby storefront window. He looked like shit. His suit and face were covered in dirt and he seemed to have lost his fedora. Checking his pockets he found a set of keys for a hotel, checking the name it was for the Traymore hotel, finally he had a lead. Sitting at a nearby bench he asked a man relaxing on the bench where the Traymore hotel was. The man looked at him like he was stupid, which would have usually upset TipToeTimmy, but he was in a forgiving mood today, and anyways he was in no state to fight anyone. The man laughed and looked up to the massive concrete building that sat before them, with the massive sign stating, "Traymore Hotel." Nodding his thanks TipToeTimmy tiptoed away before he beat the man to a bloody pulp for mocking him. 

Storming through the front entrance to the stunned onlookers, TipToeTimmy couldn't give a shit about his state of dress, but did notice how everyone was dressed like they were going to a ballroom dinner and he was covered in mud and god knows what else. A lady at the reception desk tried to stop him from entering the lift, shouting at him to get out, but TipToeTimmy held up his key to show he belonged here. Walking into the elevator he noticed the looks of disgust by the other poor rich bastards stuck within distance of his foul stench. One of the ladies held a handkerchief to her nose and made a show of her distaste for this ruffian. TipToeTimmy merely growled at her fixing the others with a stare that dared them to make another comment.

Fortunately the elevator dinged as it reached his floor and TipToeTimmy crept down the corridors following the signs for the room number displayed on the key he'd found in his pocket. Opening the door he was immediately hit with a smell worse than himself. He knew the smell well and drew the gun he kept in a holster at his shoulder. Sliding back the receiver he flipped the safety off and tiptoed forward ready to face whatever had happened in the room. The room was a mess, someone had tore it apart in search for something. In the shared living quarters he found the body of Paddy and his crew. Each man was in a sorry state with faces covered in cuts and bruises where someone had tried to beat confessions out of them. Each of the three men had met the same end, a single bullet to the head finally ending their suffering.

TipToeTimmy did his best not to gag at the foul stench which hung over the room. The men had clearly been dead for a couple of days at least by the stench alone, he didn't need a morticians slab to figure that one out. Swearing to himself he started to piece together that they must have hit the compound, and whoever owned the building must have come looking for their money. Well fuck this hadn't gone to plan. 

Checking the three adjoining bedrooms he found the one containing his belongings. Climbing into the en-suite shower he washed away the worst of the dirt in a mad rush before donning a spare suit, shoes and trousers. Checking the pockets of his ruined suit and trousers he found the keys for his car and started to build a plan of action. He needed to get the hell out of dodge and quick. Who knew if the room or the building was being watched. Grabbing the rest of his belongings he rushed out of the hotel room tiptoed his way down the winding corridors. Spotting a fire exit he decided it'd be best to keep his exit hidden from prying eyes. Creeping down the metal steps he dared not risk a look over the edge, fearing he would lose his head. Jumping from the final step he hit the ground running, headed towards the carpark to see if he could find his car. 

His Lincoln Continental was easy enough to find, climbing into the driver seat he put the keys into the ignition but was stopped from turning over the engine as a thought crept into his mind. What if this was all part of their plan? Could he be sure there wasn't a bomb planted under his vehicle? Sweat beaded on his head running freely down his back as he considered what to do. 

TipToeTimmy sat stunned into inaction as his mind tried to process the best course of action, before he could decide memories began to flood back into his mind. 

After God only knows how many shots of whiskey he stood from his table and declared their plan was full proof. Whether it was full proof or fool hardy remained to be seen, but the Dutch courage had him and who was he to question the liquor. Paddy, in a similarly inebriated state rose from his seat to follow with his two goons following closely behind. TipToeTimmy insisted on driving one of the trucks, but even Paddy was wise enough to realize he was in no state to drive, TipToeTimmy not one to be refused stormed off and climbed behind the wheel of his own car while Paddy and his bruisers drove the truck to the compound. 

Lighting himself a cigarette he climbed out of his car, now parked up outside the compound and waited for the others to bust open the gates. Taking another swig from a bottle of whiskey he'd purchased on his way over he knew they were as ready as they were ever going to be. He resisted the urge to shout and holla as he heard tires screeching from around the corner. He bit down his desire to shout aloud as he saw the truck come into view at speed and set off at a jog as it burst through the heavy gates and continued through the heavy shutter which protected the rear of the compound. 

TipToeTimmy charged through the broken gates as the back up truck reversed into view, rushing up to the guard who sat stunned in the booth next to the gate he reversed his pistol and knocked the man out cold. Tying his hands he broke the handle off the outside door so the man would be stuck until they were long gone. On drunken legs he continued to assault anyone he saw still standing. The original plan had called for stealth and caution, but after drinking a couple bottles of whiskey they'd decided direct action was their best bet. 

Gunfire began to echo from inside the building as Paddy and his men slaughtered the guards inside. The heavy shutters were pulled open allowing TipToeTimmy to climb onto the bay as one of Paddy's two goons rolled the first cage filled with bigs of cash into their truck. TipeToeTimmy was drawn further into the building by a series of crashes and shouts, rounding a corner he nearly lost his head as one of the guards waited in ambush, unleashing a hail of hot lead in his direction. Ducking below the bullets he fell heavily onto the floor rolling out of cover and opening up with his own Colt 191, he was left surprised as the bullets caught the guard square in the chest.

Pulling his drunken ass off the floor he stumbled down the corridor and towards the sounds of a struggle up ahead. Kicking open a door he found a man with a knife wrestling with Paddy who had a deep cut on his chest. Bringing his gun up he put two bullets in the knife wielding guards head and helped Paddy up, who nodded his thanks and shouted at the others to hurry up. 

Running back outside TipToeTimmy was alerted to shouts and the sound of rushing feet as the rest of the compound rushed to join the fight. One look at that group of armed men and he knew there only chance was to flee, whether he would have felt such a need with a couple more shots of whiskey he didn't know. Shouting at the others to get in the truck he turned and opened fire over the wide warehouse area, forcing the group into cover. He knew this wouldn't last long so turned on his heels and set off at speed. 

Screaming at Paddy and his goons to get hell out of there he ducked behind the truck as those inside continue to loose a hail of bullets in his direction. He was fortunate none of them were particularly good aims and they did not have heavier automatic weapons. Rushing over the street he leapt into his car as bullets chased his heels. Pushing the car into the drive he sped off leading the cash filled van off into the cold Chicago night.  

TipToeTimmy found himself sat in the car park still in a moment of panic as the memory began to fade. He saw a couple of local police cars pull into the lot with their blue lights on and knew he was fucked. Throwing caution to the wind he turned the ignition over and shoved his foot onto the accelerator. The car did not explode, which was good, but he was still a hunted man who through some feat of savage alcoholism or injury could not remember how he'd ended up here, or more importantly what the hell he'd done with all the money. 

A thought crept into his head, a thought which was beginning to rule his life for better or for worse. Maybe, just maybe, if he had another little drink it might help him remember. Yeah that made sense. Get himself somewhere to stay tonight and after a couple little drinks he'd remember exactly what he'd done with all the money. 

TipToeTimmy awoke on the floor of yet another cold alleyway covered in all manner of trash and debris. Pulling himself to his feet he dusted off the worst of the trash covering his clothes and turned his nose at his own stench. Well that had been an utter failure he thought to himself. All getting drunk had done was end him up in the same situation he'd been in before. As his vision cleared he noticed details in the shaded alleyway. Details which made his head spin and his stomach churn. Who's feet were those sticking out from that pile of trash? Why were the walls painted in blood? What were those foul symbols daubed in blood all over the walls? And why was his stomach groaning with hunger? 

Dreading the darkness which had begun to gnaw away at his soul TipToeTimmy fled from the alleyway not wanting to see the faces of those he'd murdered. He hoped they were terrible people, that he'd been acting in the defense of the defenseless like a caped crusader, but doubted the truth of such thoughts, for one he didn't have a cape and two he doubted there were any good people left in this rotten city. Thoughts unbidden tore through his mind, was this a symptom of his fondness for whiskey, or some malady which had always existed inside of him just waiting to surface. 

Tiptoeing down the busy streets of Atlantic City he did his best to stay out of sight. He needed to clean his clothes and distance himself from this massacre. Checking his pockets he found his car keys and keys to a motel but had no idea where either were. Thinking on the tips of his toes he made his way over to the beach and threw himself into the cold ocean.

Pulling off his blood stained suit he'd have to risk the walk back in his tighty whiteys. Making sure to grab the keys from his pockets he pushed the clothes away and watched as they floated out with the tide. Swimming a couple of lengths up and down the beach he did his best to act as natural as possible, well as natural as a blood soaked man could appear randomly jumping into the ocean and reappearing without clothes. 

Climbing back up the beach he tried to ignore the stares of the people sat around the beach area. Just act casual he thought to himself as he strolled up to a man sitting at a bench and asked him whether he knew where the motel was. The man pointed vaguely in a direction not wanting to sit next to a drenched man in his tighty whiteys, but TipToeTimmy did not mind, he got what he wanted and strolled off down the board walk towards his motel. 

A voice echoed through his mind taunting him as he tiptoed his way towards the hotel. The voice sounded familiar an echo of his mannerisms but something seemed off. What the hell had he drink last night he thought to himself?

The voices answer sent a shiver down his spine, "the blood of innocents," it mocked.

What sort of foul trick was this? "I am not a trick, little TimidToeTimmy," the voice responded.

I really must have lost it, talking to myself wandering down the streets of Atlantic City in nothing but my tighty whiteys. He tried to focus, tried to dispel this voice which mocked him but found he had neither the will nor the power. 

Tiptoeing into the motel he searched the room for any hint of what he'd done the previous night. Catching a sight of himself in the mirror he noticed the cuts which seemed to cover his arms and chest, he looked like he'd had a fight with a thorn bush and lost. The cuts were not deep and did not pain him, which left him even more concerned. He noticed a certain symmetry to the cuts, swirling symbols which seemed to match those he'd found daubed over the walls of the alleyway. 

"How the hell did this happen?" he thought to himself. 

"You're asking the wrong questions," responded the mocking voice. 

"Get the hell out of my head," he shouted back raging against the voice which threatened to overwhelm his senses. 

"If you insist," the voice responded as a massive wave of pain descended on his skull, a searing pain burned through the front of his head forcing him to his knees. 

"Looks like I'm trapped in here would you like me to stop?" the voice asked with its mocking tone.

"Fuck..." "....you," he shouted through gritted teeth as the searing pain risked splitting his skull. 

Falling to his knees he begged, "We have to get out of here do you want to be locked in my head locked in a prison cell?"

"While being a prisoner inside a prisoners head does have a certain irony that doesn't sound overly appealing," the voice responded lifting the searing pain enough for TipToeTimmy to climb to his feet.

Pulling himself over to the bed he found a spare set of clothing stashed away in his bag. Pulling on the jeans and shirt he found a pair of sneakers and dressed as quickly as possible. Grabbing his car keys he made to the door when another searing shot of pain sent him to his knees.

"Where do you think you are going?" the voice demanded.

"I am not done with you, I told you earlier you were asking the wrong question, are you going to leave the city without at least searching for the money you stole," the voice laughed.

"The money is lost, whoever killed Paddy and his crew saw to that," he shouted back as another jolt of pain left him writhing in agony on the floor. 

"There is some truth in your words TimidToeTimmy, but the money is not lost we know exactly where it is," the voice cackled. 

Memories flooded into his fractured mind as he lay writhing on the floor. He saw himself enter the fancy hotel room and torturing people he considered friends before putting a bullet in each of their heads. The image changed suddenly and he saw himself covered in dirt, digging a hole out in the middle of no where. 

"See little TimidToeTimmy nothing is lost, well apart from your friends lives. Did you really think your curse lifted, you fool," the voice laughed its words echoing through his tortured mind. 

TipToeTimmy pulled himself up from the floor, the pain was gone and the voice no longer responded to his thoughts. He knew exactly where he'd buried the money. Rushing out of the motel room he climbed into the car he found parked in the lot and drove off into the afternoon. Had he any sense he'd have left that cursed city and booked himself on the next flight out of America.

TimidToeTimmy poured another shot of whiskey into his mouth and knocked it back. Not TimidToeTimmy, TipToeTimmy for God's sake. He tried not to think about the influence the thing which lurked in the deepest recesses of his brain had over him. Was he responsible for his own actions anymore? Was he just a puppet being pulled along by another's strings? How did he even know where to pull over his car? Why did he know exactly where he buried the cash? Taking another shot of whiskey he tried his best not to think about those things. 

Putting the bottle of whiskey down he shoveled another portion of dirt out of the ground. The scene was lit by the headlights of his car that had pulled off the beaten track into the clearing of a forest just outside Atlantic City. Throwing the shovel out of the hole he started pulling the heavy duffel bags stuffed with cash out. Sweat ran freely down his face as he continued to lift the heavy sacks, once he was done he counted 9 in total. Of course it had to be 9, reaching for the bottle of whiskey he took another swig to try and calm his nerves.

Dumping the duffel bags in the trunk of his car he climbed into the drivers seat and noticed something in the rear view mirror, a man was sat on the back seat. He couldn't take his eyes off the strange figure, it looked just like him with the same beaked nose and tanned face, but the eyes they were so wrong. Devoid of all light and color as dark as the night which covered the forest clearing where he'd parked his car. The figure flashed him a sinister smile at him, its lips parted to reveal teeth sharpened into wicked spikes and the mouth kept opening giving TimidToeTimmy the impression of a shark about to take a bite out of its prey. 

"What the hell are you?" TimidToeTimmy demanded with all the strength he could muster. 

The figure behind him did not respond instead it continued to stare directly into his eyes with that sinister smile. TipToeTimmy reached for the gun he kept in a holster at his shoulder, turning prepared to fill the bastard with hot lead, but as he turned the figure was no longer sat there. Desperately checking the rear view mirror he was horrified that the demonic figure was no longer there. Rubbing his eyes he started to think he'd finally lost the plot. Gulping down another swig of whiskey he fired up the engine, determined to get as much distance from the past weeks events as possible. 

Pulling his car onto the highway he decided it was time to return to Chicago. Wait a second, did he really think that? Was it truly a wise idea to head back to the scene of a crime? Images flashed through his mind of the massacre he'd caused in Atlantic City, images which brought bile into the back of his throat. A mocking laugh echoed through his mind as he sped down the highway, reaching for the bottle of whiskey he took another gulp and lit himself a smoke. If he wasn't careful he was going to end up in an asylum. He needed to pull it together before he got back to Chicago, if his crew got hint that he was criminally insane he'd end up sleeping with the fishes. 

Unbeknownst to TipToeTimmy the Atlantic police had caught wind of a mad man on the loose. Shooting up a hotel room and butchering people in the streets of their city. One of the local PD posted up to watch the highways which led out of state noticed a crazed driver speeding down the road while sucking on a bottle of whiskey. Even if he hadn't fit the bill perfectly he would still be obliged to pull the man over. Gunning his engine he raced down the highway chasing after the mad man. 

TipToeTimmy refused to look into his rear view mirror, terrified of seeing the bastard sat on his back seat with that sinister smile. With the pedal to the metal he flew down the highway, swerving in and out of traffic while chain smoking cigarettes and gulping down mouthfuls of whiskey. A blue light flashed into his side view mirror alerting him to the police car trailing him behind. Well fuck he thought, he was in no fit state to talk his way out of this mess. For all he knew the local PD had already fingered him as the mad man who'd sewn chaos across their city. 

Fuck it, he thought, keeping his speed and momentum flying these fuckers were going to have to try to catch him. A wave of confidence settle over his worries. Reaching for the bottle of whiskey he took another gulp, lit a smoke and checked the gun he kept tucked in a holster under his shoulder was still loaded. If it came to it he'd go out shooting. A part of his mind rebelled against the thought, were these truly his own actions? Would TipToeTimmy be willing to sell his life for such little gain? As quick as the thought began it was shunted out, images of the chaos he would cause and the chaos he would cause flickered through his mind. The beast inside ushered a wicked smile wearing his face, don't you worry poor old TimidToeTimmy we've got this. 

TipToeTimmy awoke in his own bed back in the city of Chicago. Had this all been some sort of drug induced dream? Shaking off the worst effects of his hangover he pulled himself to his feet and walked into his apartments dining room area. The place was a mess. Empty whiskey bottles strewn all over the floor, his dining room table was caved in at the center and the debris of the splintered chairs was stacked in one corner of the room. He really needed to curb this drinking habit of his. 

Taking a cold shower he felt the hangover receding slightly. The banging in his head becoming bearable as the filth covering his arms and legs was washed away. Drying himself with a stained towel he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked deathly pale and felt as sick as a dog. He really need to pull himself together before the drink put him in an early grave. Well at least the whole twisted affair in Atlantic City was a bad dream.

Pulling on the only suit and trousers he could find that weren't covered in filth he pulled on a pair of shoes and decided a walk outside was the best course of action. Walking out of his apartments front door he was stopped by his next door neighbor who demanded to know what the hell he had been doing last night. Frankly TipToeTimmy wished he knew the answer to that question too and walked past the neighbor who tried to block his passage. The neighbor, an old man by the name of Frank, blocked his path wanting to know who the hell he thought he was. Part of TipToeTimmy wanted to swing a punch at him, but given his current state he wasn't sure if his fist would even connect. Barging past the man he walked towards the elevator.

"You need a priest boy, you've got demons in your head," Frank shouted after him throwing up the sign of the cross.

Demons TipToeTimmy thought, what the hell had been doing last night? He really need to get this monkey off his back before he found himself thrown out on the streets. Lighting a smoke as the elevator descended the floors of the apartment block he waited trying not to think about how much he'd needed to drink to be considered demonic. Walking past his car he was stopped in his tracks by the state of it. The front bumper was dented and covered in a patch of what he hoped was fur from road kill. The front window was smashed into pieces. What the hell had been doing last night? 

A gut instinct told him to check the trunk of the car. He didn't know where this instinct came from but decided it was best to check. For all he knew he'd dumped the road kill in the back of his car and drove away from the scene rather than face the inevitable prison cell for driving while under the influence of countless bottles of whiskey and God knows what else. Walking up to the trunk he was first hit by the smell which had him throwing up before he could throw the trunk open. Recovering slowly he popped the trunk and immediately began vomiting again. 

Stashed inside wrapped in blankets were the corpses of two police officers. Oh fuck he thought, it wasn't a dream. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck he panicked as realization dawned. A cackling voice sprung into his mind driving him to his knees.

"Thought you'd got rid of me TimidToeTimmy, think again," it laughed manically.

Closing the trunk TipToeTimmy rushed into the car and fired up the engine. Rolling down the drivers side window he stuck his head out so he could see past the ruined windscreen. Panic stirred in his heart so he began to kick out the windscreen knowing he had to get the hell out of the city. If he was caught he'd face the executioners chair and that was no way for a TipToe to go out. 

Driving through the streets of Chicago TimidToeTimmy knew he had to change vehicles and fast. For all he knew the vehicle was hot, given the spree of crimes he'd likely committed on the long drive back from Atlantic City. Thinking on the tips of his toes he remembered that he knew a guy, who knew a guy, that would crush vehicles without too many questions should a sufficient wad of cash be handed over with the transaction.

TimidToeTimmy certainly had enough cash to make the man turn a blind eye, the root of an unbidden thought sprang into his head.... he could always put the man in the back of the car and crush him too just to be sure. The thought should have shocked him, but it seemed he was getting used to the ever present parasite which influenced his every thought. When this symbiosis had occurred he did not know, but a thought which would have once chilled him brought a grin to his face. 

Turning the car away from the center of Chicago TimidToeTimmy... no God damn it.... TipToeTimmy..... drove the car out of town towards the wrecking yard. Once he was rid of the vehicle and the bloody corpses stashed into the trunk he could breathe easy. Maybe even get a little drink, or two or three, yes that sounded like a good idea the voice inside his head echoed. 

Pulling the battered vehicle into the wrecking yard Tim....... God damn it Tip, Tip, Tip, Tip, Tip, TipToeTimmy left the engine running as he walked over to portacabin where the owner was hiding from the worst of the cold day. Not bothering to knock at the door he opened it and greeted the owner and asked if he was willing to take the vehicle. The owner knew the type of man TipToeTimmy was and gave him a price. Counting the bills out of his coat pocket TipToeTimmy left the man a hefty tip to ensure his continued silence. 

Walking over to the vehicle the man asked TipToeTimmy to pull it up to the crusher. A reptilian part of TimidToeTimmy's brain noticed the look of distrust in the man's eyes. 

"He's trying to screw you, second you get out of here he's calling the cops," the familiar voice hissed.

"Shut the hell up," TipToeTimmy responded.

"What did you say?" the man asked with suspicion written over his face turning as he walked towards the controls which would allow him to lift the vehicle into the crusher. 

"See he's already suspicious he knows you're a liability, a murdering scum bag," the voice croaked again.

"I said shut the hell up I'll deal with it," TipToeTimmy growled back. 

"What the hell's wrong with you? You looking to start something," the owner of the wrecking yard asked puffing his chest out in challenge.

Timid... no not Timid, TipToeTimmy held up his hands trying to defuse the situation, "Nothing wrong my end, just having a rough week you know." 

"No I don't know," the man responded storming over to TimidToeTimmy, "Get in your vehicle and get off my lot, fucking freak."

The man made a mistake then, turning his bulk away and making to storm his way back into the portacabin. TimidToeTimmy struck with all his might hitting the man in the side of the head and knocking him to the ground. No longer in control of his thoughts or his body he ruthlessly kicked the man into the floor and stomped on his head a few times for good measure. 

"That's right TimidToeTimmy, we've got this. Let your old pal do all the hard walk like usual," the voice mocked as he continued to kick and stomp the prone figure into the ground.

Panting TimidToeTimmy found himself lifting the heavy body into the drivers seat, stealing all his cash and the keys to portacabin before shutting the door. Walking over to the crane he lit himself a smoke and easily operation the controls for the crane, having never done so before, he lifted the car and dropped it into the crusher. Flipping the switch he watched as the vehicle, and the poor fuckers inside were crushed into a cube and dropped out of the back of the machine. Grabbing the controls for the crane TimidToeTimmy picked up the cube and dropped it amongst the sea of crushed metal cubes which littered the wrecking yard. 

Walking back into the portacabin he found a series of hooks hanging off the wall, checking each of the keys in turn he found one for a car and strolled back outside lighting another smoke. Well this would do he thought to himself as he climbed back into his car and sped off into the city. Now was a good time for a drink he thought in a voice which didn't feel like his own. A little drink and maybe a little bump.

TipToeTimmy dreamed of simpler times, his damaged psyche barely able to keep a grasp of the thing which lurked inside his head. No longer responsible or even capable of fighting against its influence, instead his consciousness slipped below the surface, no longer willing or able to watch as his body continued to commit heinous acts. 

TipToeTwain's blood was up, he had followed the group of comanche back through the woods until Running Bull had ordered his men to dismount their horses and continue on foot. The going was slow, as the suns light dipped below the horizon behind them. TipToeTwain kept the nearest man in sight and followed him steadily through the forest, doing his best to minimize his noise as the others padded along on soft hide shoes with the skills of natural hunters. 

TipToeTwain checked the pair of pistols he kept in holsters at his hip and readied himself for the coming fight. The few sentences he picked up as the comanche whispered in their native tongue spoke of a need for revenge. The warriors readied weapons, poor fighting tools in his opinion, barely better than the old flintlock rifles his forefathers had fought the British off with. Moving with the stealth of men who'd grown up hunting in the wooded areas surrounding America, TipToeTwain joined the comanche as they inched closer to the site of Chief White Eagle's murder. 

The group stopped, quickly dropping to the ground as noises drifted through the dark forest. Sounds of laughter echoed from up ahead, deep voices booming through the still forest told the comanche all they needed to know. The bastards had hunkered down and settled in to a night of drinking, celebrating their overwhelming victory. Fury was written across each of their faces, they'd lost so much in their relatively short life times and their blood lust demanded satisfaction. 

Running Bull sent his translator over to TipToeTwain who gave out the leaders orders in hushed whispers. Swallowing down the worst of his fears TipToeTwain knew he was screwed, stuck between a rock and a hard place, he was going to be used as bait. They wanted him to enter camp and distract the men while the comanche got into position, then he would need to somehow differentiate himself from the other Americans and not take a rogue bullet to the head. Great he thought to himself, out of the frying pan straight into the fire. 

Circling around the cave side encampment TipToeTwain considered his options. He could try make a run for it, but who was to say he wouldn't get caught by a sentry posted out in the woods and taken back into town to the loving embrace of the hangman's noose. He could give up his native friends the bounty hunters inside the camp might take him in, but that didn't sit well with TipToeTwain, while the TipToe's were a bunch of scoundrels to a man they were not scumbags like the old TrimTop's, who'd sell their brothers and cousins out for a dime. No he was resolved, he would follow the plan to the best of his abilities and try to keep his head on his shoulders in the process. 

Before he could back out a sentry called a challenge, thinking on the tips of his toes he responded, "Hey I'm an American got lost out in the woods tracking some deer earlier today." 

The sentry looked the man up and down, "If you were tracking deer where the hells your rifle?"

"I dropped it out in the woods, I'll be back out on the road tomorrow, don't leave me out here there's rumors that the natives prowl these woods at night," TipToeTwain responded doing his best impersonating of a man fearing for his life, which come to think of it he was so it came off as quite natural.

"Get lost, no place for you at our fire," the sentry shouted back.

"What's all the commotion?" a voice shouted from back in the camp.

"Nothing just a lost bastard trying to rest at our camp," the sentry turned and spoke back, TipToeTwain saw an opportunity, he could rush the man while his back was turned, but he didn't think it would do their efforts any favor so kept up his act of being scared and alone.

"Well invite him you stubborn old fool, there's room at our camp fire," the man inside shouted, clearly the leader of the group, probably that mean looking bastard he'd spotted in the forest dressed in all black with a big black beard and an even blacker horse. 

The sentry kept his gun aimed at TipToeTwain as he was led into camp, it seemed some of their plan might be working as one less sentry was focused on external threats, now they had an armed stranger in their camp. TipToeTwain's guns were taken from him and his hands bound behind his back before he'd made it past the perimeter of the camp. He was half led and half dragged to the cave entrance and sat down next to the fire at the center of camp as a dark bearded bounty hunter strolled over to him.

The man was dressed in a pair of dark jeans, a dirty mud stained flannel and a dark duster. Behind his heavy beard a wicked smile and eyes which burned with recognition at TipToeTwain.

"The one that got away, hello TipToeTwain," the man growled to the laughter of the men who'd gathered around to watch the spectacle. 

"Well looks like we've got our man, pack up camp we've a long road ahead us before we get to watch this bastard swing," the bearded man continued to the groans of the camp.

"You want us to go off walking through the woods in the dark, why don't we wait it out tonight and head off at first dawn?" one of his men asked.

The sound of a fist hitting a face echoed through the trees as the leader made clear his feelings about insubordination, "that was an order get moving," the bearded man shouted, the camp erupted into activity as the bounty hunters rushed to gather their things and their horses. 

TipToeTwain struggled against his bonds, he didn't have a clue where Running Bull and his comanche warriors were, he'd expected them to storm the camp and rescue him but maybe they'd hung him out to dry. Damn the bastards had tied his hands tight, but he kept trying nonetheless, there wasn't a rope or chain in this damned country that could hold a TipToe for long. Pulling his wrists against the bonds he subtly jerked his hands from side to side, the men in the camp were too busy gathering saddles and horses to notice.

"Call in the sentries," he overheard the bearded leader stating to another, the leader then began shouting and hollering at the men in the camp, leaving TipToeTwain to himself. 

The light which danced on the walls of the cave from the roaring fire at the camps center blinded TipToeTimmy's vision of the perimeter, but he noticed feet rushing out into the forest to go and rouse the sentries they'd posted around the cave. Reaching blindly behind him his hand settled on a discarded knife, smiling he pulled it to the bonds and began sawing at the rope. No longer able to trust in a rescue he decided to take matters into his own hands. All he needed was a horse and he'd find a means of escape. With a final effort the rope binding his hands fell away. Now he had a knife someone was going to pay.

TimidToeTimmy's vision cleared for a second, he was stood near Lake Michigan making a deal with some shady mobsters. Large volumes of white powder were being loaded into a truck behind him. He wanted to ask what the hell he was doing but thought it better he'd kept his mouth shut. A large mobster walked towards him and offered him a taste, he never had much of a stomach for drugs but didn't want to look like a narc cop so took a bump. As the cocaine slid down his throat he felt his grip on himself loosen.

The large mobster took the duffel bag from him and dropped it on the hood of his vehicle. He turned around alarmed as he found there was no cash inside, before he had a chance to utter a word TimidToeTimmy put a bullet in his head, turning to each of his men with the same treatment. Strolling towards the back of the truck he pulled out a jerry can of gasoline and poured it all over the bodies and their vehicle. Lighting himself a smoke he threw the match onto the floor and drove off into the night making sure to take another sample. 

TimidToe.... not Timid for God's sake TIP... TIP... TIP... TipToeTimmy had no idea where he'd been for the last week. When he probed his fractured mind for details his head seared with a burning pain and the mocking voice would taunt him once more. He'd tried to rally against the voices influence but found he no longer had the strength to resist. Instead he moved through his life dancing to another's tune. Living out dreams of his families storied past, while his body was used and abused by the cursed being who'd taken up residence in his head. 

TipToeTwain drove the bowie knife deep into the nearby guards throat, sawing the blade across his windpipe while holding his hand against his mouth stopping his gargling screams. Dropping the body next to the fire he wiped the blade on the man's chest and checked the dead man for a gun. He took off the stolen gun belt and wrapped it around his waist, if he got caught he knew he'd have to shoot his way out of the camp.

Sneaking deeper into the hastily packed up camp with a knife in his hand and the dark at his back he was in his natural habitat. Grabbing the next guard by the scruff of his neck he drove the knife into his back, between the ribs piercing his heart and killing him instantly. A great shout distracted TipToeTwain from his murderous spree. A voice shouting out that the sentries were dead was interrupted and replaced with a blood curdling scream. TipToeTwain ducked behind a carriage and smiled as he heard a native war cry echoing from all sides of the forest. 

The giant stormed out of his tent shouting at his men for calm. TipToeTwain could smell the fear on the air as the posse processed the prospect of being surrounded by natives in hostile lands. They'd all seen the bodies of those left to rot by native attacks, their bodies mutilated and their scalps taken. Men turned on their tails and headed for the exit of the camp as the posse leaders called them yellow bellied cowards and shouted at them to grab their guns and fight. 

The swiftest of the men made good speed sprinting out into the night. The first scream of pain shortly followed as the panicking men were cut down by those waiting in the woods. TipToeTwain sensed his opportunity. With a wicked smile plastered over his face he tucked the knife into his belt and retrieved a 2nd pistol from the fallen body at his feet. Tucking a cluster of spare ammunition in his pocket he retrieved the pistol from his belt and pulled back the hammers. Taking aim at the nearest two guards he squeezed the triggers and watched them fall with holes in their heads. 

At the sound of gunfire inside the camp everything turned to chaos. The fire at the caves entrance insufficient to illuminate the whole camp left the men jumping at shadows as they tried to find who was killing them from the inside. TipToeTwain had to bite down the temptation to laugh as he saw the men turning on each other, unloading rifles into the dark as fear sent them into a frenzy. Moving with the stealth of a stalking predator he shot anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in his sights. 

TipToeTwain nearly dropped the contents of his stomach on the floor as he felt a tap on his shoulder, but smiled instead as he saw Running Bull behind him with his rifle drawn. The screams and gunshots inside the camp intensified as the natives found targets for their vengeance. Stopping to reload his empty pistols TipToeTwain was knocked off his feet, barely able to get his hands up in time to stop the blade aimed at his throat. The black bearded giant who led the posse had made a b-line for TipToeTwain, if he couldn't take the bounty on his head he'd take his head instead. 

The bearded giants greater weight was beginning to show as the bowie knife got closer to TipToeTwain's throat. Trusting on his instincts he drove his knee into the man's groin, drawing a yelp of pain. TipToeTwain felt the pressure release as the wind was driven out of the bearded bastard's lungs. Throwing his shoulder forward he knocked the man to the floor, scrabbling to his feet he retrieved his own knife from his boot. In the background he could hear the cries of surrender from the rest of the camp as Running Bull's men slaughtered them like cattle. 

TipToeTwain faced off against the giant who'd recovered sufficiently to climb back onto his feet. Looking around him on the floor TipToeTwain could not find a gun and swore to himself, he didn't fancy his chances against the giant in a fair fight. Steeling himself he reversed the grip on his knife and charged, his first and second blow were blocked by his opponents own bowie knife, the third strike went under his opponents guard and drew a long cut against his arm. He was barely able to dodge out of the way of the returning stab which threatened to leave his guts leaking over the floor. Taking another step back he feinted to the left and draw a gash in the giant's side. 

The pair exchanged blow after blow, TipToeTwain risked a glance behind him hoping to see his native allies with guns aimed prepared to kill the bearded giant. Instead he saw them with their arms crossed watching the spectacle. Stupid noble bastards probably thought this was a fair duel, some sort of challenge between the men. Well he had no choice now, he'd either have to win or risk losing his scalp to the natives. TipToeTwain bit back the urge to cry out in pain as the bearded bastard scored a shallow wound across his chest leaving his shirt in bloody tatters. 

Blood and sweat poured off TipToeTwain's battered body. His nose freely leaked blood from where that bearded bastards head had connected with his nose. He was beginning to tire, having barely slept in days. The bearded bastard was in no better condition. His giant frame covered in all manner of cuts and gashes where TipToeTwain's knife had connected. TipToeTwain had been in enough knife fights to know the man was running out of steam, but he was a stubborn bastard so would likely fight until his heart gave out.

Dodging around a lunging stab TipToeTwain barreled into the man trying to force him from his feet. The bastard barely moved, dropping below the next slash which was aimed at his exposed throat he changed the grip on the knife and drove it hilt first into the bastards stomach, knowing the man was still lethal he wrenched pulled the knife upwards. With his guts steaming on the forest floor the man finally fell to the floor as the light faded from his eyes. 

TimidToe.... NOT TIMID.... TIP.... TIP.... TIP.... TipToeTimmy forced his way back into his own mind. He found he was stood before Don Ketamine who thanked him for all he had done for the crew. The next words left him confused as she promoted him to the rank of Consigliere. He couldn't even recall being made a Boss, so how had he become a Consigliere? What had the thing which controlled his very thoughts done to achieve this esteem? Nodding his thanks he left the room as the grinding voice began to mock him again. 

TipToeTimmy awoke in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar lady cuddled up to his arm. How the hell had he got here? What sort of establishment was this? Satin sheets in a love heart shaped bed? He swallowed down a gulp of fear.... had that bastard inside his head married him to some unknown lady who currently lay cuddled up to his arm. Taking a peak under the sheets he figured he could get used to that sight and secretly thanked the bastard for having a good choice in women. 

Inching his arm slowly from underneath the sleeping beauty he climbed out of bed and searched for his clothes on the floor. Surely this pink suit could not be his? The pink pants certainly fit him like a glove, pulling the ruffled shirt over his head he quickly fastened the light blue tie round his neck. Catching sight of himself in the mirror he noticed he'd put on weight, his arms and shoulders looked more muscular than he could last remember. What the hell was this evil being doing to him? If he kept up this regime he would barely be able to tiptoe, he'd just be another muscle bound goon! 

Panic began to settle on his already nervous frame. Pulling his shoes on he made to duck out of the door but the lady tucked up in the heart shaped bed stirred. 

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked with suspicion.

"Just grabbing something from the car my love," he responded trying to act casual.

"Your love, what's the fuck is wrong with you? Just make sure you leave my money otherwise Jimmy'll be paying you a visit," she threatened turning over and going back to sleep.

Money? What did she mean money? Oh of course he thought to himself, she was a prostitute. A wave of relief settled over him as he realized he was not married. Reaching into his coat pocket he left a stack of notes and hurried back outside. The warm summer sun hit him immediately..... wait a second it had been winter the last time he could recall. Finding a set of keys in his pants pockets he found the corresponding vehicle and couldn't help but smile. Well the evil being which lurked inside his head surely was an inconvenience, but he certainly had good taste. A Bentley Continental in cream white, opening the door he climbed in and fired up the V8 and drove off the cheap motel parking lot. 

A searing pain burned into Timid.... Tip.... not Timid... TIP.... TIP.... TIPToeTimmy's head as the thing which lurked inside wrestled control away from him. 

"Like what you see old TimidToeTimmy," the voice cackled into his mind. 

"F...fuu....fuck you," he barked back taking in gasps of air to try and stem off the searing pain which burned through his mind. 

"All I've done for you and this is how you treat me. Well enjoy your solitude," the voice cackled as TimidToeTimmy slipped back out of consciousness. 

TipToeTwain sat in the camp taking long pulls on the peace pipe as his story was retold to the members of the tribe. Running Bull and his warriors had retrieved the bodies of their fallen brothers and performed the necessary burial rites. The period of mourning had passed and the tribe had moved on, weary of any acts of provocation by settlers who'd found the sight of their brutal attack on the bounty hunters. TipToeTwain had to admit he was happy. He was becoming more fluent in their tongue and had even found he enjoyed the tribes company. 

The man grew old amongst the tribes of the apache. Riding to war whenever the call came he managed to settle and have children with a woman he grew to love. Unlike a lot of his line TipToeTwain died an old man. His heart saddened as the tribes were pushed further and further out of their homes. His heart wept for all his people had lost. Within a couple of generations his family would be American in all but in name. 

TipToeTimmy had fond memories of the stories of old TipToeTwain. He took great lessons from the stories past down from his grandma. The moments of clarity were becoming less and less. He barely had any control of his mind and body left. Instead he floated inside his own subconscious, living out the memories and stories hard wired into his DNA. As whatever remained of TipToeTimmy drifted a memory surfaced, a memory of old TipToeVain.

TipToeVain shouted out the order to roll out the cannons as they spotted a merchantman on the horizon. The wind was at their backs, he smiled as he heard his Boatswain, an old seasoned sailor by the name of Jack, shout out the order for the sails to be unfurled. The ship lurched forwards as the wind took and pushed them towards their prey. Pulling out his telescope he watched the merchantman for signs they'd been spotted. He trusted his crew to follow out his orders and focused on catching their prey. 

The sound of a ship preparing for battle warmed his heart. He could already imagine the clash of the cannons firing once they were in range of their prey. He knew the range of his guns and would put them to maximum efficiency. The key was to destroy the mast without sinking the bastards. The last thing he needed was their loot sinking to the bottom of the ocean. 

Judging the distance by eye he told the helmsan, a younger man by the name of Theodore, to turn hard to port while shouting at the gunners to get ready. At 1600 yards they'd need to aim high to hit the ship, but TipToeVain knew his men were veterans of this kind of action. At the gunner captains orders the cannons were fired, TipToeVain raised his telescope to his eye and watched as the cannon balls smashed into the side of the ship. 

The next order was well rehearsed, he heard the gunner captain shout for chain shot to be loaded. Already TipToeVain could see the merchantman turning hard into the wind getting ready to let loose its sails to try and escape. The order to fire was shouted and the familiar boom of cannons filled his ears, TipToeVain moved with the rocking ship as the cannon fire tilted it.

Through his telescope he followed the chains as they trailed through the air smashing into the rigging and mast of the fleeing ship. The bastards had made a huge mistake, by unfurling their sales they'd added an additional strain to the now damage mast. TipToeVain joined the cheers of his crew as they watched the heavy mast fall ocean. They all knew the terror of a broken mast, the heavy sails and rigging tilting the ship, toppling the sailors into the water. A seasoned captain would be calling out the orders to cut the rigging, it was time to find out how seasoned this captain was.

"Prepare to board," shouted TipToeVain over the cheers of his men. 

The ship began to turn as guns, musket balls and powder were retrieved from the ships armory. TipToeVain pulled out the two pistols he kept tucked into his belt, antique pieces inlaid in gold worth more than a lifetime of sailors wages and the only thing his father had left him after their estates had been taken by the bastard banks. He loaded the pistols with practiced ease and tucked them back into his leather belt before pulling out his cutlass.

"Show 'em the black", he heard Jack the Boatswain shout.

The black flag they used to show their allegiance was unveiled atop the middle mast. Partly to offer them a chance of surrender, and partly to sink terror into the crews hearts. They all knew the fate of those who fought back, their corpses would be left as a reminder and the circle of terror would continue. In response the doomed shit fired cannons off its port side. The shout to brace echoed about TipToeVain's ship, but the cannons were ill-aimed and his pirate's shouted out as the cannons passed harmlessly above the ship.

"Looks like the bastards want a fight, well let's give it to them," TipToeVain roared in response brandishing his cutlass into the air. 

The forward facing cannons loaded with grapeshot peppered the merchantman's crew as they rushed to reload their own cannons. Turning hard to starboard TipToeVain shouted at the men to ready grappling hooks. The strongest of his crew whirled the hooks around throwing them onto the decks and pulling them taut against the ships rails. TipToeVain's crew roared out crude sea shanties as they pulled the two ships closer together, inch by inch the merchantman's crew's doom was approaching.

TipToeVain heard the enemy ship's captain shouting at his crew to cut the lines, men who were previously cowering in cover rushed forward to saw at the heavy hempen ropes. The second they left cover TipToeVain's sharpshooters opened fire from their position amongst the rigging above. Each of his sharpshooters were crack shots and every musket ball found its mark. As the two ships drew perilously closer the bravest of his crew swung down from ropes throwing themselves onto the ship. TipToeVain caught up in his battle fury grabbed a nearby rope and joined them.

Landing on the deck he puled out one of his pistols and put a musket ball in the throat of a man rushing at him. Pulling his cutlass up into a guard he blocked the overarm swing of an axe wielding sailor, reversing the swing he left his guts soaking the decks of the ship. TipToeVain fought his way towards the quarterdeck, he knew once the captain was captured or killed the heart of his crew would be gone. Ducking below a swinging cutlass he pulled out his second pistol and put a musket ball into the bastards head. That one was close he thought, time to get his head in the game. 

He found the captain surrounded by bodies on the quarter deck. Many of his men had died by his blade and honor demanded this bastard die by his blade. Shouting at his men to make room he approached the captain and made his attack. TipToeVain was not a big man but his body was corded with muscle from a life spent at sea. He forced power into each of his blows knocking the captain's guard down each time. TipToeVain barely kept his head as the captain sprang back into action, a wicked overhand slash followed by a lightning fast stab. Quickly recovering TipToeVain smiled, the bastard knew his business. 

The pair circled each other wearily, they were both bruised and bloody from their brief exchange. TipToeVain had the measure of his enemy the bastard knew how to fight so it was time to turn the tides. Lashing out with his sword he met the captain's blade then kicked out with his boot. The boot connected on the man's shin forcing him down to one knee, he turned his sword and brought the heavy blade down upon his neck killing him in an instant. Taking another savage swing he removed the captain's head, picking it up from the floor he threw it onto the deck below and shouted at the merchantman's crew for their surrender.

Back upon his ship he counted up the loot. The fat bellied ship had been full with spoils which were now filling his ships hold. The goods, a mixture of tobacco, foodstuffs and gold would catch a tidy profit back at Nassau. Torching the enemy ship they left the open ocean and with a good head wind back to their temporary home. TipToeVain's crew needed a bit of down time. They'd been at sea for weeks and would welcome the opportunity to spend some coin back on Nassau. 

Timid....NOT TIMID.... TipToeTimmy stole back into his own body briefly. He was in an apartment he didn't recognize. The place was lavishly decorated well beyond the means he remembered having. A phone was ringing in front of him picking it up he was passed a message that he was needed back at headquarters. Rather than asking what for he responded in a voice which barely felt like his own. Grabbing an expensive coat he pulled it over his broad shoulders and climbed into the penthouse suite's elevator and waited as it descended. Opening the door to the cream white Bentley Continental he drove out of the underground parking lot and joined the heavy traffic making his way towards the headquarters compound.

TimidToeTimmy looked about the table in confusion. Faces he did not recognize stared back at him, like they were waiting for him to make his move. Raising a smoking cigar to his lips he took a long pull and elegantly blew the smoke across the table. In his other hand a collection of playing cards were shielded against prying eyes. Locking eyes with a man holding a deck of cards he nodded his ascent. It was his turn. 

"Raise," TimidToeTimmy stated added a collection of notes to the pile at the tables center. 

A well dressed man to his right fretted with his collar as the pressure built. The stack of cash at the tables center was quickly turning to a hoard. The man folded like a cheap suit, grabbing his drink he stormed out of the room. TimidToeTimmy spotted a busy bar behind the closed off area but was no clearer to his location.

The order of cards continued around the table until only TimidToeTimmy and a suavely dressed mobster remained. The man was in his mid forties, overweight like many of the men in their occupation, with tanned skin, a beaked nose and a balding plate barely concealed by his thinning combed over hair. The mobster's beady brown eyes stared at him wearily. The dealer turned over the next card. TimidToeTimmy kept his expression neutral as the ace of spades was revealed. Peaking at his cards he saw the 8 of spades and ace of clubs, his eyes focused on two cards on the table, the 8 of clubs and ace of spades. The familiar voice's laughter echoed through his head.

"Looks like the dead man's hand to me," it mocked. 

"Fuck you," he mumbled back.

"Who the hell are you talking to? You wearing a god damn wire?" the suavely dressed mobster shouted accusingly. 

"You calling me a rat?" TipToeTimmy barked back his hand instinctively going to a gun he felt at his hip.

"Calm down sirs," the dealer pleaded holding his hands up for peace. 

"Shut your mouth, this is between me and this cheating, no good son of a bitch," the mobster shouted throwing the table over and reaching for his gun. 

Time seemed to slow down as the mobster reached for his gun. TipToeTimmy moved instinctively his hand already reaching for the pistol kept at his belt. He noticed details in the man's face, the sweat which beaded over his podgy brows, the tobacco stained teeth gritted together in anger, his eyes were glassy and unfocused probably from alcohol consumption or narcotic abuse. Come to think of it the man's tanned skin had a film of sweat covering it, all these details TipToeTimmy took in the space of less than a second.

TipToeTimmy's gun came up and he pulled the trigger the boom of the gun echoed through the room as a small hole appeared at the mobsters head. He stood for a second with his own gun half way out of its holster before falling to the floor heavily. TipToeTimmy stalked over to his prey with his gun raised.

"The Don sends her regards," he spat in a voice which no longer felt his own. 

Reaching into his pocket he lit himself another cigar and walked over to the dealer who looked like he was ready to piss his pants. Walking past him he gathered the bundles of cash which had fallen onto the floor. Handing the dealer a stack he bent over to retrieve the four cards which had been flipped over from the table.

"Looks like I win, dead man's hand," TipToeTimmy smiled at the dealer.

"Sure sir, you'll have no problems from me, I saw he drew for his weapon first," the dealer stated barely able to hold eye contact with TipToeTimmy.

TipToeTimmy nodded in agreement, "I think I'll be taking my leave now, have my car brought round to the front," he demanded while pulling on his coat and donning his fedora. 

Walking over to the body he threw the four cards required for the dead man's hand onto the mobsters chest. Turning on his heel he took another pull of his cigar and opened the door to the bar, shocked onlookers kept their distance from him as he walked past them. A shrill scream shot out as one of the onlookers spotted the pool of blood and body within. TipToeTimmy found he didn't greatly care. Walking outside he took his keys from the valet and left the kid with a tip. Climbing into the cream white Bentley Continental he fired up the engine and drove back out into the city. 

"What the hell was that?" he asked the presence which lurked in his mind. 

The dark figure materialized in his rear view mirror. TipToeTimmy stared directly into his eyes demanding a response. 

"A hit and a job well done if I may say so myself," the sinister voice responded. 

"You could have been more discreet," responded TipToeTimmy.

"Oh little TimidToeTimmy that was discreet, I could have torched the whole building with him, waited outside with a tommy gun and killed anyone unfortunate to try and save themselves," the sinister voice croaked back at him shifting slightly in the seat behind him.

"You could have caught him out in the open, put a knife in his neck as he left his favorite brothel, that was sloppy at best," TipToeTimmy shouted back at himself. 

"I'm no coward TimidToeTimmy if I'm going to kill a man I want him to know its you killing him," the voice moved forwards and whispered the last words into his ear, TipToeTimmy shivered as the forked tongue brushed his ear. 

"Just like you did Paddy and my men you bastard," TipToeTimmy accused the figure behind him. 

"That was collateral damage we needed the money to set ourselves up, and anyways you'd botched that job to the nth degree. Shooting up a whole mob ran compound you were as good as dead. You should be thanking us," the figured in the back of the car hissed at him. 

"Yeah, thanks for possessing my body and locking me away in my own head, real class act," TipToeTimid spat back.

The searing pain welled up behind TipToeTimmy's eyes, the pressure building in his head felt like his brain was about to explode. Slamming on the brakes he pulled the car over and rolled out of the drivers seat, barely dodging out of the way of an overtaking car. He retched up the contents of his stomach on the side of the road, it felt like something was trying to claw its way out of his stomach. Falling meekly to his side he felt, more than saw, a heavy pair of footfalls approaching from his side.

A cold reptilian hand grabbed him by the chin and pulled him painfully to his feet. He struggled against the scaled fingers which gripped him by the throat. The things skin was covered in dark pitted scales. As TipToeTimmy's eyes were drawn further up he noticed the stunted wings which sprouted from the things back. He felt whatever remained of his sanity slip away as he took in the demonic face. Fanged teeth sprouted from between its cracked black lips, with crocodilian eyes of a bright yellow and dark vertical pupils it regarded him with malice. A long forked tongue shout out from between its lips, tasting his fear. 

"You will learn to respect us little TimidToeTimmy," the booming voice echoed through his mind.

TipToeTimmy awoke shivering on the cold floor of a jail cell. Pulling himself painfully onto unsteady feet he'd definitely cracked a rib, he winced as he rubbed at his bruised eye, his tongue tracing the split in his lip. He moved carefully checking for any further injuries, his knuckled were bruised and his head felt light from concussion so he sat heavily on the nearby bed.

Searching his memories he tried to decipher whether any of it had been real? Had he ever left Chicago and been on a killing spree through Atlantic City. Was he truly possessed or just criminally insane? No answers came, no voices echoed through his mind. The silence was more startling than he cared to admit. His thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of the jail warden, who shouted at him to get to his feet. He had a visit from his lawyer. 

TipToeTimmy was led into a dimly lit interview room and sat before a man he didn't recognize. The man, who he presumed was his lawyer, was dressed in an expensive pin stripe suit, with an expensive fedora hat atop his balding head. A well groomed moustache sat above his smiling lips, cruel eyes blinked behind a pair of rectangular spectacles. The man's face was rounded which suited his balding head, TipToeTimmy noticed his chin was far from pronounced seeming to sink into his thin rakish neck. The man shifted his weight, switching the leg he had crossed before him. Reaching into his pinstripe suits pocket he retrieved a pair of cigars and passed one over to TipToeTimmy.

"Bit of trouble you've got yourself into here son," the lawyer stated in a raspy whisper. 

TipToeTimmy eyed the lawyer and the offered cigar with suspicion. What if they'd poisoned the cigar? What if the thing exploded in his face as he lit it up. Knowing that his hesitation did him no good he took a match and lit the cigar, half expecting his head to disappear in a mist of blood and bone. Savoring the rich flavors he sat back in the cold and uncomfortable metallic chair, waiting for the lawyer to continue, who made a show of retrieving files from his expensive briefcase and laying them out on the table. 

"I've read the case files, now they don't have much. You were found a couple of miles from the murder site with the weapon but we've a witness who says the victim reached for their gun first. What have you told the police so far?" The lawyer asked taking brief pauses to exhale clouds of smoke between puffs of his expensive cigar. 

"No comment," responded TipToeTimmy, who'd been coached on how to deal with the police many decades ago.

"That's good. I'll be straight with you something doesn't add up. This should be a simple case, I'd expect you to be released by now. Feels like they're stalling, are there any other activities the police might be interested in," the lawyer responded eyeing TipToeTimmy for any scent of deceit. 

"No comment," TipToeTimmy remarked in a monotone voice. 

The lawyer gave him a confused look, "The only way you're getting out of this mess is by working with me, I can't defend you if I don't know what I'm defending you against," the lawyer pleaded.

TipToeTimmy trusted lawyers nearly as little as he trusted police officers. He'd seen no identification from this lawyer or any evidence that they'd been sent by his own family. For all he knew this bastard could be working for the police. The less he knew the better, and anyways he was acting like TipToeTimmy had any idea what he'd been up to for the past 6 months. Hell he'd pass a lie detest easily, having no actual idea what crimes he'd committed. From the second he entered the room he decided to play it cool, he knew from his initial interview the bastards had nothing concrete, if they were going to try and sweat him for information they'd have to try a lot harder than this. 

"Fine, strong silent type I get it," the lawyer continued getting up from his seat and knocking on the door twice.

Two detectives entered the room and took the seats opposite TipToeTimmy. He barely stopped himself laughing at the sight of them. One was a veteran detective who'd clearly spent one too many years sat behind a desk filling his face with donuts and sugary coffee, the detectives stained shirt was barely able to hold back his bulk. He was sweating by the time he walked the short distance into the room and took his seat. The other was much younger and leaner, a fresh detective by TipToeTimmy's guess. Young and ambitious looking to put some bastards behind bars for a long time. The balding lawyer took a seat next to TipToeTimmy and nodded at the others that the interview could begin.

"Where were you on the night of December 5th?" the overweight detective asked.

"No comment," TipToeTimmy responded staring blankly at the door behind them.

"Do you recognize the people in these photos," the younger detective asked sliding over half a dozen photos of gruesomely murdered bodies. 

"No comment," TipToeTimmy responded flashing the younger detective a smile.

"I'll wipe that smile off your face you good for nothing bastard," the younger detective raged barely held back by the overweight detective. 

"I trust you will restrain your partner here Detective Swanson," the lawyer responded coolly. 

"Sure Nick but you better work on getting some answers out your client," the overweight Detective Swanson returned taking his partner to the side to give him a talk.

"If you want to walk out of this place follow my lead," the lawyer whispered to TipToeTimmy. 

Detective Swanson sat down heavily as his partner paced the room like a caged animal, "We have witnesses that you were in the area on the night of these murders, do you have an alibi? Anyone who can confirm where you were?" 

"No comment," TipToeTimmy smiled at the detective. 

"You've got to give them something be reasonable," whispered his snake of a lawyer.

"Innocent women were killed and all you can say is no comment, you're a real rotten son of a bitch," the prowling detective raged slamming his fists against the metal table.

"NO COMMENT," TipToeTimmy shouted back.

The detective jumped over the table grabbing TipToeTimmy by his collar and dragging him to the side of the room. He smashed his fist into TipToeTimmy's head releasing a flurry of punches that he wasn't able to defend against given his hands were cuffed together. The raging detective was pulled to the opposite end of the room with the help of the lawyer as TipToeTimmy tried to steady himself from the beating which left his ears ringing. May as well put a bit of artistic flourish to it, TipToeTimmy thought to himself, as he purposely cracked his head off the table and fell unconscious to the ground.

TipToeTimmy awoke to the beeps and whirs of medical machinery in an unfamiliar room. His head ached and his vision was blurred in one eye. He tenderly probed his head with one finger and felt a bump on his forehead. Memories returned to him as he slowly turned his head from side to side. He felt no major breaks just a tenderness from where he'd taken a severe beating. Well things could certainly be worse he thought to himself as a pretty nurse rushed in to help him. 

He was surprised to find that he was not shackled to his bed, which must have meant he'd been released from custody. The plan had worked then, but he may have regretted his commitment, he could have feigned injury rather than purposely knocking himself out cold. Well whatever, it wasn't the first bad plan he'd come up with and certainly wouldn't be the last. The more he thought about it the more he doubted whether it was his own choice, he recalled the spark of the idea but could not tease out the origin of the plan. Once the nurse was finished fussing over him, making sure he was comfortable and didn't need anything he lay back in bed to get some much needed rest. 

Tucked in the hospital bed his one eye suddenly shot open as a familiar voice spoke into his mind, "Time to get to work little TimidToeTimmy."

Unable to resist he climbed out of the bed and removed his hospital gown. Pulling on a pair of clothes left folded on a nearby chair he stole out of the room, keeping his eyes peeled for anyone working the night shift. He followed a pathway which no longer felt his own, he retained control of his limbs but he was acting upon sense alone and didn't want to think too closely where these senses were coming from. Dipping into a nearby bathroom he walked into one of the stalls and felt behind the tank, finding an object heavily duct taped in place. Pulling it down he checked the .38 snub nosed revolver was loaded and stashed it in his coat pocket. 

The memory of a room number tore unbidden into his mind, imprinting itself on his psyche. Room number 19B following the signs on the hospital wall he headed in the necessary direction not wanting to think about what he might find in the room. He felt compelled to follow these instructions, had his mental barriers finally broken down? Was he finally a puppet for the being which existed in his head? Why the hell did he spend so much time questioning himself internally?

Finding the room with ease he peeked inside. A figure could be seen wrapped under heavy covers with all manner of tubes pumping fluids in and out of the prone body. Checking down the corridor he snuck into the room and another memory tore into his mind. This man was a rat trying to turn federal witness against the mob. TipToeTimmy remembered crashing a car into the motorcade as the bastard tried to escape town. Images of a shootout with the police flickered through his mind. This was a job half finished, he knew for the sake of the crew he knew this person could not risk giving secrets on the famiglia. 

Creeping up to the heavily bandaged body he noticed a syringe laying on a tray next to the bed. He felt an impulse to pull out his revolverand end it quickly, but whatever remained of his free will fought against this urge. If he was going to do this, he would do it his way. Finding a tube which was feeding blood back into the wrecked person's body he punctured he plunged the syringe, now filled with oxygen into the tube and watched as the machines reading the person's vitals began to drop. Unplugging the machine from the wall he let the person enter a permanent sleep.

"Inventive little TimidToeTimmy," the voice in his head hissed at him.

Satisfied that the job was complete TipToeTimmy tiptoed back out of the room and hurried for the buildings exit. It was time to get out of dodge,  before either of those bastard detectives could catch up with him. Breaking into a car he found in the hospital carpark he drove back towards his apartment. 

TipToeTimmy sure was feeling tiptop as he tiptoed down the Las Vegas strip. He'd always dreamed of visiting the city, but never taken up the chance. Having reported his success back to headquarters he'd been advised to lay low for a little bit. Boarding the next flight he'd left the city of Chicago, glad to be away. He'd been given a list of friendly contacts in the city who would help get him set up, and he'd be free to conduct a little business without fear of constant police surveillance. 

He was sweating heavily, having not packed the right clothes for the arid desert heat. He was a fish out of water more than used to the cold biting winds of Chicago. First things first he needed some suits. Strolling into a tailors he was shown a selection of brightly colored shirts and shorts. TipToeTimmy knew in his long and storied lineage no man had ever wear shorts in public so refused these outright. Instead he selected a collection of lightly colored shirt and pants, of a lighter weave than he'd wear back in Chicago, he hoped this would help with the stifling heat of the desert. 

Selecting a pair of fancy loafers he checked himself in the mirror and noted the change in his physique. He'd gone from a ragamuffin stealing bobby pins from old ladies purses to a respected and well dressed mobster. If only his mother could see him now, what he'd give to march up to his long dead father and ask who was a disappointment now. The tailor chose a fitting fedora and placed it on his head. Nodding in agreement TipToeTimmy tiptoed over to the counter and paid the extortionate amount from a stack of crisp bills, leaving a tip for the tailor's good taste. 

Tiptoeing to a nearby pay phone he dialed in the number he'd scribbled onto a piece of paper before leaving the headquarters building back in Chicago. He began tapping his foot to the ringing tune, realizing he hadn't felt this content in quite some time. 

A rough sounding voice answered, "Who's this."

"TipToeTimmy Don K told me to ring, said you might have some work for me," TipToeTimmy responded. 

"Don't talk on the phone, meet me at the Riviera," the gruff voice returned quickly followed by the dead tone. 

Friendly bunch TipToeTimmy thought to himself. The Riviera.... right he'd seen it on a post card once.... now he just needed to figure out where the hell he was. Walking a couple of blocks he was sweating freely through his newly bought expensive shirt. This wouldn't do. Spotting a nearby car lot he walked over and asked for a car. The owner looked him up and down, judging how much money he had to spend.

TipToeTimmy was barely paying attention as he showed him a collection of beat up old cars, a vehicle caught his eye. In center stage a Chevrolet Bel Air in cherry red. Now that would suit him perfectly. Handing over another stack of cash he took the keys and fired the rest beast up, angling it towards the strip presuming he'd find the Riviera soon enough.

Noticing the huge flashing sign in the distance he pulled his new car up to the entrance and handed the keys over to a waiting valet. Tiptoeing toward the door like he owned the joint he was stopped by a shady looking gangster who stood outside smoking a cigarette.

"TipToeTimmy I take it?" the hoarse voiced mobster asked, a tall rakish fellow dressed the part for the city, with a fedora resting easily on his thin head. 

"In the flesh," TipToeTimmy responded trying to hide the confusion from his face at the turn of phrase. In the flesh he thought, what sort of condescending nonsense was that, and when the hell did he learn what the hell condescending meant? 

"We've got you a suite in the hotel, feel free to relax here for a couple of days while we settle some business, we'll be in touch," the rakish mobster shook TipToeTimmy's hand and passed him a key.

Strolling into the lobby he was met by porters who carried the contents of his trunk into the hotel. 

TipToeTimmy tapped the table once while keeping his eyes levelled on the banker as he dealt another card. The 9 of clubs something stirred in his guts at the sight of that number. Come to think about it he had no idea how he'd ended up at this blackjack table. The last thing he could recall was entering the casino lobby on the way to his room. A sudden urge descended upon him, he needed to reach into his pocket. Pulling out a small vial of cocaine he poured some out on his index finger and snorted it. What the hell was he doing? 

Pouring a generous portion of whiskey down his neck he nodded at the banker as another card was passed. Another 9, this time of spades. A pair of 9s, something inside his head warned him this was an omen, but this was quickly squashed as he knocked back another shot of whiskey. The round was his, with an ace, 2 and a pair of 9s he took the table. Pushing a stack of chips forward he decided to go all in. The banker looked increasingly confused with his behavior. He hadn't even dealt a card yet. 

Two cards were passed over the table to him, he took a long pull of a cigar he couldn't recall lighting while maintaining eye contact with the banker. Peering down at his cards he saw the 9 of spades and the 9 of clubs, what the hell was going on? Did the dealer not shuffle the deck? Was he even awake? Slapping himself hard across the face he noticed the strange looks the other people sat at the table were giving him as they waited for his call. He decided to stick. The cards moved around the table until it was the bankers turn, he went bust and the horde of chips were transferred to TipToeTimmy. 

TipToeTimmy felt eyes watching him from afar, someone must have noticed his cards. He thought about the casino guards closing in on him, ready to take him out back and break his knees for cheating in their club. He had to get out of here. Panic took over and his fight or flight reflex kicked into overdrive. Barreling a nearby cocktail waitress out of his way he ran off to a nearby door.

****

It would be a long time before TipToeTimmy would be seen. His charge sent him straight into the desert, back into obscurity. It had been a long road for TipToeTimmy but now the streets were alive he felt he could kick back and give someone else the mantle. He and his bloodline had set out to help revive the streets, having seen it fall into disrepair over the long years. It gladdened his heart to see it full once more with active people posting inventive stories and engaging with one another.

TipToeTimmy was sure his story would continue but more sporadically now. For TipToeTimmy had less and less time to commit to the streets and felt he was doing a disservice to the character by continuing. Until we meet again happy posting all ;)