Don Al sat in the driver's seat of his beautiful Betty the beetle. Her windscreen was promptly replaced after Felson's recent outburst and Al was excited to have her back on the road. He'd recently hung up his hero cloak and returned to his fedora. He was no longer on a quest to save the mobster world from themselves and their ill-gotten gains. It was clearly a lost cause - he wasn't one for fighting losing battles. Some men you just can't reach. So he'd decided to avoid escalating the situation. He didn't want it ending in a bloody affair, not after he'd finally started to convince Godfather Transistor he was a level-headed, upstanding member of their operation. 

He had his eyes closed, enjoying a few moments of quiet to himself with the radio turned down low in the background. He wasn't really paying attention to it, his mind was busy hopping from one thought to another as his brain ran in circles. He'd decided what he was having for dinner and was now internally debating whether cats who shit outside of the litterbox still go to kitty Heaven. If they could, would he get away with shitting on his neighbour's doormat without issue from the Big Guy up there? The jury was still out.

Suddenly his attention snapped back to the present as the radio hissed before a voice demanding attention interrupted the moment. He opened his eyes, groaning at the mere strain of moving of his old body as he leaned forward to increase the volume....

"We interrupt this broadcast with breaking news: Senator Morrison has been found murdered in his apartment just moments ago. It's reported he was found lying dead on his bathroom floor after having sustained multiple stab wounds and blows to the head. Tucked between his teeth was a photograph picturing the Senator and three young children in vulnerable positions. That's the third murder of political figures this week. Who is this vigilante and how do the police feel about these murders?"

"Well, I for one am glad, Debra. These people are obviously animals... Someone's gotta deal with this sh..." The show's host responded, cutting himself short before he ruined his career. "...Shhhocking things..." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, let's get back to the music. Thank you, Debra." The voice faded, continuing the upbeat melody.

Al turned the radio down a little, rested his head back and let out a deep sigh. He was a sick man who'd done his fair share of fucked up things... But kids were off limits - he thought everyone knew that. What sort of fucking society was he living in? Were there no morals anymore? Sick cunts. The anger grew in him, stirring distant memories of his younger days. He stared into the abyss as he recalled a time he'd been tasked with protecting a young girl, no older than 10. He was only about 20 himself but protection jobs were how he got started out so this was just another day in the office for him. Except it wasn't. One thing led to another - he'd ended up in a fight over an ice cream. When he turned back around, the girl was gone. Hours of searching later, Al found her what remained of her body in an abandoned warehouse along with two vicious dogs. It didn't take him long to cut the dogs up. It took a bit longer to find the owners, but he did. He'd never been the same since, he couldn't shake the guilt. A piece of him died with that girl.

He squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head in frustration before reopening them and leaning over to pull a box out from beneath the passenger seat. Without hesitation, he popped the lid open and reached in to produce a pre-made joint before placing it in his mouth and sparking it up. He smoked while staring out of the window lost in thought.

The February night was cold and quiet, ice had began to glisten atop the few vehicles scattered around the vicinity. Al's Betty sat parked in a dark corner of a dead-end road, the only real light available coming from the main road fifty feet away. The Streets had been picking up activity in recent weeks but the nights were still peaceful.

The passenger door opened abruptly, flooding the vehicle with cold air. The car rocked as a man climbed in before slamming the door closed. It didn't stir Al's gaze.

"Done." It was Felson. A few moments passed. "Al?"

Al spun his head round to look at the Prime mobster, taking a few seconds to rewind and tune into what he'd said. He glanced at his watch.

"You've been gone ages, what the fuck happened?" 

"I had to walk about 900 blocks to get back here... You old paranoid bastard." 

Al reached into his pocket and back out to reveal an envelope. He slid his hand inside and pulled out a pen and a small notebook - flipping it open to reveal a list of names. He brings the pen down to the third name on the list, scratching a thick line through it with the pen. It now read 'Senator John Morrison'.

He passed Sunny the joint and turned the key in the ignition. The night wasn't over.

The street outside the building had a few corner workers hustling their trade. One kind of looked like they might be packing heat, but not the type Felson was checking over in the beetle. He made sure the revolver's chamber was full of bullets, snapped it closed and tucked it into his suit pocket.

Felson nudged Albino then nodded towards the taller than usual and more built than usual hooker.

"Is that a..."

All of a sudden sirens started blaring and blue and red lights lit up the buildings along the street. They were parked in an alleyway with the nose of Betty facing the commotion. One police cruiser skidded into action, scattering the women and sending a parked car into motion.

"I'm sure it's a..."

The lady in question at first pretended she was just waiting for a cab. As soon as a pair of policeman exited their vehicle she kicked off her high heels and started legging it. They gave chase. She ran like a linebacker through one then skidded over the bonnet of their car, and what she was packing nearly flashed the beetle. With purse tucked into her armpit she bolted past the capeless duo, down the alley and out of sight. It was clear they weren't catching this one.

Felson and Albino looked at each other, then back at the police cruiser that was now moving again. It sped off down the street and out of view.

"No time like the present."

Felson handed the half smoked joint back to Albino, reached into the back seat and grabbed a pool cue case.

"If I'm not back in an hour, call the cops?"

The two laughed, and a little too hard, the shared medicine doing its job.

As he exited the car, Felson tried to steady himself with a hand against the side. The alley was dark and although a light shone a little ways back from where they were parked, the beetle was concealed nicely. After a moment, and with cue case in hand, he made his way towards a fire escape.

×××

Stepping onto the roof, Felson removed his puffer and gave it a few squirts as he sucked in the asthma reliever. He was breathing heavy and his brow had collected some sweat. He gave his tie a loosen and moved towards the front edge of the roof. There was a decent sized brick barrier that ran the whole way around, which Felson leaned the case up against as he took a peak over the side. He could see the street below, where some night workers were regathering.

Content with the lack of suspicious activity, Felson opened the case and removed a Springfield bolt action rifle. He adjusted the scope, placed the barrell of the rifle against the ledge and took a gander through the sight.

The building across from them seemed like it had wound down for the night. There were no lights on save some lamps here and there on desks. Felson kept looking, scanning each window for activity. There looked to be a late night worker on the third floor and a cleaner on the sixth, otherwise all was clear. Now it was time to settle in.

×××

Through the scope, Felson was looking into the window of a boardroom. He could make out a large round table and chairs to seat nine. He could see that the light switch was just in his sight but the entrance to the door wasn't and that a large whiteboard covered the back wall.

Felson was kneeling on a piece of cardboard with his right knee. He switched to his left and momentarily had to break his line of sight. He took the moment to check his pocket watch. 11:14. Shit.

He re-engaged and just as his right eye peeked through the site he could see lights turning on, starting at the far end of the room. The blinds on this floor were closed except in the boardroom but he could see the lights turning on behind them. One by one, each portion of the floor lit up as Felson followed along with his scope.

When the light turned on outside the boardroom, Felson flicked the bolt forward on the sniper rifle and zoned in.

A minute passed. Then another. No movement. No-one had entered the boardroom door. Felson figured they must still be on the floor somewhere. He ran the scope across the floor. Still nothing. No blinds moving. But all lights were still turned on.

His training had taught him to be patient. Sometimes his regiment would lie in wait for days. They'd eat, sleep and shit where they were, only moving once a shot had been taken, to not allow the enemy to pinpoint their position. He didn't have time for this type of hunt. Albino was waiting and the list needed completing before the other names caught wind of the pattern.

Still, he remained vigilant. He shuffled his knees again and zoned back in on on the boardroom once more. Surely they'd enter at some point.

Within moments there was movement. Felson noticed the edge of the door first as it opened wide against the back wall. Then a face came into view. They casually walked in, flicked on the light and took a seat on the edge of the table. Felson didn't wait to see who might follow. The rifle was kept steady, Felson breathed in, then out and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet smashed through the window and punctured the target in the side of the head. The impact sent his body flying off the table and into the wall. As soon as the shot was fired and the kill confirmed, the gun was disarmed, the cue case flicked open and the Springfield tucked back away.

×××

The street walkers had scattered again at the sound of the gunshot. Felson flicked up the handle on the beetle and ducked down and into the passenger seat. The gun case was lightly tossed into the backseat. He checked his watch. 12.03 a.m.

"So how 'bout we make that call then, hey?"

Al peered over at Sunny, grinning with pride. "God damn, that was smooth timing. Out-fucking-standing, Soldier!" He chuckled. "Guess your watch does work after all!" He chucked a wink. The Don reached into his pocket, pulling out the envelope before tossing it into Felson's lap.

"Alright, you scratch him off - I'll go make the call." He fixed his black leather gloves, pulling them on tight and exited the vehicle.

Upon arriving at the payphone a few blocks over, Al pulled out a bright pink cloth from his jacket pocket and covered the receiver before jabbing at three keys.

"911, what's your emergency?" 

"John Simmonds is dead."

"John Simmonds?"

"Yes. THE John Simmonds. Dead. Dead-dead. Dead as a doornail." Al slammed the receiver down and headed back across the street but paused a few paces into the road. He held the pink cloth in his hand, waving it side-to-side as he wavered on a decision. He spun on his heels and rushed back to the payphone, jabbing at a few more numbers before waiting for the dial tone to end.

"Happy Faces Radio, where Chatty Hour is every hour! How can I help you?"

"John Simmonds is dead. I know who killed Morrison. Put me through to John and Debra, you got 60 seconds before I disconnect." Al roughed his voice through the cloth and glanced at his watch.

"Err, excuse me sir?"

"Clean your ears out, bitch. Put me through to the show or I hang up this phone right now. You want your exclusive? Put me on the fuckin' air."

"Please hold."

Al rolled his eyes as the Happy Faces Radio jingle rung through his ear.

  Happy, happy, happy faces.
  Re-lax in your happy places.
  Join us from your safest spaces.
  Happy, happy, happy faaaaceees!

  Happy, hap...

Al sighed with relief as the jingle was promptly interrupted.

"Hello, sir? They'll be with you in five minutes."

"Are you deaf? You've got 30 seconds left."

A muffled voice is heard in the background through the phone.

"Just give me the damn phone, Karen! ... Err, hello? This is Debra. I believe you have some information for our news segment?"

"I killed them. All of them. Simmond's just died too. Tell Judge Truman he's next. I know what he did." Al dropped the receiver, leaving it dangling from the payphone and rushed back to the car.

Upon his return, Felson had the engine running. Al dived into the driver's seat, it was still warm from before he'd left. He looked over at Felson who was sitting with his mouth open staring at him.

"They just said on the radio... Someone told them the next target...?" Confused, Felson raised an eyebrow. "Are you completely mad? What's going on?"

"Watch and see, Sunny. Watch and see."

The pair scudded off down the road.

***

The next day, Al had sent his weakest bodyguard Bonehead Bill to the post office to collect envelopes and stamps. Paranoid and keenly aware of his wild action of calling the radio station, Al took extra precautions and met Bill at a quiet location - deep in the woods where he was sure they wouldn't be caught by prying eyes. Bill was waiting upon Al's arrival. He was a terrible bodyguard - Al had been sick of him for a long time now but since the loss of Bert, he was having to make do with the resources at his disposal. He'd finally found a use for him.

"Did you bring it all?" Al offered the weak no niceties - straight to the point.

"Yeah. Envelopes.. Stamps.."

"The shovel?" Al demanded.

"It's in the trunk. The hole's there." Bonehead Bill pointed to a nearby spot behind a tree. "Listen, boss - is everything okay? You seem kinda..." 

Before Bill could finish his sentence, Al cut him off. "Good job, Bill. Sorry about this." Al pulls out a silenced pistol tucked in his waistband, lifting it and firing three shots - one in the head, two in the chest. His body thudded on the ground like a sack of potatoes. Al stepped towards the corpse and looked down on him.

"The simple truth is, Bill... You're a PUSSY."

After a tiresome battle dragging the body into the hole and filling it back in, Al moved Bill's car a mile deeper into the woods. He grabbed his postal supplies and torched Bonehead Bill's beat up car before heading back to beautiful Betty and began his journey back to civilisation.

He sealed an envelope with the photos involving Judge Truman enclosed and dropped it in the next available post box.

***

Three days had passed since Al's confession to the Happy Fuckface brigade and he was getting eager to get back to work. It was widely known he was not a patient man, but perhaps not obvious just how much he was anticipating this next move. He'd wake in the morning, rush to do his chores and return back to the temporary base of operations the pair had set up. It was located in rural Detroit, the quietest of the six major cities. The perfect little hideout for such a movement. Al would spend his day meticulously plotting and calculating each of their movements. One of his darker secrets was his ability to stalk and calculate. On the surface to many, he was an uncontrollable ball of rage - just a raw bag of emotions with no reliable off-valve. But he wasn't like that 24/7. Deep down, he was a thinker. His brain never stopped ticking. Like an annoying clock that you can't block out. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He glanced at his watch and made his decision. "Alright... One more coffee. You?" He looked over at Felson who replied with a nod.

The pair were fiends for the brain juice. They'd get nothing done without it! It didn't take them long to chuck the hot java down their throats and finally, with excitement and caffeine bursting through their veins, they were out on the road and back on their mission.

"Alright, so we know where he'll be... We've had eyes on him the whole time." Al started to recite what he'd been repeating for the last few days. The details were etched into their craniums but he wanted to be sure.

"And we know exactly who will be with him..." He continued. Felson nodded.

"And we know what time to arrive..." Felson nodded again.

"And we..." Al was interrupted.

"And we know it takes 40 minutes to get there. Just drive, Al. It's gonna be fine. You're being paranoid."

Al peered over at Felson who peered back. The pair burst into laughter.

"Alright... You're right. You're right!" Al shrugged, turning on the radio and doing his best to remain silent for the remainder of the journey.

***

The Don alternated between tapping the steering wheel, checking his watch and shuffling in his seat the whole way, but finally they were close. He wasn't nervous... Okay, maybe a little nervous. They'd been on the low down for a while now and Al always got fidgety when he wasn't out in the limelight slapping bitches and talking shit. But mostly, he was just excited - keen to get back out there and work his way through the list. Retribution was upon this scourge and this one was a biggie. They'd perfected the setup, it was important the execution was flawless. 

"Listen... I know... I get it. You don't want to hear it again. But listen, man - Detroit might be a dead city but that jail is no fucking joke." Al glanced over at Felson. 

"33 fucking guards, Sunny. This is no walk in the park." Al persisted in his cautioning. "Thirty-three!" He repeated.

The car pulled up two blocks south of the Detroit slammer.

"Alright... You know the plan. I won't gnaw your ear off with it again. Ready?"

The pair prepared their weapons and pulled their masks over their face.

"Let's go."

Felson was partially baked, but fully fucked. He'd smoked a strong indica strain, a little different from the sativa joints Felson usually carried around with him. He blinked his eyes slowly and yawned as he pulled down the mask.

Plan? They had a plan? If they did, Felson sure as hell couldn't remember it. At this moment he didn't even know if he was an aura floating around the astral or a human being playing a character. His eyes drooped as he started to nod off. He tipped into and leaned against the car.

*BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP*

Albino had his hand firmly pressed against the car horn. Felson perked up and snapped his head to look at the Don. 

"Fuck, I'm awake!"

He gave a sheepish smile. Albino let his hand loose but didn't return the favour. There were a heap of swear words being tossed in Felson's direction. He reached out his free hand and tried to pop a bubble that had one in it and that was floating towards him. It burst. The word 'cunt' hit the ground and dissapeared, sinking into what looked to be quick sand.

"Did... Did you lace this?"

Felson forced his eyes wide. Shit. FUCBOY laced this shit. It was suppose to be for a night under the stars down Freedom Lane. So much for that.

"Nevermind! I'm good. We're good! Good to gooooo. Yes, sir!"

Felson cocked back his left thumb, readied his imaginary gun and zig zagged away from the car. Albino immediately grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back. A solid backhand startled Felson more awake. Then another. Any more and he'd be back on the beaches in Normandy.

"Stop being a silly fuck!"

Knowing too well the stakes and the remedy, Al went into immediate emergency baggy mode. A small clear plastic bag of white powder with the name Frank's was removed from Albino's secret stash pocket and emptied onto Betty's busty bonnet.

"Don't be a dickhead, get it down ya! Let's go..."

Felson wearily placed his nose to the small pile and inhaled like a champion. His head immediately shot back, he stood up straight, rubbed at his nose and looked at the shotgun he was holding in his dominant right hand. 

A quick one-handed pump and a nod to Albino and he was off again, sniffing and blinking. He marched across the road with Al in hot pursuit. After a block, Felson started to pick up the pace, breaking off from the South Philly Don. He moved a little ways ahead as planned.

By the time Felson had the gatehouse in his sights, he was in full flight. His P.F. Flyers scuffed the concrete with each stride. He felt like a gazelle running through the Sahara. He even had that sense of anxiety knawing at him, like a lion were in hot pursuit. It was the coke, no doubt, but he felt alive!

The two guards saw him coming. The coked up and toked up Boss was firstly being waved at, then as he got nearer their guns were being drawn. Still in motion and with his left hand, Felson tugged down on two hand grenades that were fastened to his belt. The pins automatically pinged off into the street. Together they were overhead lobbed with a swingle toss towards the main security point. 

Before the grenades hit and could work their magic, Sunshine took a sharp right turn and headed for the safety of the side of the main building. He'd take the right side, Albino would take the left and they'd hopefully meet up somewhere in the middle of the Detroit House of Correction.

A broad-shouldered, blonde haired man with about two days worth of scruff on his face sat on the steep curb of the parking lot in front of the Correctional Facility. He had marched through the gates a few hours earlier with the rest of the day's releases- or at least that's how it had appeared to any onlookers. He was dressed the same; ill-fitting carpenter's denim jeans, a plain blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of old, black rubber-soled shoes that had clearly seen better days. He had a worn-out, military issue duffle bag at his feet, which he stared at while his forehead rested on his folded hands. The other seven prisoners that had been released that day had all been picked up, whether by family members or by the Greyhound bus that made it's daily stop at DeCoHo. For some reason, though, this poor shmuck hadn't been picked up yet. 

Spencer sighed and shifted his feet out straight in front of him before they started to fall asleep again, reaching into the pocket of his shirt for his pack of cigarettes and book of paper matches. After the smoke was lit, he checked his watch. Shouldn't be much longer now. Replacing the pack of smokes into his pocket, he glanced to each side of him, then pulled out a folded cut from a newspaper. He took a long drag from the cigarette and carefully unfolded it to look at the black-and-white picture. For a newspaper photo and the next best thing to a mugshot, it really was a great shot of Amira. He cocked a smile and exhaled, remembering the exact day the picture was taken, and chasing away the weasel reporter that had taken it. She wasn't smiling, but she had that look in her eyes that he knew all too well. There was almost a smile in the look, but that of a predator in the shadows. He snorted a quiet laugh to himself and shook his head. His mind was made up now. Once this job was over, he was going back to LA and laying it on the table. Damn the employer/employee issue to hell, it was time the professional soldier picked one thing to be unprofessional about; and he'd decided that was going to be Amira Dayan.

Several hundred feet away, Spence heard the hurried sound of feet shuffling on concrete. Glancing over his left shoulder, he saw a familiar figure moving at a good clip toward the guard house. 

"Shit."

Spencer shoved the picture back into his shirt, placed the cigarette between his lips and let it hang there as he unzipped the duffle bag on the ground. With practiced speed and precision, he assembled the scope onto the M1918 Browning automatic rifle, then smacked the magazine into it's slot. He took one more long drag of the Marlboro before butting it out on the pavement. Briefly, he closed his eyes. With a deep, steady breath in, Spencer MacGregor faded away. On exhaling, Lt. Col. MacGregor opened his eyes and crouched in a ready position.

Almost time to roll.

^{Oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah
Why do fools fall in love?
Why do birds sing so gay?
And lovers await the break of day
Why do they fall in love?}

To tell Issei he was going to be involved in stupid shit like this wasn't so much a grand welcome back to the organized shit he was used too, but hey? It was some good money...

"Got everything?" Baki muttered from where he sat, rolling his eyes at the radio as the car grew a bit hotter with Issei chomping on a donut as the carnage only seemed to get started with nary a sound or sight from one of Detroit's Finest. 

Issei chomped down on the chocolate donut with ease and dusted off his hands with a groan. "Yeah, got the piece?" Issei muttered over the radio as he bobbed his head to the song...

Frankie Lymon, what a fucking legend.

Opening the glove compartment, Baki tossed Issei a 1911 Colt, a glistening golden tint to it with the platinum flares of a dragon roaring. It was beautiful, thought Issei. A few clips and an extended magazine, Issei was well on his way now. 

"Alright, I'll wait out here, I'll spin a few around and if you get in trouble, I'll make sure to find her for you." Baki muttered before Issei rushed out the car and without another word, he was left without a fucking song to get into. 

"You're an ass, by the by. You can't put that on without some good eats next time, a donut, really? I'll catch you later, Baki." A bop in his step, Issei smiled as he walked through the doors of the visiting area for the Detroit House of Corrections. 

"Sir, could you step over here?" Issei heard the grunting voice of the goddamn pig, he hoped that he could pick up some donuts before he was with here. 

With a jaunt in his step and a completely flare of his overcoat, Issei flashed his badge. "Special Federal Officer, Kiba Orata. I'm here for a pickup.." Issei sighed out, flashing a charming grin...

"Johnson!" Issei strained his ears with the cop calling for another of his buddies. It was only then Issei spotted only one more guard, backed by another near the visitor's door. Hm, he could work with this if he had the time for it, at least. 

"Hm, really? Alright, we'll get this sorted..." Issei smiled at the rookie, it was clear, the lack of bags, the eagerness. It was sad for him to be involved in this line of work at least...

There were only 3 of them here. 

"Thank you, Gentlemen, I'll be sure to commend you guys to my superiors." With a smile and a look down at his watch, Issei felt it...

It'd be time soon, and maybe to celebrate, he could get a fucking burger, he was hungry to be quite honest with himself. Baki the cheapskate was an idiot with his donut binges...

He'd wait, at least...

Maybe grab a few chips, the show hasn't started, yet.

Al rested against the trunk of Beautiful Betty as he waited for the crew to take their positions and put the plan into effect. Four cigarettes and a quart of whiskey later and his patience had run thin. He pulled his left sleeve up an inch and took a glance at his watch, squinting his eyes in the midday sun. He reached inside his jacket and drew his pistol from it's holder, ensuring it was loaded. His stomach growled, leading him to realise he'd skipped breakfast and the coffee was beginning to traverse through his bowels. A donut would've gone really nice with his coffee... Why didn't he think of that? He really needed a sidekick to remind him of these things.

Al sighed as his thoughts strayed off. All this time around a correctional centre reminded him of Big Bert the Bodyguard and the two years he'd served to save A's skin that one time long ago - God rest his beautiful soul. That fat bastard would've remembered the donuts... Al was a shadow of himself without that loyal beast. He knew it was probably time to replace him - he couldn't keep driving himself everywhere like some sort of schmuck Wise Guy but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. The man was irreplaceable.

His eyes filled with liquid as he looked down at the pistol he'd just cocked. He recalled a bet between Bert and himself where Al got absolutely hustled. Being the big bastard he was, the late Bert could handle extreme amounts of liquor and even in the most inebriated of states he was a mean shot! No surprise really, being a military man, but Al didn't consider that after two bottles of whiskey. He genuinely believed he could shoot more cans in a row without a miss! 17-4... What a fucking embarrassing result for Al. How did he only hit four?! He chuckled to himself, wiping a tear from his eye. Why did them boys in blue have to take away his Bert? He was the best of the best... He would never find another soul like him. Al continued to fight the tears, holstering his weapon to free up his hands before rushing to wipe his face dry. 

"Grrrr, get a fucking grip cunt!" Al growled. "Fucking bastards!" He punched the trunk, realising he was far from being done with the grief of his loss. He closed both eyes as images of the crash he'd lost Bert in flashed before his mind's eye. The face of the two coppers hurtling towards the car in those last few moments Bert still breathed was burned into his skull. He couldn't shake it. It had been plaguing him ever since and he was sick of waking up at 0130 every morning thinking of it - on the nights he even managed to sleep. He thought he was doing well to maintain, but truth be told, he was struggling... Where was Felson when he needed him? He could've really done with a joint about now.

Al ruffled through all of his pockets hoping to find a dog-end, just a few little hits on it would've done... Anything to just calm his mind a little. He couldn't find anything, there was not a bit of cannabis on him. He closed his eyes once more, attempting to slow his breath and get a grip when suddenly a voice called out from behind.

"Hey! Are you supposed to be parked there?" It sounded like authority. Al hated authority. He chose to ignore it and attempt regathering his senses. Get a grip, Al! There's a mission on... Stick to the plan, don't fuck it up!

"Oi, I'm talking to you!" The voice persisted as heavy footsteps began to creep up behind him from a distance.

Al took one last deep breath, drawing in as much air to clear his brain as he could muster. He slowly opened the trunk and sniffed, hoping to compose himself. The footsteps drew closer, the deep voice blurting out more bullshit, "Are you fucking ignoring me, prick?"

The Don's eyes switched from sad to angry as if the tears magically dried up and turned into razorblades. His eyes grew narrow as his jaw tightened and he took another deep breath. He slowly leaned forward as he calculated the number of steps left to reach him. He reached inside the trunk with both hands and closed his eyes as he listened intensely. He was close.

Al placed his left hand on the cold steel of the curved grip-bar and his right hand on the rip-cord. The footsteps grew close enough and Al's eyes suddenly shot wide open, having completed their transformation from woe to insanity. Crazy Al pulled ferociously at the cord, causing an abrupt ROAR as his right hand released the cord and switched it's position to grab the handle. He spun around to face the voice which had been hounding him with a maniac stare fixed on the correctional officer who'd just realised he didn't even like this job, he should've called in sick... No one said there would be chainsaws.

"CUNT!!!" Al snapped, lunging forward to throw the thick, sharp razor end right through the man's torso. The victim's eyes turned white, his last few moments being full of surprise as he looked down at the weapon which now bridged between the two men. Al stared deep into his soul as he pulled the saw back out leaving his body to slump on the ground.

He stood over the body, drunk with anger as he looked down at him. "I bet you knew the cunt who killed Bert..." It didn't make much sense, but it did to Al. He struggled to control his breathing as he kept a firm grip of the chainsaw and started marching towards the main entrance. The periphery of his vision was non-existent, just a faded blur. All he could see were the doors he was about to burst through. He threw his boot out, nearly kicking them off their hinges as he cackles hysterically at all of the open mouths on their truly shocked faces.

"What...? Wasn't expecting me?" He started running towards the next poor bastard in his path, swinging his weapon around with absurdity. "You screw fucks! I'ma kill every last fuckin' one of you bastards! Just make sure you apologise to Bert when you fuckin' meet him, you fuckin' motherfuckers!" He slashed through two bodies. He wasn't even sure if they were on the right side of the law or not at this point, he just kept swinging, smothering the walls with blood.

The deranged Don's hysterical laughter never subsided. Crazy fuckin' Al was unleashed.