The Shape Grips Motor City:

The racket of hammering, screeching skilsaws, and shouting tore through the air. Chairman Soseki's headquarters was a complete mess, still undergoing frantic repairs after the big war. Deep bloodstains were cured right into the concrete streets, and the sour stink of burnt gunpowder hung heavy. Everyone was moving doubletime. Desperate to patch the place back together. 

Across the street, dusk settled hard over Bricktown. A shape detached itself from the treeline. It was Michael Myers, stepping into the open and heading straight toward the building. He moved with a heavy, unhurried stride; deadpan and totally indifferent to the chaos around him. 

He slipped through a side entrance, completely invisible to the workers rushing past with toolboxes and lumber. He just kept moving. Up the stairs and through the corridor without a single person aware. 

Upstairs, the door to the Godfather's office was a revolving door of subordinates. Soseki was hunched over his desk, squinting at handwritten notes and ledgers, when a sudden prickle of unease made him look up. 

Michael Myers was just standing there, filling the corner of the room. 

God damn it, Michael! Soseki barked, flinching back in his chair. Good... good, you're here. You always show up out of nowhere. It's kinda creepy as hell, man... but whatever. Listen.

Michael’s head tilted. Just a slight, mechanical shift. 

I want you heading up your own crew here in Bricktown, directly under me. Soseki said, pulling himself together.

You're a tank, Michael. I know you'll handle business when the hammer drops, and will keep the area in check for me.

Soseki stepped around his desk, yanked open a heavy wooden drawer, and pitched a ring of keys across the office. 

I picked up some property for you down by the East Side warehouse district. Get down there, map the layout, and set up shop. I’ll send a few guys over shortly to get the gears turning.

Michael caught the keys out of the air. His black leather glove clamped shut around the brass, his blank gaze locked onto Soseki for one cold second. Then he turned without a word or gesture and walked out. 

He went right back down the stairwell and out the side door, a statue sliding through a crowd of busy men oblivious. 

The October night air was turning sharp. Michael walked right down the double yellow line of the road toward the East Side. A bootlegger’s truck rattled past, its yellow headlights washing over the pale white mask. The driver slammed on his brakes, tires screeching against the asphalt. Michael didn’t even glance. He just kept walking. 

As the buildings grew sparser, the smell of gunpowder faded, replaced by the grim stench of industrial waste, rust, and oil-slicked river water. 

He stopped in front of the place Soseki had assigned him: a massive, three-story brick warehouse with boarded windows and a reinforced iron door. Michael pulled the key from his pocket, threw the bolt, and shoved his way inside. 

It was dead silent. Dust coated every square inch of the floorboards, and the thick aroma of old motor oil saturated the air. He paced the perimeter of the main floor, absorbing the empty space, before stopping dead center in the room. 

He reached down to his belt and pulled a heavy, gleaming nineteen inch kitchen knife. With a single fluid raw power drop of his arm, he drove the blade several inches deep into a wooden shipping crate, pinning a note to the crate. 

He left it raw, right where anyone coming through the front door would have to see it. 

Soseki’s men would be arriving any minute. They’d find the door unlocked, a massive blade buried in wood, and an ultimatum waiting for them. Michael Myers waited in the dark. 

A new crew was taking shape and lives in Bricktown were about to be shaken to the core. 

Wandering Souls Asylum

-a product of -

The Cogburn Crew

-DETROIT-