Achilles walked into a bar in the less than savy part of New Orleans, some of the sketchier members of the city gathered in this bar. Achilles had some unfinished business to attend to. As he entered the bar he noticed a man wearing dark glasses in the darkest corner, Achilles approached him immediately and sat down across from him.

"Hello Nathan."

The man named Nathan looked at him, and behind the glasses his eyes revealed the fear. Achilles could sense the emotion, he could practically taste it.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here.. What you did, or failed to do, has cost me a lot of money. When you cost me money, you cost La Famiglia Manovanni money. I'm here to collect.

Nathan studdered as he attempted to explain the situation

"B-but I have it! I h-have the money I swear! I'm so sor-sorry it's late, Mikey didn't pay u-up when he was s-supposed to!"

Achilles replied calmly.

"Then hand it over, I'm waiting."

Nathan's head dropped.

"I don't have it with me.. Can you give me two days?"

Nathan knew the answer before he asked, Achilles was not a man to be crossed, although he might currently hold a low position in his Family, he was a ruthless man. Achilles responded with a smile.

"Of course Nathan! Two days can't hurt right? I mean, I've already waited four, why not wait two more? Alas, let us take a walk, we can discuss the interest rate."

Achilles motion for Nathan to stand up, and the two men walked outside into the rain.

Achilles donned his fedora and took the lead, he began walking down the block, Nathan hurrying behind him. Nathan attempted to explain some more about Mikey, and the situation that had occurred, but Achilles had no more words for him.

The dark alley that Achilles chose was perfect, he motioned for Nathan to enter it, and Nathan knew he could not run.. His future had been decided when Mikey failed to pay up on time.

"Well, I would apologize for what is about to happen Nathan, but you brought this upon yourself.."

Achilles gripped his colt and pulled it out from under his overcoat, he cocked it and pointed it at Nathan's head.

"Where is Mikey?"

Nathan was a coward right to the end of his life, he quickly told Achilles the whereabouts of his associate.

As soon as the address was passed on, Achilles pulled the trigger and ended the scumbag's life.

The gunshots echoed off the brick and up into the night sky. Achilles walked onto the street, placing his colt back in it's holster. Just as he approached the curb, a dark car skidded to a halt and the door opened for him, he entered and the car sped off.


To be continued..

Gene parked his motorcycle in the alleyway behind a slummy little dive call the Trinity Lounge, one of many hot spots for assholes in the Holy Cross District of the Ninth Ward. He couldn’t recall a more unholy pisspot of a neighborhood than this; syphilitic whores with more brats than customers, a spoon and dropper for every washed-up jazz musician who sells his love and livelihood just to make the rent. ‘Good thing I got no soul, the horse market here is too sweet to pass up.’ He removed a chain and padlock from his saddle bag and chained his precious Indian to a gas line. He knew he’d be lucky if he returned to more than a wheel chained to the wall, but the drink beckoned.

He barged through the front door, bellowed at the barkeep for a triple bourbon and sat down at the bar, trying hard not to think about himself. Here was a regular cross-section of every low-level shitheel imaginable: dice-game loan sharks, pushers who cut their product with rat poison, pimps with an inordinate number of flashy rings on their management hands. Gene felt right at home; he would slit all their throats in front of their wretched bastards, and pay for the opportunity. He reached down for his revolver holster and rotated it into his lap.

He finished his drink and paid the tab, glad to rid himself of the joint. As he rounded the corner of the building, he began to hear the muffled noise of distant conversation; a conversation coming from the direction of his bike. He drew his .38 custom silently and sidled up to the corner of the alleyway to listen.

“Where is Mikey?” And then there was some quivering, incoherent blubbering which Gene couldn’t quite make out. Satisfied that the two were not arguing over where to hock his muffler, he holstered his revolver and stood quietly, waiting. After a few moments of a trying curiosity, he stuffed his sense of propriety down someplace deep within him, and peeked around the corner.

In the center of the alley was a man on his knees, his body visibly shaking with the intermittent shudder of a sob, shoulders drooping and head bowed in the universal posture of a man face-to-face with his impending doom. The well-dressed mafioso behind him was the utter contrast; standing tall with the easy confidence of an overpaid, beyond-reproach headsman. The gun in his hand, and the hand itself, seemed like stone carvings jutting from the skull of the sap at his feet; no shake in the grip, finger raised slightly away from the trigger to prevent a fouled shot. The gun was held perfectly steady; the perfect habit of a perfect shadow. Suddenly the rain ceased, as if God himself wanted an unimpeded viewing of this particular scumbag’s descent into hell.

A sudden pop sounded, and group of birds took to the air from a sycamore across the street. A thin, red cloud exploded from the forehead of the poor fool, along with half his ugly mug. The corpse, still on its knees, started to slowly crumple directly forward, its arms strangely raising as if to absorb the impact. The end result rather resembled a man praying desperately in the middle of a garbage-strewn alleyway; Gene observed that it was much too late for such a gesture.

The hitman holstered his gun and started off toward the other end of the alleyway at a moderate, if clearly unworried, clip and before long stepped into a shiny, black coupe. Gene waited a few moments and then rounded the corner into the alleyway toward his Indian. As he mounted the seat, he caught himself looking back at the corpse. He knew then what he was about to do, he knew he could not stop himself, and he knew full well how many nights of hard drinking it would take before he could forgive himself for it. As he got back off his bike, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, removed his flask, and took a large quaff as down-payment.

As the mystery assassin had not searched the body’s pockets, it was, perhaps obviously, not a mere robbery. Gene stepped up to the stiff and gave it a swift kick in the ribs. “Can’t go an’ have you wakin’ up now, can I?” He chuckled morbidly to himself as he gingerly removed the wallet from its back pocket; there was some cash, a few large bills but mostly small ones. He had started to rise when he noticed a little white triangle peeking out from a fold in the cuff of its trousers. As he pulled loose the little curiosity from its hidey-hole, a large, bronze key fell out from the middle of the folded piece of paper and clattered against the ground. Gene reached down and snatched up the key with his off hand while he unfolded the scrap with his right.

The paper was of high quality, but had clearly been torn from a larger document. Typed on it was a series of twelve randomly assigned digits; Gene knew immediately what this was: a bank account number. He slid the number and the key into his jeans pocket and, knowing he’d need something more to go on to follow this lead, picked the wallet back up from where he’d tossed it and removed the Driver’s License card of one Nathan McAbee.

Once more remounting his motorcycle, he cranked the ignition and gave the throttle a rev. Over the raucous roar of the engine, audible only to himself, he said, “Well, Natty boy, it sho weren’t ya lucky day. Maybe it’ll be mine.”