Another long night, another drink. It was much the same with him in recent days. He had always enjoyed a drink or two, but with the constant bloodshed within the last weeks, he had taken to the alcohol rather hard. Most days, he was unlucky enough to not remember the night before. This was a problem, but after all the things he had seen, it was understandable. 

Today was one of those days. He managed to make his way to his feet in the gutter of filth he had been laying. Head pounding, both from alcohol and from bruises, he shouted as he rubbed his hand, noting the dried blood and the fact that he could see through it. He tried then, to remember the previous night. The night before he had found himself in a no-name bar, where the patrons were gritty and rude, but the drinks were constant as long as you had the money. Booze, and violence seemed to be the best way to spend his time now, beating the tar out of anyone who looked at him sideways, as long as he got all his frustration out. That night, he had managed to pick a fight with the wrong person, not that he cared. It got his blood flowing, it let his anger, his sadness, his fury out on the world. The man in particular he insulted wasn't a particularly large, or intimidating person. He was average. Average height, average weight, average face. Nothing about the man was all that interesting, aside from the smirk he had on his face as he looked at Irish. As if he had been part of an inside joke that no one cared to tell him about. "You got somethin' you're wantin' to say to me, eh fella?" By now, he had already had six or seven drinks inside him, and he was at the point of no return. The way the man looked at him made him mad, not for any particular reason that the feeling he was being mocked.

"I don't have anything to say to you, ya paddy bastard. Why don't you go home and sleep it off, 'fore you get all upset." Again, that smirk and that chuckle. The men around him did the same, and that was when he took count. Five, including the average man in the middle. He assumed he had to be some small time wannabe gangster there with his friends, and that was fine by him. Five might make him bleed a little, and just the thought had his hand twitching. As he picked up the bottle, he stumbled his way over to the group of five, none taking him seriously. Drunk, and outnumbered in a bar he hadn't been to before. No one in their right mind would consider him a threat. Irish took a long swig of his drink and spat down at the table, eyes cold and focused. "Paddy bastard, eh? Is that all you have to say? Bit light on the insults is it? How about I make my way back home and put a paddy bastard in your guinea wife, you prick." That was when all hell broke loose. Insulting a man is one thing, but targeting his wife is a completely different thing. The rage on his face as one of the nearest of the five stood and made a move was one he wouldn't forget. It was mostly a blur as Irish tried to remember. One moment he was being charged, the next the bottle in his hand smashed the man across the face and took him down. "Need more than one to take me down, ya fuck, let's go!" He soon regretted stating that fact, as the entire table moved to stand up. Irish flipped the table up over them to take them off guard and quickly took a punch at a second man, connecting sloppily with his jaw. Unfortunately, his foot slipped under him at the moment and it weakened his blow. 

The tackle came unexpectedly next, as he found himself on his back. A fat man with a double chin lay on top of him, sweat already pouring from his forehead. He did the holding as the others gathered around to kick at him. As they did, the fat man moved and knocked him in the chin with an elbow, hard enough to feel like he dislocated his jaw. Not one to go down without a fight, Irish grasped at the fat man and pulled him down by his head, biting and ripping through the large quantity of flesh of his cheek. He spat it back, before being hit with a solid object. He thought it was a bat, but he honestly couldn't remember. It struck him in the side of the head. Everything after was in and out as he blacked out and came to. His body hovering over the ground, which was moving quickly below him. Out once again. When he came to, he was against a wall, the average man holding a knife over his throat. "Listen to me, you stupid son of a bitch. I ever see you around here again, I slice you open and watch your insides fall out, you get me?" Irish didn't have time to spit back, as the knife was shoved through one of his hands, causing him to scream and fall again. 

That was where he found himself, standing in that gutter. Muttering to himself, he stumbled his way a few blocks to the Family's hideout. He knew there would be someone there to bandage him up and get him situated. As he got there, he realized something wasn't right. All the vehicles were gone, and the door was cracked open. He feared the worst as he reached for the gun in his jacket, before realizing it wasn't there. "Fuck." It was all he could say as he made his way to the door and walked through. It wasn't ransacked as if it had been robbed, it wasn't destroyed by a rival gang. It was just gone. The furniture, the curtains, the people. All of it. It was abandoned and looked like it had been for years. "Eredin!? Harper!? The fuck is everyone!?" As he stumbled through room to room, he came to the meeting room last and found what seemed to be a piece of paper stabbed to a wall, a blood stain beside. All it said was goodbye. He knew the writing belonged to his leader, and he had a sick feeling that the blood did too. 

Sighing, he slumped against the nearest wall, staring at the blood and the note beside it, nursing his wounded hand. "Goddamn...I need another drink."

BretTheHitmanHart noticed an Irishman stumbling around outside some emptied building. Bret thought the building looked familiar, and took one more look at it. Bret knew it looked familiar. It was the old headquarters for the Wild Hunt and their leader, Gangster Eredin. Bret felt bad for the man. The Irishman seemed drunk and lonely, unsure where to go. 

"Hey buddy you alright? Looks like you need something? How about a drink?"

Bret offered the Irishman a drink. He stuck his hand down his own singlet and found his flask. His preferred beverage was whiskey but knowing where he had to stash his flask, he filled it with rum. Rum wasn't so bad warm. Bret took a swig himself from the steel container before he passed it to the Irishman. 

"Take a drink jabroni. It'll calm the nerves."

Bret watched as the Irishman took a swig from his flask. He continued to ponder on how this situation must be rough on someone. A Wise Guy with no one to work for anymore. With no one to offer him protection. He then thought to himself that maybe the Irishman could work for us in Downtown, Detroit. Not having the right connections in the gangster world just yet, Bret's connections were all in the wrestling world after all, he was able to introduce the man to Nyx.

Within a few moments, Nyx was able to make the right phone calls and make sure the Irishman was working for someone again. Gladly enough, he was working under Don KingRevan.

"Glad to have you along with us Irishman. You mind giving me my flask back though? My singlet is a little empty with it..."