OOC: My apologies ahead of time if the formatting is strange, I'm not using the WYSIWYG editor, since how much it's changed since last I used it.
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I sat at a table in the small Los Angeles cafe, my head resting in my hand. A cigarette sat in the ashtray, burning. My free hand was in my coat, resting on the nickle-plated Snub Nose revolver, holstered in my belt, covered by my extra-long coat. My finger tapped it as I watched the entrance.

A young man walked in, walking quickly towards the register. My eyes followed him, and I saw the butt of a pistol. I stood up, making sure to conceal my own gun as I threw a five on the table as a tip for the waitress as I walked up to the register behind the man.

The man said, "I want to speak to the management about a business offer." He looked around, scanning the room for anything suspicious. All he saw was me, acting like I was pulling money from my wallet.

"About what?" asked the cashier. She was aware of the operation my family had going here, and she new the basics of our operation here. She was an associate to the family, paid to guard the place, like me.

"I want to offer this place a little...protection. I think I can protect this place from the Italian gavones around this neck of the woods." The man spoke with a heavy Spanish accent, obviously either an alien or an immigrant. I reached up, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Hey, come with me. I can show you to the manager," I said, trying to sound convincing.

I led him into the kitchens, waving down the chefs as they cursed at me in Italian, and out a concrete back door to the loading/unloading area.

"Hey wait," he started. "This isn't...you tricked me, you dirty bastard!"

He balled his hand up into a fist and swung at my face. I ducked under it, bringing my own fist into his stomach. With a grunt, he bent over. I hit him again, this time in the mouth, and it sent him sprawling to the ground. He started to crawl backwards, his hand holding his bleeding mouth. I looked around and, seeing a tire iron, picked it up. My knuckles seemed to howl with pain as they wrapped around it. They were probably broken.

The Mexican continued to crawl backwards until he hit the brick wall. Drops of perspiration cascaded down his face. "No, please! Don't hurt me!" he pleaded, his hand still holding his mouth.

I smiled an arrogant grin as I brought the tire iron up with my left hand and swinging it down, hard. With a crack, he gave a muffled yell as his knee was broken.

"You bastard...you dirty son of a bitch...I have children...please," begged the man, almost crying. I swung again, this time completely breaking three of his fingers. He howled in agony.

"You shouldn't have messed with 81st Street," I said. I lifted up my booted feet, bringing it down hard on his nose, breaking it, blood squirting into my pants.

TO BE CONTINUED