"Alright, the plan is simple"
Three men were huddled around a table, barely lit by a bare and dying lightbulb above them.
"We head to the joint, make ourselves known, and..." The man speaking lowers the tip of his hat grimly, letting his eyes fall to the pistol to his right.
Playing cards were splayed out across the entire table, a reminder of better days together.
"We give them a parting gift."
A pause to let the gravitas sink in.
It was the same shit different day. They'd done dozens of hits before.
But this time the orders were to punch up, a bigger family'd decided to lay claim to a counterfeit shop that wasn't theirs.
This'd practically be a suicide mission even if it went smoothly.
But orders were orders.
Funny how the old men that run these things in the first place are the ones that get to feel safest.
The man explaining the plan glanced at the other two, and then around the room.
Despite how grimy it was, the amount of times they'd come together in this dingy restaurant basement made it quite like a second home.
Posters clung to the dark green walls as the glue that'd bound them to it rotted away, a painting just slightly off-tilt above the doorway.
He'd forgotten who'd even bought the damn thing, just that it was there for the sheer tackiness of it.
A dart board with shots still on it, from a game long post-poned as it rested forgotten in the corner.
Now wasn't the time to get lost in those memories, else he'd just call this whole thing off.
Run away and leave it all behind.
If only.
"Any fuckin' questions?"
The other two stayed silent. They knew what they'd signed up for when they joined the family.
And it was time to pay debts.


By the time the car rolled up to its destination, the sun was nothing but an orangish-scarlet fade against the backdrop of the city.
The front for the counterfeit cash store was in sight, a laundromat that stuck out against the rest of the buildings it was laid in with.
Everybody's a fuckin' comedian, huh?
He looked at the extra heat they'd packed. It was a strange feeling, the thompson's felt like any other object in his common life.
But if anybody'd taken one look into their car the cops would probably hound them within seconds.
Call it off.
The only hints of these worries outwardly were a small shiver and a much colder stare,
eyes frosting over as if to shut out the world around him.
His hands became clammy against the wood finish of the grip, as if they themselves had wanted to loosen up and run straight back to the wheel.
Drive off into the sunset, change your name, marry someone new, live a whole different life.
A better one.
Hesitantly, he let one hand go off the gun, signaling to the other two that it was time with a two finger point to the laundromat.
Before they'd unload though, he had wanted to go in. Make sure no civvies would get hurt in the process.
Tossing the gun to one of the other men, he strolled as casually as possible to the front door.
As he approached, it swung open, held out by a man in a sharp suit.
No doubt in my fuckin' mind he was one of them.
"Thanks... kindly" I muttered, hoping that the spine chill of cold shock that jolted through me wouldn't give up the goose.
Quickly inside, I spot a few other suits. Doing their best to indiscretely check me out.
Fuckin' amateurs, amazing the kinds of idiots that go taking what isn't theirs.
No one stuck out from the rest of them though, I spot the washroom and meander over to it, pretending to be interested in the washing machines as I go.
I'd have to spend a few minutes in here acting real fuckin' busy... Hmph...
I don't bother going to a stall, deciding to just wash my hands at a sink for a while.
My reflection catches my attention, familiar eyes piercing through the flourescent room into my own.
What a fuckin' sight. Here's hoping I don't gotta clean any more than I am now though.
One of the other guys would hate that kind of gallows humor, it felt like it was helping me barely get by.
Call it off.
A sudden cold sting to my face whisks me back to reality, looking down I see that I'd splashed myself with water.
Right... Right...
Quickly drying off, my walk back to the car is brisk.
"All clear?" One of the men who'd stayed behind in the car asks out to the one who'd just been inside "Clear." Is all the man can reply back with. "Let's get this fuckin' over with."
Each man grabs their gun, slowly steadying them like it was their will and testament.
The windows of the car unroll, each man sits silent.
It felt like ages before the first shot rang out, and yet it must have only been seconds.
But the rest of the fire hails out within instants. Not a single bullet was to be left.
If only the noise could match the intensity of the fire, maybe the screams could have been drowned out, maybe they could ignore what they were shooting at if it weren't for the cries of pain and shrieks of terror from grown men as suddenly they were about to lose everything they held near and dear to them.
Just ignore the thoughts. The man in charge kept repeating to himself, a mantra he'd become very familiar with.
Ignore the thought that maybe one of these poor saps had a kid at home, a happy little family that would never be whole again.
Don't think about their friends, who had never known what their good ole pal did for a living, and would now have to see them as a bullet-ridden mess of gore.
Just.
Keep.
Shooting.
Eventually though, the tell-tale clicks of empty magazines let the silence sink back into the street like nightfall.
Any civilians that'd been in the street to watch such a bloody spectacle was long gone, perhaps already calling the cops, calling for anybody to come save them from their new waking nightmare.
The man in charge opened his car door, staring in awe at their, no, his handiwork.
The shards of glass that lay on the streets, the metal frame of the door he had just moments ago been welcomed in with.
I could already see pools of blood trailing out from under it, glazing around just about anything that it had splattered to.
It took all I had not to retch right then and there, much less step closer to the door, going in amidst the kicked up dust to check.
Make sure no one managed to survive such a horrible ordeal.
Treading lightly, avoiding glass and blood alike, I trapezed around.
They'd tried to train us for this sort of thing, but doing it for real... It was all so surreal.
Bodies lay strewn about, crumpled in ways that were just easy to tell that they were dead. Uncomfortable, neck snapping, bone breaking ways.
Some of them almost looked peaceful about it though, like they'd come to terms with their deaths in the short seconds that they had for that.
Others... had more visible damage, chunks missing from a shoulder, a leg snapped horribly, like they'd tripped on something nasty as they tried to escape.
Terror etched into their eyes, mouths agape in an unending scream. Hell, one of them had a faint smell of ammonia, the blood had already mixed with 'whatever' could have caused that though.
I leaned against the side of a washing machine, drinking in the scene. It felt like my brain had a single wire connected to my body, with the rest all disconnected, that single wire feeding as much info as it could to me as possible. But it was only one wire, my vision felt cloudy, colors and objects whizzed into uncertain shapes, my ears rang a loud dull tone.
And then the man woke up, in the back of the car.
One of the other men was calling out to... someone...
"...Ja...Co...on...Jack...? Sta...with us J... Jack...? Jack!!"

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