Sunday Night - 8pm - Chicago
It is Sunday, the day of revenge for Barbara and myself. The gang and I are suited up in the Chevrolet with our guns and other lethal weapons we’ll need in tow to take out the Chicago Saints. Everything has been eerily quiet. Strategy implants itself in our heads, running it’s course like a bad song stuck on repeat. The feelings that have manifested within me are indescribable. I’m just ready to get this over with.
Blake remembers Kenny’s personal address. He pays attention like that. What most people expect Blake to underachieve in is usually what he excels in, such as peeping small details with a critical eye and keeping a mental note of certain traits and locations. It’s all apart of the game. Be one step ahead of your enemies. Never get caught slipping. Never come across as too careless.
Kenny and Blake have had multiple run-ins, some being pleasant and some being strictly business. He knows Kenny is the head of the Chicago Saints and is the one who pulled up on Antonio and Ron threatening them to stay out of Chicago. Blake didn’t appreciate this, especially after he had shown his face to Kenny to tackle the issue head-on.
Kenny had smiled at Blake and waved a hand. Blake knew to keep his guard up. There were large men around holding shotguns and AK-47′s so he’d be a fool to try something slick or stupid.
“Ah, well look at who we have here,” the light-skinned black boy smirked.
Blake looked him dead in the eyes. No cowering, no folding. Strictly business.
“I got your message loud and clear Kenny. Selling on your territory is me being way out of line, so I want to call a truce. I’ll stop selling on your turf and sell my drugs where they’re wanted at. You ain’t got to do nothing in return. Deal?”
Blake must’ve mistaken Kenny for a fool to think a merely plausible truce was enough to make up for all the lost money and resources Blake had stolen from the Chicago Saints for all the times he didn’t listen to them to go away. For every drug he sold to a customer on Chicago soil, that was one less customer doing business with the Saints. Kenny got tired of Blake’s disobedience after awhile, and in his honest opinion, should’ve killed Blake a long time ago. But Blake had a certain reputation in the drug game. The real OG’s and puppetmen on the block knew about Dan and Nate and their small empire before they got locked up. They knew Blake had been privileged to have connections to a prestigious drug lord that helped keep his cousins’ business afloat. Everyone knew that him and the scuffed up high school kids he called his, “gang members” lived very well due to his granted high-end drugs. Blake had it easy in the drug game. He was too advantaged, and Kenny never liked this. How bold did one have to be to cross into his territory and take food out of his mouth when Blake had strung-out, rich white kids falling at his feet with hundreds of dollars at a time for his high-end coke and other rich white people drugs? He seldomly sold plain Mary Jane, but when he did, it was also of fine quality because his drug supplier always had his back in making sure he kept dominating the streets and his school. Kenny knew Blake wasn’t just anybody, and knew that Blake couldn’t be easily killed because he was so observant and careful. Who knew a kid like that could send him to his breaking point one day?
So when Blake called his truce and looked at Kenny with those big brown eyes, he simply bullshitted him. For once, he had the upper hand. Make Blake believe that everything was alright. Make his guard come down a little bit. Then strike him when he had no idea what was coming his way.
Kenny was nearly frothing at the mouth when he set out his hitmen to follow Blake and his gang around and then attack them at the best open opportunity. Kenny was sure his hitmen would do their job. Unfortunately, though, as he sits in his household contemplating having his failed hitmen murdered, they were not up to par, and Blake is still roaming the streets probably conjuring up a backlash in retort to the Saint’s attack. This is one of those moments where Kenny regrets not agreeing to get his hands dirty.
Dumb muthafuckas. How the hell do ya’ll NOT kill the bastard that’s been fucking us over for too long now?
Blake was a privileged bastard according to Kenny, being granted security and high-quality supply from a drug lord Kenny knew he could never hold a conservation with, let alone get him to agree to sell such superior drugs at a low price for him so he can make a profit. Something else had to be going on. The equation didn’t add up in Kenny’s eyes. What was so special about Blake for his discreet caregiver to take care of him and what really happened for Dan and Nate to get locked up?
He thinks about it until his brain hurts, looking out of the window at the dark, inky sky. Chicago was an interesting place, at least in the parts he lived in. Crime was at an all-time high day in and day out to the point where police stopped caring about criminal activity throughout the hoods and ghettos. Gangs and civilians could kill each other every second of every day and cops would pull the same routine like a magician act; observe the crime, feign concern, briefly investigate, then stop caring. The only time police get really involved is if someone of importance is killed or if a white kid ends up finding himself on the wrong side of town.
Just as Kenny ends his thoughts about a plethora of scenarios, he hears a loud pop sound from the first floor of his house. He immediately breaks away from the window and rushes downstairs. A shrilling cry sounds until it’s silenced by a gunshot. Kenny’s nerves begin skyrocketing, and before he can make it to his compartment to grab a weapon, he sees his dead girlfriend and used-to-be guardsmen on the ground outside of his home, the door still left ajar. The killer in front of him is the boy who was supposed to be dead a long time ago.
Blake gives Kenny no room to speak or breathe. He shoots him, right through his skull, blood splattering on the walls and staircase. There would be no last minute thoughts or condolences on Blake’s watch. Barbara wasn’t allowed to share her last words, so Kenny wouldn’t either.
My heart drops to my stomach, witnessing ruthless, disguised Blake drop bodies like he does it for a living. The sight is terrifying and unbearably real. Those people standing outside of the house were once living, breathing creatures. They probably assumed they would wake up to a beautiful Monday morning tomorrow. It’s astonishing to see how fast a life can end before your eyes.
Antonio honks for Blake to return to the car and he does so, abruptly jumping over dead bodies and sliding in blood. He slams the passenger door in a frantic state and tells Antonio to step on it.
One part of me is dying to ask if that was it. If taking out the leader was all we had to accomplish and that we could now peacefully reside in Winchester and rent out a decent apartment or take over another abandoned house. The part of me that actually has common sense tells me that things aren’t over yet. That was too easy. Blake still looks hungry for blood.
“Where to?” Antonio asks, sweat dripping down the side of his face. Blake is reloading his gun and adjusting his mask, his silence being a marker of dedication and focus. I stare at him, trying to imitate his composed demeanor. It’s pitch black outside and everyone else seems to be living completely different lives from us. Here we are, driving at the speed of light and just left four people for dead in their own home. I feel no type of way though. My heart pounds and my palms sweat but it’s all out of anticipation. Adrenaline pumps through me and when we finally halt to our second stop of the night (surprisingly, a rather deserted nightclub) that’s when we all put on our masks and load our weapons.
Blake turns to all of us and says, “Antonio drives, we shoot. Let’s go.”
Everything moves in slow motion. From the time everyone notices three masked figures walk into a chill nightclub, to the time where bullets start flying everywhere, everything moves in slow motion. People are shot left and right at our expense. I indulge in it, feeling superior to everyone around me. The gang members repping red die all around us. Security guards who work for the nightclub die all around us. Regular civilians are screaming and taking cover, scared shitless at three unrecognizable gunmen. I only see shit like this happen in movies and on the news. I never thought I’d be experiencing this for myself. I never thought I’d be killing people with a hot and loaded firearm. I’m barely thinking, barely moving. It’s amazing how no ones trying to stop us. People are fearful of people with guns. They cry and beg and plead for their lives. Good thing is we’re not coming for innocent people. We’re only here for the ones in red.
Valerie alerts me that someone is coming with a gun. I can barely breathe in this tight, itchy mask but I manage a breath as I heighten my senses to look around me. I catch a burly Indian man charging at me with a shotgun from my peripheral vision and I quickly aim my automatic pistol at him, threatening him with my cold blue eyes.
“Ron! Come on! Get out!”
I shoot the Indian man in the chest and he tumbles backward, crashing through a lilac glass table that was littered with drinks. I see a woman crouched under a pool table dialing 911. I catch her eye and aim my gun at her. She screams, piercing my eardrums. I shoot her in the shoulder and she drops her phone, toppling over in pain and sheer terror.
“RON! Let’s go!!!”
I am too calm for this situation. I’m shocked with myself for not freaking out about all of this. It’s almost like I’m a natural. And when I think about it, I’ve always been truly dark and sinister. It’s just finally relishing in the light. I’ve finally gone mad.
When I return to the car, Antonio pulls off in milliseconds. We’re basically zooming through the streets at deadly speed. If someone were to get in our way right now they’d be unfortunately flapjacked. Antonio drives crazily under pressure, but at least he’s keeping a steady crazy pace and focusing on the surroundings engulfing us.
“People were calling the police, we gotta flee,” Valerie states, removing her black cotton mask.
Blake says not a word when he leans his body out of the window and starts shooting at a vehicle behind us. I crane my neck to see who the hell is on our trail but I can’t really get a good look due to Valerie’s fear escalating in the car.
“What the hell do you see me doing?! Are you LOCO?”
The car turns and slides and barely avoids corners due to Antonio’s speeding. This whole situation is erratic. I decide to make myself useful and start shooting at the vehicle behind us too, my aim barely coordinating and my confidence withering as I am not advanced enough to be doing superhuman shit such as leaning out of moving car window and shooting at the same time. I place my ass back inside the tension-filled car and take huge gulps of breaths as we enter onto a rather clear freeway.
This isn’t a badly-scripted action movie and this isn’t a scene I’m gawking over from the comfort of my bedroom. I am literally in the midst of a shoot-out on the freeway. There are cars literally crashing into one another as our vehicle and the Saint’s vehicle behind us are on a rampage to kill one another. I close my eyes and let the nauseating movements of the car soothe me. I withdraw myself from this nightmare. Between the horrifying sounds of tires screeching, people screaming, and gunshots blaring, I withdraw myself. I take myself back to a better day. I let my mind become one with peace and memory in this life or death situation....