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He’d find Carmine…. Tonight As soon as he was done with this little matter, he’d been sidetracked. Sam had called Another target had been located. The money was in place. The man with the broken nose went for the bird in the hand. He had taken his unbridled rage outside the city north London, was in Bruce Grove. Again he was in a footrace. He had found his contract, the Jamaican with the gambling debt. The Jamaican was fleeing. That was expected, his profile had said he was runner. The man with the broken nose chased the Jamaican the way Carmine had chased him. He chased him through urban areas that looked like Houston’s Fifth Ward, New Orleans’s Fourth ward, South Central, East Oakland, Harlem, and Blackhaven in Memphis combined. He convinced himself that he had tested Carmine. Wanted to see how strong Carmine was Told himself that fear didn’t make him run; it was only a test. Fear was there, fear was part of the business. Fear kept a man alert. But fear wasn’t why he had run. He’d run three sub-six-minute miles. In a suit and shoes. Carmine had almost caught him. Not many men could run three sub-six-miles fully dressed, Wearing street shoes. His father would’ve chastised him, shouted at him. If he had still been around. His father had been the ultimate sprinter in his youth and then a marathon man in his later years. He used to hear his father talk to his friends about doing big jobs in other states, the sound of death in his voice. All the men wore suits. They always wore suits. And they all carried big guns. When the men left, his father would loosen his tie, then come and play with him and his siblings His father would leave at night. Not come home for days at a time No one ever questioned what he did or asked where he was. He ran because his father loved to run. He had admired his father. Even though he never went to visit his old man after they came and took him away. His brothers and sisters didn’t go visit their old man either. But his mother did. His mother went to see his father once a month Conjugal It had been that way for the last twenty years. His old man didn’t want to look at his kids through Plexiglas. Not then, not now. He said he didn’t want them to see the man he’d become as he rotted in a four-by-five cement room His father had never run from anyone. Not even the police when they came to get him. The house had been surrounded His old man finished his coffee Kissed his kids Kissed their mother Then undressed Went outside naked, smoking a lucky Strike cigarette. ‘You Sons of bitches looking for me? Guns aimed at him, he kept on smoking his cigarette. His old man had balls But unlike his fearless father, the man with the broken nose regretted that he had run from Carmine. Carmine had chased him the way Pacino had chased De Niro in the movie Heat. This time he was Pacino, not De Niro He chased the Jamaican wasn’t a test. Unlike Carmine, this contract had been paid for. And the Jamaican knew it was his night to die. The man with the broken nose wondered how it felt when you had been dealt a handmade of aces and eights He chased his prey The Jamaican’s back-length locks were flying like a cape as he sprinted downhill by Chicken Express and Regency Car Park, stumbling through Bruce Grove, waving for the night buses to stop, but the buses didn’t slow down. He ran towards Seven Sisters, toward his flat, ran toward his weapons and friends. Just like the package said he would do He chased the Jamaican another mile. A fast mile. The Jamaican looked back He was tired The man with the broken nose was right behind him. He wanted the Jamaican terrified. He wanted him to die a thousand deaths before he caught him. So he slowed down Let the Jamaican run his best run They were running against the wind. Running against the rain Another mile went by, this one not as fast as the one before. No longer a challenge. He was tired of chasing. The chasing had been fun, but he had things to do tonight. Still running, he took the Eagle out of its nest A piece of hot lead tore through the Jamaican’s right leg as he stumbled by the Seven Sisters tube. The Jamaican fell, got back up limping, left a trail of blood making his final steps Not many people were out, not like Soho and Oxford Circus in Central London. It was cold. The tubes had closed. And it was an area where muggings at gunpoint had shot up in numbers. And it was raining. Few residents heard the screaming Jamaican, few had seen him hobbling down the high road, blood running out of him like rainwater, praying for mercy and strength. The man with the broken nose took easy steps and caught the Jamaican Like a blubbering five-year-old child, the Jamaican cried and begged for mercy. The man with the broken nose looked down on his prey. But he saw Carmine…All he could think about was Carmine A double-decker bus was speeding down the high road toward Bruce Grove He knew that what the bus driver and his passengers on the 279 saw would have them in need of therapy the rest of their lives. He threw the Jamaican headfirst into its path Nobody had seen his face They’d only seen the horror in the eyes of a bloody Jamaican He could do better than Carmine had done with the reverend He could do much better… Desert eagle in hand, the man with the broken nose jogged into the darkness. He didn’t jog far. He didn’t hide. He took out his earplugs and slowed to a stroll. Nobody would see anything Nobody would hear anything Everyone would be too afraid that trouble would come looking for them He headed down Holloway Road toward Holloway Station. When he was near, he found a black cab. He got in, headed back toward Central London. Infuriated He’d find Carmine, He’d make Carmine run, just like Jamaican. His cell rang, it was his family phone. He didn’t answer. His family had called minutes ago. When he was creeping up on the Jamaican. That ringing had alerted the Jamaican. That riming had been the bell at the start of their race. He touched his nose. It ached. Damn it ached He was dropped off on Charring Cross and Shaftesbury, Leicester Square was to his left, Bloomsberry was to his right Carmine wasn’t far He felt it He looked to his left, pondered Leicester Square Then changed his mind, looked toward his right. He took steps toward Bloomsbury He paused. Darker clouds were in that direction. The weather horrendous He headed straight, went down Shaftesbury toward Piccadilly Cirucs. Passed Chinatown, then slowed and looked to his right, took his search back toward the red lights in Soho The whore Maybe the whore Carmine had visited was his favorite whore Maybe she knew things that would help him end this transaction Men always said secret things to whores He had therapeutic conversations with a few working women over the years. Men always revealed secrets to whores Streets were damp. A few puddles. The rain had stopped. But it was still cold His nose ached He touched his bandages, walked through the piss-and-shit stench, again passing by the children, young boys and girls kicking a shit-smelling soccer ball down narrow Berwick Street. He went to the door that Carmine had entered. Looked up and saw pretty feet at the top of the stairs Her friendly voice came down and greeted him, ’Full service or blow Job?’ He took the stairs, the weight of the Desert Eagle hardly noticeable. He stopped when he was face-to-face with Carmine’s whore She’d talk He’d beat the whore and make her talk… - [ * * * ] – I am floating through outer space. The King is spinning through the atmosphere, awaiting every possible danger. This is a dream I have been having. My head is clear; I am poised and ready for this showdown. The bounce back from another heartbreaking effort. I could stand here and be as bitter as ever, but really what can I say, Dom is my kryptonite. I just can’t beat him… But that chapter and dream of becoming a two time NLCW undisputed champion is closed. This weeks it’s all about bouncing back, and starting from the bottom. This week it’s all about Jackson. It’s good to see you Jax, haven’t seen you since I pulled the plug on your career in NLWF. You remember don’t you Jax, when you put on a whole show about how you were being used wrong, how you felt you should be a bigger name then you were, but struggled to defeat everyone who was put in front of you. But that was then and this is now… No matter what took place in that shitty promotion, Jackson is an athlete. He has the tools to hold his own and pull one over, but does he have the will to do it? I am the kind of guy to watch out for in a match like this. I have no limit to the amount of punishment I want to inflict. I have everything to gain at Avulsion, I need this victory. It’s a match that is just begging for redemption. The worthy King sought to enquire gold, but the rug was pulled from beneath him. Now, the King is upset and ready to give Jackson the hardest night of his career. I show up big every single match; this is the most important match of my career. I need to prove to myself and the loyal subjects of my kingdom that I can take a loss and come back even stronger with a win. This has happened before in my career. I have face defeat, but always managed to come back strong. This week, I am coming stronger than before and it will not be a repeat outcome. Winning this match will give me the boost I need in my career. After I tour around the world and spread the word of my glory, the entire world will support me in my mission. Some would say Jax needs this match just as much as me, he’s making his return to a promotion trying to reestablish himself as a contender he once was, but really when you weren’t shit before, there’s really nothing to improve on is there? Jax, gear up for battle. Be prepared to go through whatever hell we bring unto each other in this affair. It’s time to leave behind a trail of others that are never going to get a match with me. I’ll arrive on my cloud; the victory will be even sweeter from above. This match is for myself. I have made attempts to pull myself out from nothingness and put my name at the top, this is my best effort. If I fail it will leave a question mark on my career and that is not a path I am willing to take. I am fighting for my career, my name, and my cause. I am a man who has a plan for the world. I am a true fighting King that will honor his kingdom. I am once again floating through space. This time, I’m surrounded in a golden light. My presence is intimidating and I radiate strength. The King is floating through space; he’s regarded as a Champion. His power is endless. I am admired by all of those who look up from below. I am a hero to mankind and the entire universe. This is the dream I am entertaining tonight. The sun is sleeping. It will burn hot come Monday night, when men spill blood just to have their hand raised. -- That’s a Wrap! -- |