Halloween was always Jackie's favorite holiday growing up. The costumes, the leaves falling, the start of major holidays after that, it was a special time for him. Thanksgiving and Christmas he had to be with family. He had to pretend he was a happy child. His parents had to pretend they were in a successful marriage. It seemed like the traditional path was pathed with respecting the wishes of the long dead and misery. Most kids wished for a new game, maybe a toy or a bike. He was on his knees, praying to Jesus, God, whoever the fuck would listen every night, as he was taught. He wished for his parents to divorce.
It was clear the love had waned. What was once a high school love story was now an obligation. A job to complete. On the surface, they were the ideal middle class family. Oliver White, his father, was a school teacher. Renae White, his mother, gave up her career as an accountant to bear Oliver's child. She never said it, but Jackie knew she regretted her decision. There were no fights, no calls to the police, no yelling. Just a chill, a silence. A void where love is supposed to be. They would never beat Jackie, but they ordered him around all the time. He was just another tool to them, he felt. He got presents and food, because they had to. They just gave him random shit that was popular at the time. Like a Ghostbusters shirt when he was a kid. He didn't even like the movie, he said it as much after they watched it during a mandated movie night.
When he was 18, he left to join the military. Mom and Dad hardly cared. He let them fester in their own hate, while Jackie picked up a few more bad habits before landing back in New York.
And now he's sitting in an apartment, with his dead friend still clear on his mind, her sister who tolerates him sleeping on his couch, and thoughts rushing through his head. He had the radio play to clear his head. He went on to regret this decision. For the thousandth time it seemed, they played Nothin' On You by B.o.B. Jackie rolled his eyes. He heard this shit over and over last summer. He can't stand this song. But the radio was too far, and Jackie was lying on the bed, sulking. But something changed as he heard the song, this time with no real distractions.
The cliché tends to work for a reason. The fact was, no matter how corny the lyrics were, this was how he felt about Tiffany. True love can be embarrassing sometimes, to be fair. To explain how you feel about somebody can be ridiculous. How can you call somebody so beautiful, so perfect without sounding like a fool? They met for such a short time, but she invaded her mind, not like any other woman on this planet. Nobody could compare to her. And she never lived to realize that.
As tears fell, thankfully, the song ended. He had the radio host to listen to now.
"And that was Nothin' On You, by popular demand still hot in these streets! Yo, all my New Yorkers out there, stay safe out there! Halloween, I get it, but there's a lot of people dyin' out there. Too many, man. I still remember reporting on Francis Rice. RIP, shout out his mother. I called her the other day. The whole city got gasoline on it! Just don't be the match that sets it off. Ok, enough about me. We got another hot track for y'all, POWER by Kanye West! Stay tuned, HOTT Radio!"
Jackie stood up, looking at his hands, then back to the outside. Too many people dying. And he knows why. Lars Rossi. While the chorus played, he vowed to take down his organization. Bit by bit. Or die trying. He'll give him hell, violence. He needed to start somewhere. He remembered months ago he clocked some shady apartment building on the edges of the city nearing Brooklyn. He'd start there. He grabbed a dirty gray hoodie, black cargo pants, and his old military boots. He glanced at the mirror. He can't be recognized. He grabbed an old bandana, cut some shitty holes with his switchblade, and put it on. He could see, that's all that mattered to him. But the holes looked sloppy. He put a hood over it. Lastly, he grabbed his glock and left the apartment, letting Rose nap.
Outside it was dry, but he felt a rain come on. Some buses thankfully don't ask too many questions this late, and no cameras like a subway, so he sat at the back and took the trip to the edges of NY, the shadier parts of the city. He walked out, and walked around until he saw what he thought was the building. Multiple men in tracksuits were outside, talking. Jackie snuck closer to eavesdrop.
There were three men, two of them carrying a heavy box, and one behind them carrying a uzi strapped to his body.
Shady stuff. Jackie decided these three would die tonight. First blood.
Once they went upstairs, he followed. He saw them head up to the third floor once he reached the dilapidated stairwell. The place smelled of piss and rot. It looked worse too, with lights a sickly green, walls withering and cracking, it's a wonder why anyone would keep this shithole up. Unless somebody had a reason to keep this building, and is paying for it to remain upright.
Jackie pulled out his Glock and carefully walked up the stars, walking into the hallway, where parts of the ceiling caved in, some rotted bodies remained festering, remaining missing to their possible families. He walked the halls, sneaking by until he saw a door that was creaked open, with loud discussion. The argument Jackie couldn't decipher, but those men were armed, so he decided to wait. He heard footsteps and more discussion. Some dumb story about sex. Jackie waited behind the door, gun at the ready. The man with the uzi walked out, back exposed to Jackie. He took one step, and fired. With a loud pop, the thug's head practically exploded, with his head more akin to a dropped watermelon than a human body part. He dropped, dead.
The man behind him yelled. "WHAT THE FUCK–"
Jackie turned and shot three times toward the chest. The bullets ripped through muscle and bone, tearing apart his body before exiting just as fast. He dropped as well, twitching awkwardly with pain as he bled out on the dirty floor, dying with little dignity. The last man inside yelled out. He was not expecting a hit. "Tony?! Rob?! Aw fuck. This ain't funny! Do you know who the fuck we are?! We are Rossi's boys, you fucked up!"
Jackie grabbed the submachine gun from his first kill's person and crept toward the main area of what's left of the house. Good thing for him, there's a doorway separating that. Stepping over the other body, their cold vacant eyes staring back at him. He leaned against the doorway and slung the weapon over, the panicked thug shooting wildly at it. In the chaos, Jackie popped out and popped him once in the shoulder, disarming him.
As the thug held his wound in pain. Jackie stepped over and shot twice at his left leg, making him wail in pain. He looked freaked out at who decided to attack. A hooded, masked man, with a growing smile as he looked down at him with the eyes of a deranged killer. Jackie kneeled, and poked his index finger toward the bullet hole, staring right at him. "What are you selling?" Jackie asked.
The thug looked confused. "What–AGHH!"
Jackie jammed his finger into the wound, the blood rushing out as he reached the first line on his finger. "Try again."
"Fuck, fuck, heroin! We're selling heroin!"
Jackie hummed looking back at the crate. He jammed the finger in deeper, a sickening squish with more yells of agony followed. "Who are you selling it to?"
The thug was panting trying to answer as fast as he could before the pain got worse. Two guys! Ace and Limp, some boys working for Rossi!"
Jackie scoffed. "He's selling shit to himself?"
"We aren't a part of his crew, not yet. This sale was…" The thug winced as Jackie pulled the finger out, the wound gaping and throbbing. "... Our way in."
"Where?"
"Not too far from here. 21st Street, the alleyways…"
Jackie walked over and saw the crate. "I'll make sure that nobody's gonna want to do what you do." With another smile, he headed back to the thug and pulled his switchblade out. "And you're the perfect example."
The thug had no time to plead as Jackie jammed the knife into his neck. He had a lot of work to do. Removing a head with just a switchblade is hard work.
Violent work.