#Organised Crime

[villainsview]

DILF in Distress

My submission for the @zineofgid 2023 edition, in which Fetch gets his ass handed to him by Jonas.

3.1k words CW: alcohol abuse | intubation | forcefeeding | jennings gag | strappado | open ending | older victim

There was a chill in the air. A thrill of excitement ran down his spine as he walked the length of the long, dark and dank corridor. He pulled a hand through his hair,  straightened his tie, tightened his leather gloves around his wrists, and shrugged off his jacket, hanging it over his arm as he stopped outside the door at the end of the corridor. He tilted his head left and right, the vertebrae in his neck popping softly, before grabbing the door handle and stepping inside.

The smell of blood and sweat lingered in the room. Heavy, muted breathing the only sound, until he flicked a switch. The fluorescent lights buzzed infuriatingly loud, but it was meant to add to the…experience. He smirked as he closed the door behind him with a firm bang, slowly walking towards a wall lined with various tools hanging from hooks and pegs — each more sinister than the last. Among them, a simple clothes hanger, which he hung his jacket on. He put the hanger back, turning around to face his captive as he undid the buttons on his sleeves.

“How’d you sleep…Fetcher?”

The man kneeling in front of him responded with an angered and muted growl. His teeth clenched around the wooden bit that rubbed splinters into his tongue and the corners of his mouth. Pinkish drool mixed with blood dripped uncontrollably past the bit and pooled on the floor between his knees. He flexed his fingers a bit, but only groaned in pain. They were swollen, the ropes around his wrists too tight, tying him to the ceiling, his arms raised painfully behind him. The only way to relieve some of the strain was to lean forward and try to sit up on his knees, but his thighs were lashed to his calves with tightly strapped belts, cutting circulation to his legs too.

Jonas folded back his sleeves past his elbows so they wouldn’t get dirty. It was easy to smudge pure white fabric, so it was an art to keep them perfectly clean, especially in his line of work. 

Especially when he didn’t need anyone to know that he was hiding someone in the basement. 

An expression sprung to his mind. When the cat’s away… But the cat wasn’t away at all. He did not claw his way to the top of the organisation just to be considered a pathetic little mouse who could only dance on the table when the boss went out. No. He was the cat, and when the master left, his claws came out, and all the stinkin’ rats better hide.

And now he’d finally caught the biggest rat, the one that had been a thorn in his side ever since he crawled in from the street. It was supposed to be a one-time job. He’d approached him because he seemed desperate enough to break the law, scraping together every penny to finance his family and a crippling alcohol addiction, taking on more shifts than was legally allowed for a surgeon. He only had to mention his possible reward to recruit him…and then things had snowballed.

He’d somehow earned the boss’ favour just like that. He got away with everything. After all his years of hard work and rising slowly to the top, this man just waltzed in and got everything handed on a silver platter. He wasn’t even under contract, he just occasionally stopped by and got whatever he asked for. Jonas tried to protest it, but the boss never listened. Do this for him and do that for him, arrange transport, deliveries, jailbreaks, and anything else the boss asked for…for him. 

But when Jonas asked something he needed to think about it, he needed to weigh the options, consider the consequences, sleep on it first. Jonas had enough. He didn’t need to sleep on it anymore, he’d plotted his revenge for the past years. He’d dreamed about it many times, and now his dreams were coming to fruition.

The gloves came off. He usually wore them for protection, and secrecy. His knuckles still bruised from the last guy he beat up. It would hurt, but this captive deserved skin-to-skin contact, the authenticity of a real punch. He grabbed at his hair, yanking his head back and forcing him to look up, slapping his cheek with his other hand.

“It’s time to wake up, Fetcher. I brought you something special, just for you.”

He reached for the strap that kept the gag in place and loosened it, pulling it from between his teeth and dropping it on the floor. His captive lunged forward and coughed, dry-heaving a bit before spitting out some blood. Jonas stepped back and watched him, waiting for the moment when he was certain he’d woken up. Finally, he lifted his head and glared at him. His eyes filled with rage and a hunger for blood. Jonas tilted his head, surprised he could still look at him as if he wasn’t the one tied up and locked away.

“You’re so tough,” he said, “it’s been two days and you still look at me like that…”

“When Tito gets back, I hope he keeps you alive so I can kill you myself!”

“Your blood is already on my hands, Fetcher. And I’ll find what breaks you before Mr Rana returns.”

He found some bloody drool on the side of his right hand and slowly licked it off, before approaching a cabinet placed just behind his captive. He didn’t want to resort to this, but it might just be the only way, and perhaps the best way to break him into satisfying little bits. He preferred not to play around with addiction, knowing what kind of damage it could cause, but it was the only thing that was good enough for this victim in particular. 

He glanced at him over his shoulder, knowing he couldn’t see what he was taking from the cabinet; a bottle with a clear liquid.

“Tell me, Fetcher, what was your go-to liquor again?”

“Untie me, and I’ll give you a taste.”

He only chuckled in reply, pouring himself a glass. It could’ve been water, but it had a distinct smell, so he took a careful sip. The liquid burned his throat, in a good way, perhaps a bit too much. He hissed through his teeth, suppressing a cough. He howled, putting the glass back down.

“Do you know what spirytus is?”

“A fire accelerant.”

“I suppose you could use it in that manner too…”

He picked up the bottle, reading the label while moving back to standing in front of his captive. He could see his eyes peering at the bottle suspiciously. They were both experts at torture, so of course they both knew exactly where this was going, yet Jonas just couldn’t help but to draw it out.

“A hundred and ninety-two proof,” he said, “only recently approved for sale in New York State due to the high alcohol content…and to think Siberian pilots used to drink this.”

“Keep that shit away from me.”

“No~”

Jonas grinned, pouring some over his hand before forcing his captive to look up, rubbing the alcohol on his thumb onto his lip, specifically the part where it had split after a satisfying punch. 

His captive hissed in response as the alcohol stung in the wound, and tried to pull his head away, but Jonas didn’t let him. He tried to bite him, but Jonas was just a tad faster.

“Come on,” he said, “you know that never works.”

He pulled the drenched hand through his hair. Not much of the liquid had remained, evaporating quite fast. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He walked back over to the cabinet behind his captive, putting the bottle on top so he had his hands free for the next part. He had to change his captive’s position, and previous experience taught him that those were the exact moments he chose to fight like his life depended on it. 

Every. Single. Time.

He yanked on the loose end of the rope that held up his captive’s arms, which released him immediately. 

His captive unceremoniously fell to the side, grunting in pain as his shoulders were suddenly allowed in a somewhat more natural position. 

Jonas waited a couple of seconds, just to see what he would do, but he bided his time, probably waiting for him to grab him before attempting to strike. Jonas tutted, slowly walking back over, making sure to approach from behind. He stepped on the long end of rope hanging from his wrist binds first, before grabbing a hold of his hair and yanking him back upright.

That was when he seemed to come back to life. First, he tried to yank his hair from his captor’s grip, shaking his head even when it hurt. Then he tried to turn his body away, only to be held back by the rope that Jonas stood on. He smirked to himself, letting his captive struggle for a couple of moments longer, letting him tire himself out.

“You done?”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He readied his bare fist, making sure he had the right grip so he wouldn’t end up breaking his own bones when his knuckles collided with his captive’s skull. The grip on his hair prevented him from falling over after the impact, and it allowed Jonas to tilt his head back to draw out a very satisfying pained groan.

“Don’t worry, I got just the thing to numb your pain,” Jonas said, looking around, “where’d I leave that thing?”

He looked over the tools on the wall, looking for something very specific. Fortunately it was right within reach; a dental retractor with a ratchet mechanism. It was closed now, but once he put it in place it would only be able to open wider and wider… The trick, however, was to get it in in the first place without losing any digits. Jonas knew what human jaws were capable of, especially in a fight for survival, he’d seen it before. It was another reason he rarely took his gloves off, they were a last defence against a toothy deathgrip. 

But not for this captive. He wanted him to feel and taste everything on his hands. The sweat, the alcohol, the blood. Jonas knew it was inevitable when he tried to pry his jaws apart without the usual safety measures, but it made the effort more worth it. Every hiss, every curse, every grip, every yank — it all had a purpose. To lock the new gag between his teeth, without losing any fingers in the process. He did manage to break some skin on his left index finger, but Jonas let him have the win since it allowed him to wrench his jaws just far enough apart to force the gag between them.

He couldn’t pick which was more satisfying. The furious growling, the snap of the buckle, or the clicking of the ratchet as he forced his jaws even further apart. He finally let his captive pull free from his grip, but only so he had his hands free to attend to the cut on his finger. He started by pouring some of the spirytus over his hand. He hissed a bit, trying to decide whether it felt bad or good. He decided to stay on the fence for now, opening a drawer to find a pack of antibiotic paste.

“That really hurt, you know?” he said, tearing the package with his teeth and spitting out the small bit that accidentally got into his mouth, “maybe I should take your teeth out if I have time left over. You’re old enough for dentures, aren’t you?”

He smirked as he listened to the angry growling behind him, paired with ruffling fabric as he picked up his struggle again. Jonas ignored him for now, trying to wrap a bandage around his finger. It wasn’t the greatest, but it would do for now. He swiped the empty wrappers into the drawer and closed it so he could open another one. There was a box with latex gloves. He pulled two out and put them on, the latex snapping threateningly against his wrist. He could feel his captive looking at him, but he wasn’t going to let him know what was about to happen. Besides, he could probably figure it out without having to see.

A third drawer was opened, individual items wrapped in plastic, stolen ages ago. Jonas couldn’t quite remember where they got them from, it was probably in his records somewhere, but for now it didn’t matter. He slowly unwrapped the item, the plastic wrapping crinkling loudly throughout the room.

“You must be so thirsty,” Jonas mused, “don’t worry, once I’m done you can finish the whole bottle.”

There was a thud behind him, he didn’t have to turn around to know his captive had fallen over in a sad attempt to escape. Jonas chuckled as he turned, fingering the item he just unwrapped in his hands. His captive was on his side, numbed fingers trying to reach the knots keeping the rope around his wrists together. But even if he could reach them, he didn’t have the strength to pry them loose.

“Oh my, Fetcher~ I’d almost think you were scared…”

The glare he responded with was still impressive, despite his state, despite his situation. His eyes still spelled murder, the blood trail on his chin expressed a hunger for more. In a different world Jonas could’ve learned a thing or two from him. But they weren’t in that different world. They were right here, right now, and he was so close to breaking him.

He stepped back over to his captive, grabbing him by his hair and pulling him back upright. This part was always a bit tricky, especially when they struggled. It had gone wrong before. Jonas wasn’t sure it would be so bad if it went wrong again this time, it would just be better if it didn’t. More drawn out.

He yanked on his hair again, tilting his head back. The item he unwrapped? A rubber tube. His captive was never going to swallow that spirytus on his own, so he had to bypass the whole swallowing bit altogether. And it was exactly that first bit that was the most complicated. It didn’t help that he didn’t have any lubricant, so pretty much everything was working against him, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

“Stop fighting, you know what could happen if I enter your lungs instead,” Jonas said, yanking on his captive’s hair in warning, “and I’m not going to lie, I can’t always tell the difference. You know I never went to medical school, so I’m willing to admit you’re probably better at this kind of stuff than I am.”

The only reply he got was a strangled yell, followed by gagging as he slowly pushed the tube deeper and deeper. He knew he wasn’t being gentle. He wasn’t trying to be at all. The gagging and the resulting laboured breathing were music to his ears…and hey! He was breathing, and it didn’t seem to be coming through the tube.

“Ah. Looks like I still got it,” Jonas said, patting the man on his forehead, “now why don’t we celebrate…with a drink?”

He had to drag his captive back a little, before he was able to reach the bottle of spirytus. He stood on top of the loose end from the ropes around his captive’s wrists again, maintaining a tight grip on his hair to keep him still. He was trying to shake his head an awful lot, making it hard to try and connect the bottle to the end of the tube. Note to self, bring a funnel next time. Some of the clear liquid spilled past the tube, into his mouth and over his face. Judging from the strangled roar it burned his eyes like it burned in Jonas’ wound earlier. Oops. But the bottle was pouring straight into the tube now, so it should be all good.

Slowly, his captive’s struggle subsided, whether he was getting tired or succumbing to the alcohol was unclear. It had been twenty minutes so either was possible. It didn’t really matter anyway. When the bottle was empty Jonas threw it into a corner, breaking it into pieces. He would clean that up later…or perhaps use it. He stopped contemplating the idea when his captive groaned weakly, so he looked back down at him. He wasn’t fully conscious, so he couldn’t tell whether he was broken or not. 

“Isn’t that just so much better?” Jonas said quietly, patting his cheek. A tired glare briefly flashed over the man’s face, but he seemed to be having trouble focussing. Jonas smirked, it seemed he could plan another session for tomorrow. He began pulling out the tube, slowly, savouring his reaction. Every gasp, every retch, every convulsion.

“Hush, try not to vomit, I just had my shoes polished,” Jonas said, before pulling out the last length. His captive coughed, and he heaved, but he kept it all in. It was a struggle, a last desperate attempt for some decency, but a successful one…unfortunately.

Jonas tutted, and shoved him to the floor. He threw the tube in the same corner as the bottle and took off the latex gloves, throwing those after it too. He checked his finger, blood dripping from underneath the bandage and down his arm. He followed the red line down his arm and to his elbow where it slowly soaked into the fold of his sleeve, a bright red stain slowly encroaching on the white fabric surrounding it. He sighed, glaring back down at his captive.

“You just had to have the last laugh, didn’t you, Fetcher?”

He scoffed, picking up his leather gloves and shoving them in his pocket, he took his jacket off the hanger and swung it over his shoulder, a finger hooked around the loop in the collar. He picked up the glass he’d poured himself earlier, smudging it with the blood from his finger and took another swig before giving his captive a last look. He wanted to burn this pathetic image of him in his mind, a mental photograph to cherish forever. A rat, caught in a trap, slowly dying as it continued to squeak and struggle with no one coming to its aid, nor anyone willing to put it out of its misery. He smirked, raising his glass at him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow…if you’re still alive by then.”

[awesomecooperlove]

HERE’S HOW THE BANKING SYSTEM WORKS

💡💡💡

[sillystringsimpsons]

THE D'AMICO CRIME FAMILY RELATIONSHIP MAP.

Content warnings: brief mention of sexual abuse, cartoon imagery of blood, cigars, cigarettes, discussion of struggling to transition, discussion of physical trauma. This AU is centred around a criminal organisation and by default involves mature themes.

Over hours, through a painstaking design process, I created an illustrated map detailing the relationships between frontal characters in my Simpsons alternate universe, The Good Ones. A lot of love and effort has been put into this, so I hope you guys like it! If there are any characters you'd like to see drawn, just let me know.

More info and close ups of icons beneath cut!

I know I always say this, but interactions, especially questions would mean SOSOSOSOSOSOSO much to me, as I've put so much thought into this and would LOVE to yap to interested people about it. I know art is done for oneself, but it feels really good to share my creations and hyperfixations with the Simpsons community :)

For every character, I drew a little icon and wrote a line of dialogue, in order to give some inside into their personality and traits in a concise way. A few further explanations and elaborations are given below!

Valentina 'Tits' Albertini Her icon is a visual pun, featuring two Great Tits drawn in the colours of the transgender flag.

Aside from Memphis, Valentina is the only other explicitly genderqueer character in the AU's focus (Lucy-Mae is heavily implied to fall under the nonbinary umbrella, but she never personally feels the need to explore it further, and is happy with identifying as female). Her former nickname was a play on how ballsy of a person she is within the mafia - though Cora is a wildcard, she makes very rash decisions: Valentina is both calculated and bold, and her current nickname is a crude (fittingly), but well-spirited adaptation introduced by Memphis. After coming out, she experiences backlash from Tony, who is concerned her late transition will impact the image of the mob. Memphis, being a trans man, asks him why Valentina is any different from himself, and in the heat of the moment, Tony exclaims that half the people in their own family have no idea that he's transgender, which leads to some tension between the two. Tits' main character arc revolves around her exploration of gender and gender expression, and the character that plays the biggest role in it is Tony's son, Michele (purposefully drawing parallels between Tony and Memphis' own relationship, and showing social change between generations).

Michele 'Softfoot Mikey' D'Amico His icon is a nod to his (in this AU) love of ballet, and how he uses it to his advantage in his role as an underboss.

Michele is a simple evolution on Tony's canon son, Michael D'Amico. In this AU, he's been aged up to 23, and instead of having an unconventional love for cooking, has an unconventional love for ballet dance. Most all of his other traits have been kept the same, however, aside from the obvious fact that he's more rational and mature than his in-canon counterpart. He's straight, but is portrayed as very effeminate - and comfortably so. Mikey really just is a girlboss who never fails to (sometimes literally) slay.

Cora 'Connie the Howler' Mezzasalma Her icon plays on her nickname, portraying a dog with some of her key characteristics, such as a matching necklace given to her by her adoptive brother, as well as a splatter of blood - presumably from one of her usual 'errors'. Her nickname refers to the colloquial term howler, meaning a laughable mistake.

Frankie's awkward adoptive sister of Greek origin, Cora was initially made with the sole purpose of providing a dynamic for Frankie, outside of his relationship with Johnny (which is still the primary relationship explored), but she really grew as a character. Initially I made the name 'Connie the Howler' on the fly as a sort of female version of 'Frankie the Squealer', but I ended up actually putting the effort in to rationalise it and bring it into her character. The result was an awesome little dynamic between two characters who were equally stupid, but in very different ways. She may be responsible for a number of incorrect hits, as well as a good few accidental deaths and injuries, but at the end of the day, she's a silly girl at heart who really synergises with her brother's anxious energy.

Maximus 'Legs' Legman & Luis 'Louie' Walters Both of their icons refer to an car accident the both of them got into, wherein Legs, ironically, suffered severe damage to his legs (resulting in the amputation of his left one), and Louie underwent significant cranial trauma.

The two do admittedly have a closer relationship because of the shared experience, though they both experience significant impacts. Notably, Louie develops Broca's aphasia (yes, I know the injury is on the wrong side, that's my bad), a form of non-fluent aphasia where one's quality of speech and grammatical structure is significantly diminished - even though the words are in your head, you cannot get them out, usually due to damage to the area of the brain responsible for the production of speech. Louie really struggles in the aftermath, and has a difficult time adapting to his disability. Thankfully, he's got his friend there to help him through it.

[nando161mando]

"Capitalism is oganized crime" (EN: English)

[bullet-prooflove]

Seen: Bobby Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx @adarafaelbarba

Short, sequined dress that barely covers your ass.

Bright red lips that make a man think the most sinful of things.

Kohled eyes that you could spend hours getting lost in.

Yea, Bobby clocks you the minute you walk into that party with along with all the other talent.

He’s been expecting you; it’s been two weeks since his last check in, he knew they’d send someone in sooner or later. He hasn’t been able to reach out because they’ve got his phone bugged, his laptop hacked and a guy that follows him everywhere he goes because the man he’s hunting is paranoid as fuck.

This crowd, they’re high end, Manhattan’s elite, men with an appetite for the finer things. Booze, coke and women. He doesn’t shift from his place on the ten-thousand-dollar sofa, that would give him away instead he waits for you to come to him. A man with money and means, doesn’t make the first move.

You work the room with the other girls, make a show of flirting with different men, act like you’re weighing up your other options, but he knows you’ve only got eyes for him, on the job and off it.

Your gaze is sultry as you approach him, your mouth framing into a pretty little pout that makes him want to run his thumb over those lips, smearing the lipstick. Your hands come to rest on his thighs, thumbs chasing up the inner seam of his navy-blue suit trousers as you lean in close. The scent of your perfume floods his senses, it’s something dark and sensual, fitting for a woman that costs more than most men’s salaries.

“Hi.” You whisper and he sees you behind all the make up and the falsehoods.

He sees the woman he’s spent nights tangled up in, the one with the easy laugh and the kind eyes. The one that buys coffee and a sandwich for Joey, the guy that sits on the stoop keeping watch on the neighbourhood. The one that spends hours in the bookstore around the corner, fingertips chasing over the titles. He misses that version of you, he misses that version of him.

“Hi.” He murmurs, the left side of his mouth twitching up into a smile as his thumb chases over the apple of your cheek. You savour his touch and there’s a relief in his chest because he knows that you see him too.

Bobby Reyes, not the man he’s pretending to be.

His lips brush over yours. There’s a tenderness in his kiss, it’s soft and heated, conveying everything he’s been longing to say over the past few weeks.

I love you.

I miss you.

I want you.

His grip on your jaw tightens as he exhales because this isn’t about love, not right now it’s about duty. The role he’s slipped into, the man he’s become has paid to fuck you and that’s the energy he needs to bring to the table.

His hand threads through your hair, gripping it tightly in his fist as he pulls you into his lap. Your thighs part as you straddle his hips, the hem of your dress creeping higher as your entire body presses against the length of his.

“Let’s give them something to talk about, shall we?”

Love Bobby? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[oc-tournaments]

ROUND TWO - MATCH 11

ELLIOTT C. SAMUELS vs PROFESSOR MAXWELL

ELLIOTT C. SAMUELS: Mod OC!

OC2: @antlerontwitch

VOTE BASED ON THE INFORMATION BELOW CUT!!

Propaganda Content Warnings: Organised crime, maiming for ELLIOTT. Torture for PROFESSOR MAXWELL.

ELLIOTT C. SAMUELS:

PROPAGANDA: Elliott was born into a very notorious crime family, on par with the mafia in his home city. He was raised being taught how to defend himself, then how to kill, then how to get away with it. As he grew up, he saw his only friends being killed for not being good enough, and he started to hate how he was raised. He tried to flee his family when he was 18 and change his identity, but a dirty cop brought him back to his family. His family decided the only acceptable punishment was that of a snitch; his tongue was cut out, and he was rendered mute for the rest of his life. He ended up running away again and, a bit wiser this time, he managed to fully escape his family. He ended up starting a band with some friends, who he trusted to keep him safe, but he ended up being roped into covering up a murder with his band. Yeesh. He just cannot catch a break!

THEME SONG:

PROFESSOR MAXWELL:

PROPAGANDA: Aroace but too twinkified (he's been shipped with his best friend and a prisoner smh), literally meets God (scp-343) and calls him a bitch to his face, covered in scars (recent and old), feels like he's 80 when he's in his 40s, constant and deep eyebags, was shown the universe's worst horrors by God (Canon God), has been sliced in half, torn apart, beheaded, tortured by God (not Canon, me) - he goes fishing but only in the ocean on his own rowboat, the only person he can talk to confidently is his life long best friend, long, messy hair, tall but not taller than his best friend

THEME SONG:

[whumpsmith]

DILF in Distress

The gloves came off. He usually wore them for protection, and secrecy. His knuckles still bruised from the last guy he beat up. It would hurt, but this captive deserved skin-to-skin contact, the authenticity of a real punch. He grabbed at his hair, yanking his head back and forcing him to look up, slapping his cheek with his other hand.

“It’s time to wake up, Fetcher. I brought you something special, just for you.”

Excerpt of my piece for the @zineofgid, link to full piece below the cut!

Shoutout to @salomeslashes for proofreading and making awesome suggestions for improvements, your help was very much appreciated!

The digital zine will be up for grabs until the end of the year, and you might be able to grab some leftover merch too! Find the store here!

CW: personal vendetta | revenge | alcohol abuse | intubation | forcefeeding | jennings gag | blood | strappado | organised crime | open ending | smartly dressed villain | manhandling | torture basement | older victim

Unbothered or intrigued? Then by all means come read the full piece~

And let me know what you think, pretty please

[nichenarratives]

Hurricane Heller 2

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton

last | first | next

2: Dangerous Liaison

His first few weeks of employment at the track blur into a seemingly endless routine of eat, work, sleep, repeat. He's out the door by nine at the latest and never back before two, often too tired to strip down to his vest and boxers before falling into bed in an exhausted slumber, only to begin the cycle again six hours later. Some days, he barely eats at all, grabbing a latke or two on his way out with a promise to come home for dinner he never kept on his lips, leaving a worried mother frowning in the kitchen.

At work, his very existence can be reduced to numbers. Bets, rates, odds and loans dominate his life as Mordecai quickly learns everything at the track is a hustle; Mr Fiores' boss controls the races from the ground up, fixing races and paying off jockeys, to lending funds at extortionate prices to the desperate hoping for a lucky break. Even refreshments (as far as liquor and treif are considered 'refreshing') are overpriced and under portioned, forcing sales all night.

No, there's nothing legitimate about anything at the races.

He barely has time to feel guilty, though; between running to different tracks, memorizing odds and horses, taking bets or paying out from his allocated cash purse, he doesn't stop as soon as the first hoof enters the stables. On top of all of his footwork, its also Mordecai's job to note it all down in his pocket ledger and run the numbers, ready to be delivered to Mr Fiores that night for review.

Weeks swiftly become months. It's grueling, unscrupulous work for little compensation, but it's enough to make sure his sisters eat well, and his mother can keep them clothed and warm. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he works, he can't seem to save any money. There's always something; medical bills, replacement pince-nez, rising food prices, broken windows or structural damage their old landlord won't shell out for.

For a while, it seemed hopeless, as if his dedication wasn't worth the exhaustion, until the day he took his mother along to try on his first tailored suit. Immaculately dressed for the first time in brand new clothes, he'd glanced at his mother. His heart dropped for a moment when their eyes met, seeing she'd been crying silently as he was measured for a collar, but a genuine smile on her muzzle as she nodded her approval allowed him to manage a smile and nod back.

She's proud, Mordecai had realized. Of me.

It made his nefarious lifestyle easier to stomach, knowing his family were more comfortable. It doesn't make the job any easier though, nor does the money go further. With his infant sister's health failing and a deficit in funds rising very month with her medication, Mordecai set his mind to getting a raise, and he's certain he knows how to do it.

Now thirteen and onto his second suit, with generous slack in the hems to be taken down as he grows, Mordecai arrives at the laundromat he once approached out of desperation. With his ledger and second notebook held to his chest, he pauses almost exactly where he had done two years prior to study the building anew, a grimace affixed to his muzzle as he adjusts his spectacles.

There's been no attempt at fixing the exterior since his last visit, and perhaps that is why, despite being a foot taller and far more confident than two years prior, the building still evokes unease in the young grifter. Regardless, he's gotten better at hiding his discomfort; the only outward sign of any emotion is a flicker of his tail as he pushes the door open with practiced ease, the jingle of the bell so familiar he barely hears it.

It's just gone midnight, still deep into gangster territory. As is usual, the storefront is filled with excess associates at small, rickedy tables playing poker. They're the boss' triggermen, his enforcers and strong arms, ready to be deployed to any home within the city at a moment's notice. They'll break noses, snap fingers or in extreme cases, burn buildings down to ensure any who slighted the organisation realise the seriousness of their transgression and swiftly settle their debts, with their lives if necessary.

They recognise the 'Little Bookie' (as Mr Fiores nicknamed his newest asset some time ago) and remain seated as he strides past them. Some men scowl, inherently distrusting of his culture and religion, while others sneer knowing it's the sole reason he works with them. Mordecai pointedly ignores them all, using the satchel bumping his hip to modulate the discomfort crawling up the back of his neck as he pushes the back door open. 

He won't let it show. He won't give them the satisfaction.

"Good evening, Mr Fiores," Mordecai greets formally upon entry, forcing himself to make brief, direct eye contact with the man to convey his confidence. No longer intimidated as bodyguards all around the room stand in unison, Mordecai removes his satchel and offers it to the nearest to search, as is customary. He'd rather willingly comply with Fiores' requirements than foreign hands wrestling his belongings from his body. "I hope you're doing well."

"You're early," the underboss acknowledges without looking up from his game, placing his hand of cards face up on the table. A royal flush wins him the pot, which he gladly draws across the table to his monstrous stack of coins and other valuables with a greedy grin, cigar dropping ash on the table as he leans forward. "I hope that don't mean trouble, Katz. I'm having a good day."

Mordecai glances at the man going through his bag, taking out individual pencils and even scraps of paper, nosing into the owner's more private thoughts without remorse. There's nothing of note in there, he knows; nothing that can lead the men back to his family or be considered as a weapon. He made sure of it, as he does every evening before handing over his ledger.

Having his things searched every day for two years hasn't made the invasion of privacy any less irritating. He frowns at the man a moment before turning his attention back to the underboss now staring him down. "On the contrary," he says with an upward lilt of his chin. "Revenue has increased, for my tracks at least. You'll find the details within the ledger."

He offers the ledger to another minion, who snatches it and gives it straight to Mr Fiores. Mordecai waits a heartbeat to let the man read and nod approvingly at the numbers before moving onto his pitch. "In addition to the ledger," he begins, now offering the second notebook to the same goon who, to his irritation, does not take it immediately. "I've isolated a trend in punter bets that if exploited correctly, could increase revenue across every bookkeeper in your employ. If you are interested, the details are inscribed in this notebook."

"Have you now?" The overweight grifter asks curiously, eyes still on the ledger as he raises a hand for the notebook. With a sharp glare at the apparently unrattled Mordecai, the goon finally snatches that notebook. Dark ears fold back under the scathing gaze, but the tuxedo's anxiety stays effectively disguised as distaste by the deep scowl on his face while Fiores skims the first few pages, then closes it with a quiet huff. "I don't have time to read an essay, Katz. Summarise it. Make it brief."

Satchel finally returned with contents intact, Mordecai slips it over his shoulder before he speaks, keeping his explanation succinct and direct. "Punters are inclined to place large bets on horses with better odds. They pay out less, but considered more likely to win, counterbalancing the concern that they will lose the excess bet. Considering the races are fixed regardless, artificially inflating the odds on more horses will encourage higher bids you know won't succeed, creating a larger gross income per horse, per race."

Mr Fiores sucks on his cigar thoughtfully, eyeing the skinny adolescent. The once fearful kid has come into his own the few years he's worked at the tracks, crafting an unshakably serious persona many of his own triggermen find unnerving. The underboss smirks, thick gray smoke seeping between yellowing teeth. "Well look at you," he praises patronisingly, a meaty hand on the notebook in his possession. "Not just a one trick pony, are ya, Little Bookie? The boss'll be very interested in this. Good job, kid."

He knows he shouldn't request anything, and what he asks for it's far too much, but Mordecai is desperate once again. Hannah's lungs have become so clogged with spores, she's barely able to breathe. The family spent every spare dime and more besides on doctors visits, only to be told there's nothing to be done; she would be fine if the house weren't dangerously infested with mold, they need to move.

Unfortunately, they simply don't have the funds to do so, nor does his current wage make that a possibility any time soon. His mother and sisters now spend as much time out of the home as possible, visiting parks or aimlessly walking block after block with Hannah in a stroller, in the hope it will help clear the infection in her lungs. That may be all they can do, but Mordicai can do more, he's sure of it.

"In return for my observations," Mordecai interjects just as Fiores motions for one of his buddies to deal a new round from what the tom assumes is an incredibly stacked deck. "I want fifteen percent of the net profits."

The eruption of laughter is immediate. Emerald eyes narrow behind pince-nez as he lets the entire room openly mock his request, only his tail belying his displeasure as it lashes the air behind him. "Fifteen, you want?" Fiores finally repeats as he recovers himself, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. "You're a funny guy, Katz. Real funny. With cracks like that, you could be a comedian!"

Mordecai slips his hands into his pockets, his expression as severe as before. "If it were a worthless suggestion, one of your lackeys here would have suggested it earlier, correct?" It's not really a question, but a statement intended to cement his worth. The goons around the table look murderous, but the underboss himself still grins, giving his quirkiest hire an open invitation to talk. "Perhaps fifteen was too outlandish, then. Ten would suffice."

"Ten," Fiores echoes, followed by a low chuckle and a slow shake of the head. He raises his new hand and studies his chances, glancing at Mordecai over the fanned cards. "This is why no one hires kikes. You're greedy." Mordecai doesn't flinch away from the insult, quietly amused the man doesn't appreciate the irony of calling a poor man greedy while he placed multiple hundreds of dollars on a single turn of cards. 

"Five percent," Fiores finally offers as he sits back, meeting Mordecai's gaze once more as he sucks the last breaths out of his cigar. "Nothing more."

"Eight," Mordecai bites back, feeling emboldened by making any progress at all. Five percent would be above what he currently takes, almost an honest wage from preliminary calculations, but he feels he can get more. "In addition, I'll finalize an overarching ledger each day for all incomes from the track. You need only approve it."

He can see the large feline's mind working overtime now. An offer that reduces his own workload but boosts profits is hard to turn down. Mordecai has been delivering flawless ledgers - on time and in excruciating detail - for two years, an impressive resume for any teenager. Fiores need only to decide it's worth the extra cost, something the tuxedo tom is counting on the increased revenue to permit.

Finally, the obese cat stubs out his cigar and waves the tom closer with a toothy grin. Mordecai hesitates, then complies carefully, making his way deeper into the room than he ever has on previous visits. A half dozen pairs of eyes follow his progress until he's stood next to Fiores, who beams up at him like a proud father, an expression that almost raises the boy's hackles in discomfort.

"You're a veritable businessman," Fiores compliments. With heavy smoke lingering from the cigar, Mordecai suppresses the urge to wrinkle his nose in case it causes offense, a lesson hard learned at the tracks. The underboss extracts a fresh cigar from a box on the table and brings it up to sniff deeply, apparently relishing the scent before placing it inside a small guillotine contraption in the table. "Seven percent, but you don't bother me for more pay rises, even if you got more-" 

Making direct eye contact with Mordecai, he uses that exact moment to slice the tip off his cigar. Mordecai can't help but flinch at the snick of the blade. There's a tittering of laughter around the table as the lad tenses, the fear he tries so hard to bury finally breaking through the facade from the simple threat as Fiores continues. "-brilliant ideas. Sound fair?"

Mordecai swallows and belatedly nods in agreement, which seems to be enough for the underboss. He places the cigar between his teeth and pats the notebook in front of him. "I'll keep this, for reference," he says quietly. "Now go home, Katz. We're done."

He's sure he leaves too fast, the rolling chuckle of laughter that follows him a testament to his swift exit, but he doesn't care. Mordecai's perseverance has paid off, even if it's dug him deeper into a criminal underworld he entered unwillingly just two years ago. He's secured a raise equivalent to the profits of the organisation opposed to the flat rate he earned prior, which means saving to move from their slum housing to somewhere cleaner.

His reservations and fears, even his personal safety, always come second to his family's health and wellbeing. Even if it kills him someday, he won't regret the sacrifices he makes along the way.

[lifewithaview]

The Godfather(1972)

Dir.Francis Ford Coppola

The Godfather "Don" Vito Corleone is the head of the Corleone mafia family in New York. He is at the event of his daughter's wedding. Michael, Vito's youngest son and a decorated WW II Marine is also present at the wedding. Michael seems to be uninterested in being a part of the family business. Vito is a powerful man, and is kind to all those who give him respect but is ruthless against those who do not. But when a powerful and treacherous rival wants to sell drugs and needs the Don's influence for the same, Vito refuses to do it. What follows is a clash between Vito's fading old values and the new ways which may cause Michael to do the thing he was most reluctant in doing and wage a mob war against all the other mafia families which could tear the Corleone family apart.

*[to Rocco who has killed Paulie in the car]Peter Clemenza: Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.

[awesomecooperlove]

WHAT THE NAZI JEWS DID IN 1970s?

😡👿😡

[sillystringsimpsons]

Your comment on my Amelia ref inspired me to make this! She doesn’t need to be official in the au, but here’s just some concept art for the funsies :3

Love this!!!!! Unfortunately Valentina's whole character arc is contingent on her and Memphis being the only transgender people within the family (also there's a lot of adjustments I'd need to make to existing dynamics) T_T

BUT I do still love this idea :333 so here's a little non-canon sketch of amelia and little suricato running from the northside perros (a minor street gang based in downtown springfield that I'm still properly developing - they used to be associates of the D'Amico family, and two of their members were responsible for planting the car bomb that disabled Louis and Max)

interactions hugely appreciated!!!! <3 also if you haven't already go follow @legstheoctomobster or else

[unwelcome-ozian]

hey so i have a question and idk if this is an ask youre ok with answering, if not its fine- but so a week or so ago my mom offhandedly made a really weird really specific joke about me being fed balloons to traffic drugs as a child, and then immediately before i even said anything, started really aggressively saying she was joking and when i joked that it was a little suspicious that she was so aggressive about clarifying it was a joke, she said (slight paraphrasing) “well i thought i should say it because otherwise you’d be like ‘oh i don’t remember my childhood, did that actually happen?,,’” and then basically called me crazy by comparing me to a really notoriously eccentric friend i have, and when i called her out on it she accused me of being the one who was calling him (and myself) crazy, then when i said she was acting weird she started getting really flustered and it was super awkward and she was over explaining in a way she only does when she’s lying or trying to cover her ass, she kept giving me reasons that i wasn’t a drug mule as a child, and then she left extremely quickly and unnaturally after the whole interaction. I don’t have any memories of this, but the whole thing left me feeling extremely uneasy in a way i usually am not. I felt like I was in danger the rest of the night and even ended up sleeping with a weapon, which to be fair is a feeling i’ve had before but it’s never been exactly like this. I really felt like i found something out that i wasn’t supposed to, and that they would kill me for it. i do have ocd and this could’ve just been that, but it was weird. it felt more real and ive been very off balance since this, feeling very unsafe everywhere i go. i have a weapon by my bed at all times now just in case, but i have no idea why i am doing this because i have no memory of having any reason to. 

im very polyfragmented (dont know why or what caused it, know i experienced some kind of severe childhood abuse but generally don’t remember anything from childhood before age 10) and i’ve been splitting much more than usual since this, idk why.

I have been badly triggered by mention of organized crime and drug rings in the past but i assumed it was just because it was a heavy topic. I also have symptoms and vague memories of csa, as well as csem/csam. some of my alters are intensely triggered by the word magazine, i dont know why.

i am having trouble getting this out, i feel like my mind is trying to stop me if that makes any sense,  i feel like im sealing. my fate by typing this. i dont think i am but its a very heavy feeling. i just want to know if this is something i should actually be concerned about, or if i am just crazy and an attention seeking liar making up false stories for pity. my parents dont seem capable of anything like this at all, and i know i at least had a regular side of my life as a child with friends and school and stuff, but for some reason I’m scared and have been scared since my mom mentioned it, and i just need to know if this anything i should be worried about, or look into, or anything. if theres a possibility i experienced something awful and don’t remember it at all. its been really bugging me and scaring me for a bit,

im sorry this is a really long confusing ask, youre free to delete it. my mind is quite jumbled. sorry

No worries about the length of the ask. I want to assure you that you can write as much as you feel comfortable with.

I agree with you, it is an odd joke that your mother made. There is a saying that behind a joke there is some truth in it. 

Ultimately you know your mother. Does she often turn things around on you when you have disagreements? From what you described it sounds like gas-lighting.

Feeling safe is so important. I understand the need/feeling/desire to sleep with a knife. Feels safe, I get it.  My question is, who are “ they”? Who would try to kill you?

Which leads me back to safety. If you are physically safe, which only you can answer, and have been then you are likely safe.  If not, what things do you feel you are able to do to work towards safety?

There are parts in your system who do remember the abuse and what occurred. With time perhaps they will share those things.

Take your time in deciding what you want to do. The choice is yours to make. There is something awful that occurred that led to you living with DID.

Take care,

Oz

[envihellbender]

Greek gods as a crime family

Obviously I can’t do all of the Greek Gods so I’m going to do the most well known 12 and may do a sequel / follow up, later.

Zeus:

Zeus is the head of the crime family. The Godfather of the night / νονοί της νύχτας. He is a brutal, terrifying man who seems charming when you first meet him. He has a warm smile and is happy to offer you everything you could possibly want… but every word is a game, a potential trap. He brings as many people into his web as he possibly can and he will fuck, beat, and kill with abandon.

Zeus, to his wife Hera’s dismay - a powerful and horrifying woman in her own right - has an unknown number of illegitimate children who often join the family in small but powerful positions. He’s the man people offer their beautiful 20 something relatives to for power, prestige, and money.

He lives in extravagant wealth, beyond that of any one of his rank before him. He hordes art, historical artefacts, money, food, fine clothes, jewellery, and everything he could possibly want.

Poseidon

Zeus’s brother and second in command. He lives more hedonistically than Zeus, his sex life is equal in quantity but his partners are significantly more varied. He’s happy to fuck anyone of any gender, and has been known to attend parties on cruise ships were a lot of horrific things take place but everyone present has to sign an NDA.

He is primarily responsible for contact with crime families oversees, as well as overseeing the illegal car trades, body shops, and the like. He collects cars, vintage, modern, and more. Beneath his house is a gigantic garage filled with more than he could possibly keep track of.

His children generally aren’t involved with the crime family, they enjoy his protection and allowance without going to near to him. This is partially because the actions of him and his brother towards their children has resulted in their mothers refusing him much contact. Something he has not contested.

Hermes

Hermes is often referred to as Zeus’s ‘messenger boy’ when being belittled by their rivals and enemies in polite company. Outside of that they tend to prefer remarks such as his ‘favourite whore’. The first of these titles come from the fact that it Zeus wishes to deliver news, a threat, or orders, he will probably send Hermes if it is to someone of importance. The latter comes from the fact Hermes is a beautiful, young man who people insist is being fucked by Zeus, Poseidon, and others. It’s true of course, but Hermes isn’t going to admit that.

His other work involves keeping the strip clubs and pimps in check, and keeping an eye on the human trafficking rings under his family’s control. Whilst he often visits the strip clubs for dances from people of all genders, often doing illicit substances as he does, he makes it a rule not to touch the more vulnerable victims. His job is easier if he doesn’t see their faces.

Hermes’ unofficial role is a strategist, he’s cunning and enjoys planning his rivals downfall more than anything else. Whilst it is not spoken of publicly, it is generally known that Zeus would not make a tactical decision without discussing it with Hermes first.

Hera:

Hera is the wife of Zeus and due to misogynistic rules Hera is not technically a member of the crime family but that does not stop her involvement. She is arguably one of the most sadistic members, she sits on the sidelines and watches her husband. She has been known to seek revenge on his affair partners, as well as their children.

She also has a role within the sex work industry that the family controls. Her job is to look after them, make sure their happy, healthy, and their pimps are treating them correctly. It’s a surprising role for a crime family to have but they want to have the best working for them.

As a mother she has her faults, she plays favourites and can be obsessive and distant. She keeps Ares as close as she can, often insisting on wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close if their in the same room even as he grows into an adult. Eris and Hephasteus were neglected horrifically by her, they have an important role within the family but rarely see their mother. She can be controlling, abusive, but loving, causing some discord.

Hades

Hades has little direct contact with Zeus, he is the head of the family’s assassin syndicate. He is in charge of making people disappear in ways that the hitmen are not equipped for. He often picks up street kids and other runaways, bringing them into his home and training them in brutal regimes to push them to join his league of world class assassins.

Hades’ home and area of the city he has been given control over by Zeus is known as the underworld by the locals. It’s not quite the same as the red light district or places to score drugs, it’s colder. He owns every bar, restaurant, shopping mall and the like. It’s the place you go to disappear, no one will go looking for you, and a place where people go to self destruct. Often they don’t come out alive.

The man himself is very secretive, he has a penthouse above the biggest nightclub in the underworld. He sits there looking out over his area of the city, working intensely, and is where he has trapped his beautiful wife Persephone. They have a large akita named Cerberus who is often taken to meetings with Hades as an intimidation tactic.

Dionysus

Dionysus is the son of Zeus, and a mother he never had the chance to meet. The official story is she died of a terminal illness when Dionysus was a baby. There is some significant suspicion however that Zeus or Hera were responsible for her death. He had a loving father who spoiled him, too an extreme point, and a step-mother who treated him like a rotting carcass in her home she had to tolerate. He has a happy-go-lucky attitude, but his charming, optimistic nature can be used in an extremely manipulative manner. He is often underestimated and he likes to keep it that way.

Dionysus runs the most expensive and exclusive brothel / gentleman’s club in the city. He sits, a gigantic presence, in the centre of the main hall. He drinks constantly, and has beautiful young men and women fawning over him, filling his wine glasses, his plates of food, giving him lap dances, grinding against his fat, and more sexual and explicit acts. He only deals with the best of the best, the highest quality, and the most expensive. Sometimes this is because they’re talented and well treated, other times it’s because they cater to an extremely specific fetish.

Dionysus’s home is above the brothel and he is rarely seen there. He doesn’t see the need to move massively, and he has plenty of pretty people to run up and down the stairs for him to bring him whatever he desires. He surprisingly gets on fairly well with Hermes, who often comes by to see him for work. Dionysus will give him whatever any information Hermes likes and all Hermes has to do is let Dionysus lear over him and pour him several glasses of wine.

Demeter

Demeter is in charge of the drug trade as well as various poisons. She has many cooks, factories, greenhouses filled with various illicit plants, and the like. She’s a very well trained, brilliant botanist, and chemist. She is known for her cold demeanour and vicious attitude to running her part of the business. Both of which she keeps for her family too.

Demeter’s relationship with her brother Zeus is a difficult and dysfunctional one. Demeter always sees herself as the real power between the family and feels as if she should be at the head. Perhaps if there was not a rigid patriarchal structure left behind from centuries past she would be. As a result they often fight and argue, Persephone often being the one who settled things between them before she disappeared. Now that responsibility lies with Hermes instead.

When her daughter Persephone was either taken or ran off to he with Hades (there is conflicting accounts for both sides), she was furious. It cause a split in the family for a while, a civil war of sorts that took a long time to settle and heal. It meant that the young man Demeter had had picked out to be married to Persephone from the day she was born was no longer an option for her. It also meant that Persephone was outside of Demeter’s grasp.

Apollo

Apollo is the son of Zeus, and his mistress Leto who was mysteriously killed after giving birth to twins Apollo and Artemis. The rumours state that it was most likely Hera who committed the murder but any investigations into the matter are completely dismissed and stopped at every turn. In terms of Zeus’s illegitimate children, Apollo and Artemis weren’t the most hated of them by Hera. She generally was ambivalent to them, and they were greatly favoured by Zeus even if they weren’t his absolute favourite children.

Apollo is one of two of the most treasured hitmen in the family, along with his twin sister. He is an extremely talented sniper who is always the one Zeus keeps close by for the most important of situations. He is preferred to Artemis because Apollo is less independent and easier to control. He works closely with Hades and Ares, but isn’t directly connected to either part of the family and Apollo and Artemis are the only hitmen who do not have to answer to Ares. This creates a lot of hostility between the two, especially since Zeus often pushes them against each other.

Apollo has a basic but skilled knowledge of medicine and basic surgery, with strong connections to the crime family’s doctors. He often takes responsibility for his own injuries, which are rare given his talent and the fact that outside of the family not many people know what he looks like. This keeps him safe from unexpected attacks, but Apollo finds it frustrating that Zeus keeps such a tight grip on him ensuring that he keeps quiet and out of sight. This is partially because Zeus likes to maintain an air of seeming more in control than he is, and that he is controlling everyone and everything.

Artemis

Artemis is Apollo’s twin, an equally talented sniper to her brother but is used less consistently by Zeus. Artemis is more independent and, in her father’s words, ‘wild’. As a result she is much less likely to take orders, and she isn’t as much use to Zeus as a hitman. However, she is of great use to others on the family who prefer not to use Apollo because of his subservience to Zeus. Artemis is used fairly often by Hades, Demeter, and Hera.

Artemis and Apollo have been extremely close since they were children, the favourite things to do were to spar, play hide and seek in the forest by their house, and climb trees. Even as adults they would quite often play fight, entering multi-storey car parks late at night and both trying to hunt each other down. Artemis has some resentment to Apollo, impatient and frustrated with how happy he is to just bend to Zeus’s will.

Artemis often disappears for days at a time, she goes camping in the woods and uses it as a time to be as self sufficient as possible. She will hunt her own food, and usually tries to time it over the full moon so that she can use it for light when the sun sets. Once when she was a child her father Zeus used to have a hand in the illegal wildlife trade but Artemis pushed him to stop. She hassled him, and set some of the poor animals free or contacted the local sanctuaries. Eventually, Zeus gave in.

Ares

Ares is Zeus and Hera’s favourite son, being one of the few legitimate children the two of them have. He is likely going to be Zeus’s heir but there is no confirmation. However, Ares doesn’t get on with a significant number of his siblings. He gets on remarkably well with Hermes which is something people don’t quite understand. When it comes to his siblings Apollo and Artemis however they have a rather brutal rivalry. Apollo still has a scar on his neck from a fight he had with Ares as a child, and Ares has a scar on his arm where Artemis defended her twin in the same fight. The only sibling he is close to is Athena.

Ares runs the syndicate of hitmen within the crime family, he is blood thirsty and violent by nature. Ever since he was a child he has a strangely stoic disposition which is terrifying alongside his sadism. When working with Hermes his desire to fight and kill works extremely well with Hermes’ talent for tactics and deception. He has many cells of hitmen, and whilst he works closely with Apollo, Artemis, and Hades he is a completely different sect. Hades is who you send if you want someone disposed of quietly, Ares is who you send if you wish to send a message.

The program in which he trains his hitmen is infamously brutal, there are rumours about them sleeping on the cold hard ground in the forest and fighting for the right to eat. These are extremely close to the truth. His harsh methods create an army of soldiers who are bloodthirsty, capable, and mentally scarred. His father fears him, and his mother treats him like a small child who she still coddles. Overwhelmingly so.

Athena

Athena is another of Zeus’s illegitimate children but he ensures everyone knows that she is his favourite. She has, since she was born, been his ‘princess’. This has its positives and negatives in terms of how Athena is treated by Zeus and her siblings. Hera despises her but cannot treat Athena terribly without Zeus being thrown into a rage.

Athena has no official role within the crime family, not wishing to be directly involved but she does work with Ares fairly frequently. She never commits murder herself, she despises blood and guns. That being said, she is happy to discuss tactics with Ares, she is as capable as Hermes in strategy without the experience or gift for deception.

Athena is often used when having to send a diplomat to other crime families, particularly if there is conflict between the groups. She is charming, intelligent, persuasive, and is particularly adept at what others call ‘conversational warfare’. She is also sent to investigate and supervise members of the family abroad meaning she’s extremely well travelled. It also means she’s the most knowledgable about the family as a whole.

Aphrodite

Aphrodite is another of Zeus’s illegitimate children, she is one of the few who was actually raised by her mother Dione. As a result her relationship with Hera is not quite as negative and traumatic as a lot of her half siblings due to them not spending as much time together. Dione was a high end, and extremely expensive sex worker in the brothel that would later be inherited by Dionysus. Zeus threw lots of money in her direction whilst Aphrodite was growing up and went to see her a few times a year as she grew up.

Aphrodite is the most expensive and talented sex worker at Dionysus’s brothel and she is often given the task of helping the younger, and newer, workers settle in and showing them the ropes. She often has a lot of conflict with Dionysus, he is happy to grope and abuse whoever he likes in order to have as much pleasure as possible where as Aphrodite wishes to protect those who work for them.

Aphrodite had a difficult and complicated relationship with her step brother Hephaestus, one of Hera’s illegitimate sons. He is the weapon salesman of the crime family, and he and Aphrodite met when they were children. They have a on/off relationship, it has a tendency to be explosive and dysfunctional when they are together. There are a lot of rumours about Aphrodite and her lovers, and they are often about her with her half-siblings.

[alternity01]

Violet Hands & The Vermilion Masks of Pale Men

Chapter II. "Blood in the Garden."

Leonardo-Nawa escapes the unconscious grip of Aidan by rolling out and falling onto the floor into a plank. Instead of nudging him awake, he decides his best course of action will be retrieving a steel folding chair from the corner of his room and placing it at the end of the bed. Kicking off of it, he soars through the air and lands on top of the redhead below. His ass lands square on Aidan’s chest, and his face lands by his lap.

With his hearing aids now absent from his ears, Leo-Nawa is forced to turn around and sit up, signing “It’s eight in the morning, I’m not in the mood to shout.”

Instead of signing back, despite being more than proficient, Aidan has him read his lips. “Exactly. It's eight in the morning. Why jump?”

Looking down at him, hair obscuring his vision, he gestures for them back. They return to his hand and then his ear.

Satisfied with the fact that he can finally let out his voice in all its melodic baritone goodness. “Wake up”—

“Already am.” Aidan yawns.

“We’ve got to train, we’re starting Silenzio today.” Leo shimmies from side to side.

“Right. Please get off of my chest.” Aidan gives light taps to the outside of Leo’s left thigh.

He rolls back, lands on his lap, rolls back once more and lands on the floor. From there, he continues on his way to the door before getting up. He’s barely outside of Aidan’s bedroom door, and likewise his own, when he slides the glass —tinted and untinted, transparent, translucent and opaque all at the same time—open.

The gym behind them is on par with some of the finest private establishments in Ncana. In the centre of the room are the grounds for many forms of combat: a mat primarily used for amaetur wrestling, a boxing ring, a professional wrestling ring, and a cage for mixed martial arts. All alphabetised and categorised by which muscle group they're meant to target. Their exercise equipment line the mirrorless walls, only broken by the entrance to the locker room and adorned with their athletic achievements.

Standing on the standard regulation mat, acting as referee despite being dressed in the least appropriate attire—silk pyjamas—is Leonardo-Nawa’s dad, his ndate. His big salt-and-pepper beard is a bit wet from the drink he holds in a mug with ‘Big Boys Drink Coffee’ written opposite the handle.

“Good morning, Ndate.” He hugs him.

“Morning, Little Lion.” His ndate wraps his barrel arms around him, tapping his back no more than three times. “Did you sleep well?”

“The Champions of Kuatoñembe would be jealous of my rest.”

“Then you must win like they did.”

“Yesterday didn’t count.”

“It did to me,” Aidan says from the doorframe.

“Aidan, my boy. How did you sleep?” He goes over to embrace him and they meet in the middle of both of their strides.

“I slept well, Uncle.” He releases the hug.

“I hope Leo didn’t keep you up too long last night.”

“No, but he tried to make sure I woke up worse.” Aidan gives him a sideways glance.

“False accusations.” Leo lets his tongue slip through his smile.

“Regardless, you two should get ready.” He says. “Especially you, Little Lion. Aidan’s been on a streak.”

“I’ll make you proud, ndate.” Leonardo-Nawa says on his way into the other room.

In it are lockers, a row of showers, an ice bath, and a sauna. Leo-Nawa turns left into the lockers and left again to come face to face with what’s been his locker for as long as he’s remembered. Private instructors, friends and lovers have come and gone through this space. He taps on the translucent screen that forms its door and swipes past all of his sports attires: wrestling, basketball, volleyball, boxing, judo, and jiu-jitsu. Once it's open, he pulls out purple and silver trunks with a matching pair of trainers. Turning around, he takes a moment to look at Aidan as he dresses, already completely stripped down from his awful shirt and average shorts. They’ve practically eaten and trained the same since puberty, but damn does that muscle look better on Aidan than it ever has on himself. It doesn’t help that he’s half a head taller than him. His eyes dart between his own attire and his friend changing, although he knows he doesn’t have to focus on himself to change properly. Regardless, they stretch together and make their way to the mat.

“You both have read the rule book, but just in case you’re a little bit rusty, I'll say everything. Show respect before and after the match. Each match has two five minute rounds. You win by making the other person submit, pinning both of their shoulders to the mat, or by gaining the most points by the end of both rounds. You gain points via takedowns, reversals, exposure, penalties, escapes, and if your opponent gets fouled.

“We all know what gets you fouled, but it must be said that there will be no scratching, no pinching, no pulling tails; and no biting ears, noses, lips, necks or balls. Leo.”

“That was one time and I was five, ndate.”

“It wouldn't be the last time you've had balls in your mouth,” Aidan comments.

“Aidan,” he responds in shock.

“One time too many.” Ndate says before taking an exaggerated deep breath. “Got all that?”

They both nod.

“Wakule!”

Their fists touch, becoming open palms and gliding past each other. With the proper respect shown, they trace an ill-defined circle within the larger circle of the mat. Never letting the other leave his gaze, Leonardo-Nawa sidesteps in-sync with him for a few seconds more, before cinching him in a collar-and-elbow tie-up. An attempt to hook his leg and drop him to the ground fails. He moves as if shoved back and drops into a squat-walk, manoeuvring behind him. With his arms around Aidan's waist, he attempts another sweep. Aidan falls. He’s firm behind the redhead now on his hands and knees. A quick shift brings him to his front where he’s a hair’s width away from getting him within a guillotine choke. He’s dropped onto his back during an attempt to get up. His leg is trapped, and he turns and flips.

“Round one is over,” Ndate calls out. “Take a minute to rest.”

They hug and sit down before sitting down in different corners of the mat.

“Close but no cigar.” Leonardo-Nawa taunts in-between breaths.

“I’ll be smoking that Ngela-Machiavelli pack.” He wipes his sweat through his hair.

“You can try.”

“Back to the centre, boys.”

Doing as they’re told, they perform a second handshake. Afterwards, they sidestep across from each other in another ill-defined circle. Aidan attempts to grab him by the shoulders. Leo shoots under and slithers behind. With a tight grip around his waist, he attempts to hook his leg. He shifts it right before he can, pushing the offending appendage to the side and further lowering his stance. His grip remains. In retaliation, he pushes his arms under and spreads them out to break it. Once again, they face each other. Another circle, another attempt. This one from Leonardo-Nawa, dropping to one knee. He clenches his right leg and attempts a sweep with the other. Aidan falls. He mounts him to stop any attempt at getting up, before transitioning into an armbar attempt. Disappointingly, Aidan moves his forearm down his torso and tears it from his grip. Once off his torso, he runs it up his thigh and grabs hold of Leo-Nawa’s ankle. He turns him onto his stomach from that anchor point. Aidan's legs wrap around his, ending at his lower back, and he secures the hold. He can feel his ankle twist past natural points, and as much as he doesn’t want to, as much as he wants to work his way out, the pain becomes too much. He’s forced to tap. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. Finally, he releases.

“You’re off your game, champ.” Aidan smirks at him.

He sucks his teeth and says “Fifty to forty-eight now. You’re catching up.”

“And you’re still standing.”

He flashes him a smile and shakes his head, looking down.

His ndate chimes in with “You two have been training thirty-two/eleven; eleven days a week after graduation. I’m proud of you boys.”

“Thank you, Ndate.”

“Yeah. Thanks, uncle.”

“No problem, boys. No problem. Now go hit the showers.” He pats them both on the back and leaves with his never ending supply of caffeine in hand.

In the locker room, already stripped down to everything the Greater Pantheon supplied them with, Leo-Nawa runs his water hot, but Aidan runs his scalding. He lets his hair cover his face for a few minutes and lets out a post-match groan.

“Should I get your tail?” Aidan asks.

He holds out the shampoo bottle. “Thank you, darling.”

He flicks his hair back.

“Ptuh. You hit me in the mouth.” He pulls his hair.

“Ah! Fuck you,” Leo-Nawa responds.

“Mhm.”

Aidan slides his hands around his tail, holding it outside of the reach of the water to allow a lather to form.

“Do you think Bri’s going to make us watch the Drifter franchise again?”

“Probably.”

“I can’t wait, honestly. It never gets old.”

“Together… anything is possible.” Aidan does a purposefully scuffed impression of Street Queen, Aroa Rico.

“It’s shlock, but it’s good shlock.” He receives the shampoo once again. “Turn around for me, darling.”

“Sure,” he responds.

With Aidan’s tail in his hand, Leo-Nawa gives it a tug before asking “What about Ayesha?”

“Ngh. Playing through Capsule Creatures again.”

“As usual. Looking at her posts on Thought Bubble, it's four again.”

“You've memorised?”

He hands him his fluffy bicoloured tail back. “We've all known each other for what? Twenty odd years? Of course.”

They make their way outside and onto the large stretch of concrete typically used as a parking lot.

“We’re ready to start, Ndate,” Leonardo-Nawa says.

“Wrong daddy, mate.” Ash turns around, machine gun in hand.

“Chi”—

Foam pellets fly at them at speeds immeasurable at the moment. Nevertheless, platinum bends and links together around his neck. Before the chain can close, amethyst grows crystalline structure by crystalline structure before him and slides onto it. He accumulates a percentage of excess potential energy into his feet and propels himself forward, moving Aidan a metre away before reaching Ash. The gun is in his hands. He presses it onto her neck.

“Good job, Nardo.” She gives him a handshake. “Looks like you’re still fast at everything you do.”

He chuckles as he responds “And it looks like you’re still a shit shot.”

“I’d rather miss than shoot blanks.” Ash ruffles his hair.

“Good to see you, Ash.”

“Same to you, cunt.”

“Hey, Natasha.” Aidan waves at her.

“Aidan, you tall bastard. How's the weather?”

“Good. You?”

“I’ve been alright.” She takes the gun back and puts it away. “Are you fuckers ready to start?”

They both nod.

“Good. Nardo’s already used his zeka, so now it’s your turn. Stand four metres away.”

Leonardo-Nawa watches Aidan do just that, standing back himself in case he’s sure of what comes next. Natasha pulls out a large, red flamethrower.

“Is that new?” Aidan asks.

“Yeah, I just got it. Absolutely ace, ain’t it.”

“Very, very nice. But… not as good as my lighter.” He flicks the metallic-blue gift Leo’s father got him open.

“It’s all about firepower.”

“Good things come in small packages.”

Natasha turns her head to Leo, asking him “When did you start calling him ‘Good Things’?”

He tilts his head slightly to the right. “Apparently the second you assumed I was ‘Small Packages’.”

“Don’t worry, mate. It’s not about your dick this time.”

“Good.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re short as shit.”

“Oh.”

“Anywho, Lucky Liu. I need to burn Aidan alive.”

“Aren’t you a sniper?”

“Yep.”

“Have you used that beforehand?”

“Nope.”

“Yet you’re aiming and firing that directly at Aidan?”

“Relax. Your pet won’t get hurt too bad.”

She pulls the trigger and a ball of flame bursts out from the muzzle. Although it may look like Aidan’s been burnt to a standing crisp, upon further inspection and half a sidestep, Aidan’s spread the fire away from him. In an instant, the flame dulls despite Ash’s ever-insistent trigger finger, and she lets the flamethrower leave her hands. “Good job, boys. Next it's yumbu.” She puts the guns into a duffle bag behind her. “Follow me to the big, fuck off maze your dad made you.”

“You’ve been here for a while, haven't you?”

“Just long enough to put shit in there.”

Together they stroll through the floral rainbow known as the bushes and hedges comprising the garden of the Machiavelli Estate. It’s a death trap for anyone with a pollen allergy, but Leonardo-Nawa loves it all the same, spending time to stop and smell them as they make their way to—as Ash described it—the ‘big, fuck off maze’ his ndate had constructed for his tenth birthday party. Unlike the rainbow of everything else, the structure at the centre is formed from nothing but different shades of his favourite colour.

Ash sits down on the ground. “You really like Zalunga violets, don’t you?”

“It’s all purple in general,” Aidan comments.

“It helps that grass is violet too,” he admits to people who've known this his entire life. “Zalunga violets are just more so.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are we doing?” Aidan looks over to her.

“Team-building, boys.”

“With a catch?” Leonardo-Nawa asks.

“Yep. Catch.” She tosses objects at the both of them simultaneously.

“Aren’t these”—

“Shitty walkie-talkie toys I took from work? Yes.”

“Is this how you teach your students too?”

“Less swearing, but similar.” She mentions. “Anywho, Aido runs around in there, puts his messages, leaves and directs you from outside.”

“How many?”

“However many you really want, honestly.”

“And how does my yumbu come into play?” Leonardo interjects.

“This is more about your zeka, but you’ll see.” She explains. “Are you ready, Aido?”

He nods. Prior to entry, all the components necessary to make a gas mask float onto his face.

“Contact me when you need me.” Aidan adds.

“Got it.”

It’s not too long before he returns, maskless.

“Your phones, boys.” Ash sticks her hand out.

“Natasha.” Leonardo-Nawa protests.

“That's Mrs. Blackheart to you, mate,” she says in the tone she doesn't even use with her students.

“Who made you a Mrs.?”

“If you keep talking, it'll be your boytoy over here.”

Aidan turns to her and squints.

“Don't act like you weren't thinking it.”

Leo-Nawa sighs and slaps his phone into her hand, followed by Aidan doing the same.

A single step in, he hears the first message.

Audio Checkpoint: “One.”

Leonardo clicks the button at the side of the toy, saying “What’s first, darling?”

“Left.”

Audio Checkpoint: “Now two.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Right, forward, left.”

Audio Checkpoint: “Three. Keep going.”

“You’re on your own by seven,” Aidan explains.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

“Prep your head to take everything down; double right.”

Audio Checkpoint: “You’ve found four. Nice.”

“I’m going to give you the first half, Leo,” Aidan warns him.

“Go ahead, darling. I’m ready.” He makes small bounces from left to right.

“Forward, right, left, forward, left, forward, right, left, and triple forward.”

Audio Checkpoint: “Five. Third of the way.”

“Here’s the second half: double left, forward, double right, double left, double right and forward,” he explains further.

“Wait… what was the first one again?”

“Leo, are you—”

“I’m only joking, darling.” He laughs to himself. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Audio Checkpoint: “Six. You’re doing good so far.”

For the first time this entire challenge, Leonardo-Nawa has been untethered. The only memories he can allow himself to draw on are those of a few seconds ago. He breathes—truly breathes—in the air around him. It’s untouched now. He dare not light a cigar here—not anymore. There is too much this place holds for him to sully again. He steps.

Audio Checkpoint: “Seven. I should still be connected now.”

“Are you still there, darling?” he asks into the toy.

Static.

“It was worth a shot.”

He puts it back into his pocket and follows instructions, segmenting and throwing away any previous movements to make it easier for himself to go through. Run? Walk? Jog? He has to go fast, but he must remain measured and without mistakes.

Audio Checkpoint: “Eight. I hope you’ve found these in order.”

So far, so good. He moves with the grace and elegance he carried in his ballet days. Not a foot out of place. Not a breath misplaced. He can see the faint remnants of streamers and decorations, riddles even. They fade from his vision like a guide out of a video game. Ndate put too much love into this.

“Left, forward.”

Another section to be deleted.

Audio Checkpoint: “Nine. I wonder what the others are doing now.”

Music from times long past entered his ears, repeated many times before.

“You live, you laugh

Your time won’t pass

Today’s your day

(It is your day)

Only your day

(Only your day)

So we are here to say Happy Birthday.”

He hums it to himself, taking a small break to dance. There’s no point in escaping the memories.

Audio Checkpoint: “Ten. You are now two thirds of the way in.”

He never knew he’d be this tall. Halfway up the walls that looked like vine monoliths chose to rest beside him not too long ago. Tall enough to reach the top shelf, but not tall enough to dwarf his ima like he wished to and made joking threats about. Tall enough to hold someone, but not tall enough to stop being held. He runs his hands against them as he makes his way over. Up and down as they touch them, making invisible zigzags. High knees, and exaggerated lean and swaying to entertain him as he goes. His hair flows through the wind alongside the tassels on his jacket. Throughout, Aidan’s instructions sound far shorter than they feel. One third left. What will he find in the middle?

Audio Checkpoint: “Eleven. I wonder… Am I running out of words of encouragement?”

“You’re doing great, darling,” he responds.

Even though he knows for a fact that he can't hear him, it’s nice to hear his voice. With all its expressionless worth. It’s like a still life piece from a beyond talented artist. Although, it could easily be from his own deep infatuation. Some would call the two of them brothers, but he doesn’t like that. It isn’t true, nor is it favourable. They’ve lived with each other since they were two, yet his parents never adopted him. He never wanted them too. They never wanted to. Maybe he knew he’d fall in love with him, and maybe there was an instance or two over the years that he did too. His parents said it was to make sure he never forgot his original ones—they were close—so their interests aligned.

Audio Checkpoint: “Twelve. I don’t think I am. You’re doing really well so far.”

“I know you aren’t, darling. Thank you.”

He strokes the cigar in his pocket with his thumb to resist the feeling. He’ll smoke when he’s done. When’s done with both halves, he’ll smoke. Maybe he won’t. He shouldn’t. A drink? Maybe. Nice and cold, sweet too. One over rocks and a low alcohol content. Something that goes good with a brownie like some Maula. A reward for himself.

Audio Checkpoint: “Thirteen. I have definitely been disconnected at this point. You’ve got this, Leo.”

“Yes you have, darling.”

He’s tempted to stand still, he’s so close. No doubt it won’t affect his time. His passive use of his zeka no longer impresses him. It’s all natural. Until the next fever—provided that it comes.

The inside of his head becomes a forest after a fire. Not a single thought can live anymore.

“What did he say? What did he say?” he whispers to himself. “Which inconsequential words left his beautiful lips? Speak to me, darling. Speak to me.”

“Left, right,” his memory responds.

Audio Checkpoint: “Fourteen. You’re too close to turn back now. There’s a surprise in the centre.”

The final stretch. There are no drums or shouting in near-forgotten tongues. Instead, he hears snoring. It’s not even there, he’s sure of it, but it also is. Leonardo-Nawa is unsure of whether he’s a centimetre away or a kilometre. Even if, he knows exactly who it is. Why is she here? The fact that she’s sleeping is the most normal thing about this scenario. This reality he’s in.

“Right, forward.”

He walks in accordance.

“Ayesha?” Leonardo tilts his head, standing outside of the arc.

There she is, sleeping on a marble bench in the centre of the maze. Before he can say anything to her, another message begins to play.

Audio Checkpoint: “Fifteen. Congrats. You found all the checkpoints. Pick up Ayesha and get out. Be careful.

Having heard this, he moves further into the centre. After a flutter of her wings, she sits up and yawns.

“Oh. Hi, Nana.”

“Eesh? What are you doing here?”

Picking up her Ricochet Fusion, she replies “Sleeping.”

“Of course you were.” He hands Ayesha her custom walking stick, squatting down in front of her.

She hops onto his back. “Go, Nana!”

“Do you want to go on my shoulders instead?”

“They’ll see me over the things.”

“You’re tiny, and who are they?”

She covers her mouth as if she wasn’t supposed to say a word.

Leonardo-Nawa tosses Ayesha up and she lands onto his shoulders. Asking her to fly around would be a useless endeavour, even though after all these years he's always the first to consider it. With her cane in hand, he knows why. It would be up to him to navigate in either case. In his head, he's traversing the treacherous landscape that is his own mind, hoping to step on a memory as he makes his way out. Everything seems to be going well in his opinion: he's retrieved his kundo care package, and she's safe playing video games on the top of his well cared for curls. Leonardo-Nawa’s search has yet to bear fruit. After all, it's just started. He assumed the process would be a bit faster. Mainly because he already passed the centre where he used to stare into the sky and think of nothing. There it is, fading in the rearview. If only he could speed up his brain power with his zeka. Maybe if he's lucky, he'll have a zeyugo fever during the downtime between missions. Although, that does mean he would've changed significantly. For better or for worse.

“Ah shit,” Ayesha blurts out.

“What’s wrong?” asks Leo-Nawa, turning his gaze towards the gremlin on his shoulders.

“Wild encounter, and I can't run.”

When he turns back towards the trail, he’s met with a low energy scare in the form of a “Boo.”

His face contorts into a horror beyond his own comprehension via involuntary use of his yumbu. The living afro below him smacks him upside the head repeatedly with a shotgun he prays is empty around five hits in.

He leaves the hideous mask it formed behind in favour of his zeka, so he can maintain consciousness for long enough to finish the maze. “It's gone, Bri.”

“What did I say about using that shit on me?” Brianna asks, staring daggers at him from her wheelchair.

“I didn't know it was you.”

“Who did you think it was?”

“Sentient black truffle?”

“That's new.”

Leo-Nawa and Brianna hug in greeting, Ayesha waving from his shoulders as they do. On their way out, he steps on a memory—or more a collection of them. Countless nights where Aidan and himself would run away from the aunties and the uncles and his parents to avoid going to sleep at reasonable hours. They hid in the exact spot Bri popped out of in fact. Too many years ago. Whether it was after events which ended late enough as is, or a little four day period officially starting the second their seven day school week was through known as the week’s edge. One day it was them, next cousin Luna was added whenever she came to visit, and more typically it was the entirety of a group readying themselves to undertake the name of Silenzio. The sounds of Capsule Creatures 4: Through Wind & Water comprise the soundtrack of their short journey. He whistles along, finding solace in how it interacted with the breeze around them. Nothing else seems fitting. Her choice to play the 15-year-old game reminds him of simpler times, harder times, and just last month. He holds out a purple stuffed cigar between his finger tips, yet he neglects to light it for now.

“Rah,” shouts a voice deep beyond comprehension.

As Leonardo-Nawa’s face contorts, he’s pulled into someone's chest, ceasing the process entirely. “Okay, Gi-Gi, I missed you too. Now, please let me out of the black hole that is your chest.”

He's released and meets the smiling face of Giueseppe, a person who couldn’t be described as less than a mountain that can hug. A warm mountain, a caring mountain, being the joint youngest in the group, an innocent mountain as well, one that asks “How was your holiday?”

“It was great. Did you manage to get your licence?”

“Driving or temple?”

“Both licences.”

Giuseppe nods in response as Ayesha flies onto his shoulders and hugs his face.

In the next section, whatever it may truly mean, he sees the spots where he got pinned down by and pinned down former partners and lovers. A paradise away from paradise. Scraps of protection and contraception all cleared up by now. It's truly as clean as the first day. If he listens over the soothing melody for just a moment, his mind can bring their voices back to him. A mixtape he's burnt through too many times before. Even the worst of them were always good at what they did. However, when his parents were away, he barred off his floor and found the sheets more fitting for the role. Those and the locker room. A movie of his own making—seldom with lights, never with cameras, and never ending action.

A question knocks on Leonardo-Nawa’s mind, and he must let it in: “When did you guys get here anyway? Ash wasn't clear.”

“09:00,” responds Brianna, polishing one of Ayesha’s knives as she rolls.

“Rehearsing your little, spooky song and dance, I assume.”

“Napping,” Ayesha.

“She was. Giuseppe and I were talking to Ash about how we're doing this.” She sheathes the blade.

With his question answered, he scurries back into his mind, finding footing on the far more wholesome memories of ‘Dr. Leonardo-Nawa & Dr. Aidan: Explorers of Everything!’ A multiple season adventure drama they constructed all with their own minds. It's a proud achievement: using their imaginations so effectively. Their toys and plushies comprised the cast, and it aired between once their homework and lunch was done and way past their bedtimes. Sometimes they'd talk to their friends about it as if it was something they actually watched. Anything for the sake of a good story. They made their first ansi that way. A picture they took of them holding their earnings sits between all of Silenzio being each other's prom dates and him wearing his first pair of hearing aids.

“Sorry if I scared you guys a bit too much.” Leo-Nawa snaps back to reality.

“Eh. Your dumbass didn’t know we were here anyway,” Brianna replies.

“I managed to avoid it.” Giuseppe beams.

“Yes you did, big guy.”

He jumps up to pat him on the head, before continuing with their walk through memory maze. Having them all around him—here, after so long—reminds him of his first arrival in this place. His tenth birthday. It was wonderful. The secrets hidden in every crevice this place holds, the race to the finish, the bouncy castle waiting for him and friends long forgotten at the end. All of it is just wonderful.

Aidan and him got a little tent of their own—set it up themselves too. It’s what inspired them to start their stories in the first place. One day, a storm raged on in less time than it took either of them to blink. Ndate and ima called out their names, having started off into the maze to find them. Leo-Nawa clutched his hand and they ran towards his parents together—they were sick for the week after, but it was worth it.

They’re reaching the end, he can feel it. Memories are coming to an end. The spots where he used to drink outside of his parents' view, maybe a little too much, stare at him on their way out. Sanctuary.

It’s only now when he considers how long it’s taken for them to make their way out. They’ve kept a good pace so far. No running, but a good stride.

Aidan and Ash stand out in front of them. He tosses the walkie-talkie over to her.

They’re out.

“Congratulations, Nardo.” She starts a small applause for him. “You did well. You got five minutes.”

“Is this when the whole class gets snacks?” Leonardo-Nawa snickers.

“Well, you’re the leader. Do we?”

“Snacks sound good.” Ayesha yawns.

“First, we complete the first mission Ndate gives us. Then we can eat.”

“Group hug, everybody,” says Giuseppe in half a suggestion and half a command.

They find themselves in a warm, albeit brief, six person embrace where Ayesha makes sure to wrap her wings around everyone’s heads, giving his ears a light crushing.

While still inside, Leonardo-Nawa asks “Would you guys like to stay the night?”

“Yeah. That would be great.” Giuseppe sets Ayesha down from his shoulders.

“Sure, but I get to pick the movie.” Bri adds.

“It’s drifting time. Vroom.” The blind kundoba runs circles around the group.

“Should I order some food? I’m fucking starving.”

Aidan flicks his lighter from one hand to the next. “Meeting first.”

“Right, right, number two. The meeting.”

Leonardo-Nawa’s ndate, Don Machiavelli, sits at the head of the table. Rather than his robes from earlier, he’s placed himself in his favourite piece of formalwear: a black pinstripe suit with notch lapels over a white dress shirt and paired with black suede shoes that he bought back in Avitura. His olive skin is yet to truly feel the effects of wrinkling. A trait that—if he wasn’t his son—would be quite intimidating to him, knowing how old his ndate really is.

“Good afternoon, Silenzio.” He raises a glass of ice cold water.

“Good afternoon, Don.” Ash and Aidan.

“Good afternoon, Don Machiavelli.” Giuseppe.

“Afternoon.” Brianna.

“Good good, Uncle A.” Ayesha.

“Afternoon, ndate.” Leo-Nawa.

“Rise.”

They all do.

“Reach into the centre.”

Together they wash their hands in the bowl placed on the palm of the violet hand pyrographed into the centre of the table. One by one they grab plates loaded with a pillowy lump of nshima, imperfect cuboids of golden–brown meat drowning in their own personal oasis of thick gravy, sitting next to some diced cabbage. Silenzio feeds each other, only ever receiving from the plates outside of their control. They’re done before they know it, stacking their plates and washing their hands in new water.

“You can sit now. From now on, you have become Silenzio. A brilliant name, if I do say so myself.”

Once they’ve all sat back down, he continues “In front of you, you will see dossiers with your roles and information on your first mission. Everything should play into your strengths.”

Ayesha raises her hand.

“Yes, yours is in braille, sweetie.”

It goes back down.

“You are looking for two people: Nosiku and Mukatimui. A kundoda and kundotu who—while they look very similar—are not related. They’re members of Cielo indaco, made-women. Publically, they’re very close to Ardito and Boniface. You may not remember but they were once members of Viola Mano. We have reason to believe that they cut a deal with them: information for money. Those pieces of trash decided it was a good idea to spit in the face of me and my family, this family, by doing so. You must figure out where they are. And… if you need any extra motivation, they’re nothing more than filthy perverts. Grabbing whatever and whoever they deem fit.”

“That’s immoral,” Giuseppe cries.

“Exactly, Giuseppe.” Ndate raises his glass.

“Scum,” Ash comments.

Brianna lets out a low growl.

Aidan huffs.

Ayesha shakes her head in disapproval.

“They will be dealt with accordingly, Ndate.”

“Any questions, Silenzio?”

“Well, guys? Anything?”

They don’t respond.

“Anything else you may need is there in the dossier.” He drinks more of his wine. “Now, please, read out your roles.”

Leonardo-Nawa reads his role out loud. “Kutalifa Machela, a little known but very rich and lonely bachelor with hands in various businesses around the world. He searches the hottest spots for his next fairytale ending.”

“Samhradh Kearney, an underground fighter with a flame zeka and an undefeated streak.”

“Lan Su Chen, a silent waiter with a maroon ponytail, a pension for emeralds and a strawberry pin.”

“Lola Avia, a flashy bartender at Maids & Mugs.”

“Liam Silver, an intimidating yet friendly bouncer at Maids & Mugs.”

“Lea Cruise, a university student who finds silence in even the loudest places, choosing to study and work from clubs and parties to avoid noise complaints from neighbours. Despite this, she’s a quiet person, keeping to herself.”

Ash raises her hand.

“Yes, Natasha?” Ndate looks over to her.

“With all due respect, Don. You really want me to be quiet?”

He sips on some wine before saying “All complaints should be directed to your caporegime. He wrote all of that down.”

“Nardo, mate. Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Talent Never Dies ‘92.”

“You know what? Fair.” She sits back down.

Leo-Nawa leans forward before asking “Anyone else?”

A collective silence is their response for him.

“Good. Do we need anything else, Ndate?” He sits back.

“Everything you need is there, little lion,” he responds before adding “Weren’t you all theatre kids? This should be nothing for you.”

“We were, and we can all handle this. We’re done for the day, Silenzio.” He stands.

The rest of them follow suit one by one, his ndate remaining seated. They deliver their byes to him, before heading out of the door to watch all ten Drifter movies. Leonardo-Nawa is the last, his mind already trained on the intricacies of the mission.

[grapecola]

After Dark . . .

Here's my new post, After Dark. Get reading now #writer #WritingCommunity

Sunday 25 June 2023 Winston paced the pavement outside Bonnie Carmichael’s bawdy club, The Night Owl. The night had brought the party precinct to life, but all Winston was interested in was settling an old score with Sonny. Where once they’d been colleagues, friends even, they were now nothing more to each other than a means to an end. Both wanted to run the streets in Little Italy, but neither…

[nemesnate]