Dead! Who Me?

The moon was full but shrouded in a halo of clouds. If the stars were out tonight, they must have found some other part of the universe to twinkle in because there were none to be found in my sky. A stiff wind added to what was already turning into a night to forget. The only welcoming light emanated from a hangout my friends and I call The Shelter. It was time to pop in and pay a visit.

I headed down the street, carefully avoiding the random circles of light given off by the streetlamps that were still working. My hearing snapped to full attention every time I heard the scurrying of feet just beyond my line of sight. One can’t be too careful in a neighborhood where every acquaintance might actually be a mortal enemy.

Luck was on my side for once, and I reached the doorway without incident. The feeling of being watched never disappeared, even as I stepped inside. It only takes the blink of an eye to go from hunter to hunted, so I always have to be at the top of my game.

The shelter never really changes. The same scruffy cushions were tossed haphazardly about the place. Bowls of snacks were left out in strategic areas and limited cups of water to wash away what the patrons were brave enough to eat. An underlying feeling of uneasiness never fully disappeared from the place. That’s just how we lived. Always ready for something, just never knowing what.

The door automatically closed behind me, making just enough noise for everyone in the place to look up. I knew them all, which made me a little less tense, but only a little. Most of my crew were there, along with some of our friendlier rivals. What I could not understand was why everyone sported the same stunned look when I walked in. Then I found out!

“You’re supposed to be dead!” exclaimed the reclining figure sporting a multicolored coat.

“Who told you that?” asked Blackey, while attempting to convey a look of shock and dismay.

“People talk. I hear things. There aren’t many secrets around here. You know that as well as anyone,” replied multicolor.

“People are always talking, but it doesn’t mean they know what they’re talking about. As you can see, I’m alive and well.”

“Okay, so they were wrong, but you must have heard The Rat Pack put a hit out on you?”

“Sure, sure, that’s been out on the street now for a few weeks. Rumor has it they hired the Doberman Crew for the job. I’m not impressed. With that pack of morons on my tail, I’ll live for a good long time. Maybe if they hired the Wolf Pack, I might be a little concerned, but the Doberman Crew, what a joke.”

There was a lull in the conversation while everyone reconsidered the fact that Blackey was still alive. The quiet was broken by a raspy voice from the back of the room.

“Blackey, got a minute? We need to talk.”

Blackey turned toward the voice. He hadn’t noticed anyone sitting there when he first walked in, but now the speaker came into focus. He was old, but not feeble. There was a scar across his cheek, a souvenir from a long-ago encounter. Even though the speaker was a little overweight, his constantly roving eyes and coiled muscles told everyone in the room he was not to be trifled with. He was The Godfather.

This was the last individual Blackey wanted to see tonight, and he knew the phrase ‘We need to talk’ was never a good sign. When the boss commands, you obey. That’s just how it is. Blackey wove his way around some furniture to the back of the room where The Godfather relaxed on an overstuffed chair.

“Good evening, Boss! I didn’t see you sitting there. How’s your night going?”

“How’s my night going? It was going just great until I heard one of my most productive soldiers had got himself in hot water with the Rat Pack. I thought that can’t be right, Blackey knows better than to hunt for business on another family’s turf. You do know better, don’t you, Blackey?”

“I do Boss, of course. When have I ever been the first to break the code? I’m betting the story those rats told you was only their version of what really happened,” Blackey replied while trying to hide his nervous twitching. “Did they tell you they had entered Pete’s Kitchen, which is clearly on our turf, and were clearing out the place when I found them? I felt it was only fair to help myself to some of their stuff. You know they’re scum, and can’t be trusted.”

The Godfather shifted on his perch and contemplated the new information. He wouldn’t put it past the Rat Pack to skew a story to their own advantage, but he also knew how Blackey liked to embellish situations making him look like the hero. It was a tough call, but his inborn hatred for the Rat Pack finally won out.

“Okay Blackey, this is what we’re going to do. I want you to gather up the crew. It’s time to go hunting the Rat Pack. When you find their leader, I want you to bring him back to me—alive. I’d go with you myself, but I only have one life left. When this one goes, I’m toast. He’s the one that gave me this scar, so I want to pay him back personally. If you run into the Dobermans, stay clear. We’ll deal with them later. Can I trust you to follow my orders?”

Blackie’s body twitched with excitement as he began purring.

“You know you can trust me, Boss. Don’t worry, their leader is all yours. I wouldn’t ruin your fun for anything. And as for the Doberman gang, their day is coming, just not tonight.”

Yes, this is going to be a fun night after all!