Mafia

“In the wasteland, it’s kill or be killed,” so many posters had once read many slogans just like that to promote their new post-apocalyptic movie, book, or game. Just another reminder of humanity’s hubris. Or is it the world’s sense of irony this time? I’m unsure, all I know is that such slogans now become the codes which people live by, including myself.

It’s been many years since the apocalypse started. Barely anybody can remember just what started it. A rogue president with the codes to a nuclear arsenal? A benevolent god ending the foolishness of humanity? Or, maybe, the rampant plague caused by global warming? If the latter, then maybe this was the world punishing our hubris and laughing. 

Regardless of how this bed was made, we are all sleeping in it now. So, many of us had to adapt, including me. I knew that I could only be useful in a position of power. I was a police detective with a minor in English and working toward a major in Law. Luckily, at 24 years old, I was in prime shape to tackle the apocalypse. So, I got to work.

The first bandit group I ran into, I made sure to join. I still remember the day, I was returning to my old workplace, the New Orleans Police Department, sixth district. You know, if the world didn’t completely collapse, I was about to be transferred into an FBI office. Anyway, while looking for supplies, this group of bandits sneaks up behind me. But, they don’t knock me out or kill me right away. They yell, “Freeze!” like a bunch of dimwits. I showed them their mistake very quickly. Despite there were three of them, I turned around slowly and began to plan my next move. “If I failed here, I could do nothing for this world,” I thought. One had a 9mm pistol, the other two had baseball bats with various nails sticking out and chains wrapped around its head.

My fingers were twitching as they explained to me they wouldn’t kill me if I didn’t try anything. The second mistake, they were trying to negotiate. I knew they would still knock me out when they were done. I had to keep my cool, though. If I made a move, I would catch a bullet between my eyes. “Just be patient!” 

“MEOW!”

My three attackers made the third and final mistake: getting distracted at a very crucial moment. I ran to the gunman and grabbed his forearm. I turned my body into him and rammed into him. With ease, the gun slipped from his hand. The other two attackers had worn off their daze and began to run towards me, but a stern look and a gun to their face do wonders. 

“Alright, dimwits! Line up in a row in front of me! You going to lead me to your leader.”

The one on the left was the first to speak up, “w-we d-d-don’t have an l-leader.”

“Look, I’m not an idiot,” I said, “You dimwits barely know how to attack someone, let alone where to look for supplies. Besides, if you all were just normal civilians, you wouldn’t be raiding a police station, let alone have a 9mm in good condition. So, I’m going to tell you again. You ARE going to lead me to your leader. Understood?”

A “Yes,” in unison is the best sound to hear in such a situation, I’ve learned. With the guns to their backs, they started to walk toward the Mississippi River. When we got to the bank, they showed me to a small boat to take us across. Once across, they brought me to a darkened warehouse. I was never one to believe the ghost stories of the, “most haunted city in America,” but I did understand where they came from. Some of these warehouses were locations of many murders and, if the stories are right, old lynchings.

I pushed the three dimwits through the door of the warehouse and followed behind them. As I entered, I counted the number of weapons pointed at me; eight ranged, sixteen melee weapons. I raised my hands above my head and yelled, “Parlay!” 

There was a really old movie my father showed me, called “Pirates of the Caribbean.” According to the pirate code, according to the movie, anyone can call a parlay to negotiate with the captain. Luckily, pirates and bandits seem to follow the same code. They showed me the way to their leader, an old man that I immediately recognized.

“Nameless, huh. Never got over your criminal ways, I guess.”

There was a reason I was going to be transferred to the FBI. I was the lead investigator on the Crimson Dragons, a gang of gunrunners on the West Bank of the Mississippi. It was run by a Vietnamese man they only called, “Nameless.” Since he always covered his face, no one knew the man behind the mask. But, I have gotten close, very close.

He was sat on a throne made of boxes of ammunition. His mask was devoid of any features, giving me a chill and a feeling that no man was actually behind the mask. He leaned in to look at me. “So, you are the one who held my men hostage and called a parlay?” He chuckled, “What do you want, you dirty cop.”

I knew I couldn’t let my guard down around him. I had to be confident, I had to hide my fears and hesitations. I wondered if he could unlock my heart and find them. I could only imagine the face behind that mask as I stated, “I want to join your gang.”

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It’s been ten months since that day. It took many trials to get into the Crimson Dragons, but I made it. I immediately began to climb the ranks, killing anyone I needed to become the leader. Now, I was the first lieutenant to Nameless. Only one more obstacle. As I look back at my actions, I remember the story of Machiavelli and wonder of the end really does justify the means. Then, I remembered, society was destroyed and the rulers were the Machiavelli’s of the world. Those that did not care for society were now running it. Those that did not question the means were now in control of society. In which case, I must not question the means.

The tricky question is how to get rid of Nameless. “I can’t force him to go out in any life-threatening expedition and I can’t outright kill him. I have to be more crafty than that,” I thought to myself. As I was pondering what to do, a man came running up the stairs to the office of my warehouse. All the elites of the Crimson Dragons owned a legion which was housed in one of New Orleans’ many warehouses.

“Boss! there's a murderer!”

While I ran down to the holding area, I questioned if there were any witnesses. Of course, the man said no, it is never that simple anymore. In the very back, behind the cargo container that holds the explosives was the bloody scene. A young man was pinned to the wall, his arms outstretched to his sides. His pose was obviously in reference to Jesus and the Bible. That, combined with the pentagram painted on the wall behind him, would create the sense of some satanic fanatic. I began to look around the scene. 

The body was very emaciated, almost pale white. There were nails in his hands and a single nail through both of his feet and a knife penetrating his right side. I looked at the pentagram at the back. It was painted with red paint to emulate blood. The knife is what intrigued me though. I removed it from its gory sheath and inspected it. The knife was a karambit, a type of knife with a curved blade. “Not a stabbing weapon, though.”

“Alright, someone take the body down and seal off the area. I can’t dust for prints, but I do want to work in peace. Also, don’t let anyone leave. Someone here did this, and he is still here,” I said while eyeing the people in the audience.

“B-but sir, how do you know,” a rather brave individual questioned. I answered this bravery. “The paint is still wet, the body, though emaciated, didn’t die more than three hours ago. Now, get to it!”

I began to work out a series of events in my head. Considering no one saw the murder means the victim was called out to be murdered. That means, whoever did this, is in the gang. And, it must be someone higher up. My suspects, then, are the Prophets, lieutenants like myself. There were only three Prophets on the west bank.

Then, an idea hit me. I can find out who it is with a simple test. I asked some nearby members to help me open the explosives container that was in front of the crime scene. As the doors opened, the scent of gunpowder and metal hit our nostrils, as well as one more scent. I turned on a flashlight and walked inside. Near the back of the container was the prey of my hunt; an empty crate. Bingo.

“Where did this container come from?” I asked the crowd.

A brave soul told me the container was moved by truck from a warehouse on the Eastbank. 

“If that’s the case, we have a problem. A big problem,” I looked at the picture I kept in my wallet. “Get me a car to the east bank. We are going to have a chat with our traitor.”

Soon enough, I was standing outside the Nameless warehouse. Plastered above the front door was our ‘slogan,’ for lack of a better term. Something wicked this way comes. You know, that line from Macbeth was Shakespeare’s way of identifying Macbeth as the villain. I walked inside and immediately went to Nameless’s office. I noticed I was being followed as I walked down the hall.

“Something wicked this way comes indeed,” the Nameless said as I walked in. I could swear he was grinning behind his mask. He shooed away the secretary and turned his full attention to me. “What can I do for you, Prophet?”

“You were quite clever, killing my man here and transporting him to my warehouse. But your clean up could use some work,” I told him. “The blood in the crate led me here. I guess it is true you leave a bloody trail in your wake. That trail led me right to you.”

“I hate cops,” he said, “I’ve done my own deductions, brother.”

“No… My brother is dead. He died when-”

“A murderer crashed a truck full of explosives into his house? You are correct. Don’t worry, I hold no grudge for you abandoning the search,” my apparent brother told me. “In fact, your ‘man’ was my ‘murderer.’ In fact, I was wondering when you would discover my identity. Now, how about you take my hand and we gorge ourselves on this free world.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to think. “My brother is alive? And he is the person I have been hunting? Should I act as judge, jury, and executioner, or should I join him.” I finally decided what to do.

In his outstretched hand, I placed my own. We shook hands as he rounded his desk and came close to me. At that moment, I pulled him close and stabbed him in the stomach. Immediately, a hail of bullets came towards me. I vaulted over the desk and ducked behind it. After five well-placed shots, the invisible hands of my assassins were silent. I walked over to my pleading brother and removed his mask.

“Don’t lie to me ever again,” I told him.

A bullet entered his skull as I took my place on the Nameless throne. With my rule, the new rallying cry, “To thine own self be true.” I smiled. Hamlet was always one of my favorite plays.