Zane popped a stick of gum into his mouth and chewed, sliding a bandana over his lover face and leapt through the window of the loft space, kicking a guard to the floor and snapping his neck before he could scream or make any further noise. Flavius James Anderson. Up and coming, incredibly successful pimp. Challenger to local monopoly-holders. Mm. Strawberry. His employers had been quite clear. Gruesome. Leave a mess. Dump the bodies in the streets for all to see. He checked his surroundings and footing, making sure he wouldn't fall through any floorboards. It had happened before, when his target had predicted his arrival and set a trap in the form of a pit beneath a large portion of rotting wood. Zane noted three other guards positioned at the major entrances [door, windows, stairs) in the upper apartment, two moving towards his position. Lifting with his back, the dead guard fell about 30 feet to the concrete below. If you weren't dead then, you are now. He ducked behind a fur lined couch as the other two moved forward. One big and muscled, the other average sized and rather thin. Scrawny whispered "Carlos? Dónde estás amigo?" Hispanic. Cheap muscle. Cheap enough to be easy prey. Zane grabbed a vase and slammed it over the head of the big one, knocking him to the floor. Flipping the remainder so the sharp end faced away from him, he ducked around behind his foe as Scrawny swung a baseball bat over his head while Zane slashed his hamstrings. He fell to the floor, mouth opened to scream before Zane clapped his head over his mouth and slammed the shard of vase through the back of his neck. The screaming stopped as number two got up, pulling out something small and hard to see in the dark. Oh, bad. Zane dashed behind the couch again as the shots rang out. .44 Magnum from the sound of it. 6 shots. 5 fired. Target alerted. Zane blew a bubble, which popped as another bullet slammed into the couch. 6. He swung out, grabbing the baseball bat and slamming it into the big guy's right temple, sending him to the ground again and sending a vibration through the bat. "Metal. Nice." 5 more blows followed until Zane was satisfied the brain matter and skull were a nicely mixed pulp. He flung it at the guard pulling out another gun, striking his gut and doubling him over. Zane sprinted towards him, knee slamming into his prey's face, his fist spinning around to catch the guard in the side of the head, his other hand reaching for the chain at his waist and whipping it out to wrap around the man's throat. Tightening his grip, Zane heaved him in the direction of the staircase, releasing him from the strangling metal grasp only to go crashing down to the lower floor of the loft, making him aware of the sound of screams. "Collateral damage." He skipped a few stairs with each step, making the descent in a few seconds. A bullet whizzed pass his head as he turned the corner. He caught a glimpse of the man firing, dressed in elaborate purple, green and red with almost ten gold chains hanging around his neck, accompanying his numerous rings, making it rather difficult to pull a gun trigger. Glock 27 Subcompact. 17 rounds, 3 fired. 4. 6. 7. Magic number. He spun out, flinging his chain, which caught Flavius around the arm, weighing it down and making him miss his next shot. Vaulting off a wall, Zane's foot collided with his target's face. Anderson tried to fire again, but Zane grabbed his arm and forced to fire at the 2 women cowering in the corner of the room. No misses. No witnesses. Flipping him onto the floor, Zane curb-stomped Flavius' face, flung him into the wall, grabbed his hair, and started repeatedly slamming his face against the brick. "Excessive brutality", they said. He shoved him to the floor, retrieving his chain. "Make him an example" they said. No need to use his for this. It was dirty enough. "Make him suffer" they said. Zane spat his gum into Anderson's face, sticking to his eyebrows, and popped another stick into his mouth. "You wouldn't happen to want some, would you? No? Your loss." He grabbed the chains and raised Flavius to his knees, and pushed him forward with his foot. Anderson started clawing at his throat, trying to pull off the chains. "Just business Flavvy. Nothing personal." Zane grinned at this, chewing his gum. He pushed harder and twisted the chains. Anderson's head turned black. His hands fell to his sides. "Well. Down to the dirt." "Gruesome", they said. He grabbed a Bowie knife from the dead man's belt. It was several minutes before the deed was done. Intestines swung back and forth, organs were stuffed where they shouldn't be, limbs were sawed off at the joints, and the head was a bloody wreck, teeth shattered and jammed into the eyes, the nose broken, and the ears torn. This mangled form (not a body, not a man) was then tossed out the nearest window, hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. He kept at it, repeating the process (with mixed success in repeating the effect), until he got to the last of the girls who'd been shot. A young (maybe 17? 18?) Caucasian girl, dressed in an outfit that made a bikini look like something you'd see in a nunnery. Surprisingly enough, the bullet had only hit a lung. "W-why..." She managed to wheeze out. "He had it coming to him. Want some gum?" Her face was a look of sheer terror. "Oh well. More for me." He popped in another stick. "Ever noticed how water seems to make gum taste better? It's a neat trick. Makes it last longer." "P-p-please..." "Young lady, I do not like people who stutter. It's pretty damn annoying." Bored and a little overworked, he plopped down on the floor. "So. Speak clearly. What did a pretty young thing like yourself do to have to work night shifts with trash like Flavius Anderson." "Please... Ambulance..." She raised a hand towards a nearby phone. "Oh! The paramedics are selling girls now? I always had a good feeling about a nurse who I'm pretty sure fondled me when I was getting a shot. And I mean a really good feeling about her." She coughed, hacking up blood. "Now, I believe we begin by telling each other our names. I'm Zane. And you are?" The girl fell into another coughing fit. "Well *cough* *gag* *cough*, nice to meet you. I'm here to kill your John, his bodyguards, and by extension, you. Now, if you'll quit wasting my time with small talk, I need to get back to work." He pulled the knife out again, and she screamed. Things had actually gone rather smoothly. The police got there rather slowly. Zane saw the lights as he crossed the rooftops to his parking area. He had managed to *ahem* "borrow" a coat from a very generous hobo to hide the bloodstains. Ah, but the drives home were always horrible. "And here come the regrets." How young had that girl really been? Did she have family? Why did she do the things she did? Better yet, why did he? It darkened the mood as he sped home on his motorcycle (a very nice Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R), making it through without any red lights. Very quiet night. But how he hated when he doubted himself. "Fuck that. I'm a wealthy, buff, chick-magnet. I kill scum and let off some steam while I'm at it. I'm happy." Aren't I? "Come on, Zane, you're losing your edge." Now if there ever was a reason to stop questioning himself, it was when his pride was threatened. And he was rather proud of his hard-earned rep. Zane exited the city limits. "I have a family I have to feed." She might have had one too. He pulled up alongside an old warehouse, about 4 miles outside of New York, yanking off his helmet and slamming it on to the bike. "Have to stop thinking. Need alcohol." He ran over to the door, jamming his key into the lock, and opened the door. But maybe this is the thing that makes it worth it. "Evening children. Everyone alive?" He walked over to the kitchen and started digging around in the fridge. "Aw, fuck! Who the hell stole my whiskey?"