29
(Season 3 Episode 3)
Macklin
“So what’s the story with this guy?” Joe Carlo said to Mikey
Bocho as the two stood waiting by their Mercedes.
They were waiting at the airport to pick up a British man by
the name of Macklin. They had been
waiting there for at least 30 minutes. It usually paid to be early in the organized
crime business and that was something they both knew and understood.
“He’s in deep with London,” Mikey, a short, fat, balding
man, began to explain. “He’s been in
prison for the last decade or so.”
Joe was confused. “So
what the hell is he doing here? Some
kind of vacation?”
Mikey shook his head.
“Not even close, it’s some kind of revenge thing. We are out here to help him kill a bunch of
people. Why do you think I told you to
bring your gun?”
Joe chuckled. “When
ain’t it a good idea to bring our guns?” His New York accent was heavy.
“Yeah, I suppose you got me on that one.” Mikey grinned back, his New York accent
bleeding through.
“So, what’s this guy avenging?” Mikey continued to inquire.
Mikey shook his head again. “No idea. All I know is, we have to escort him for the
next two weeks and keep him happy. If he
goes home happy, it will finalize a big deal with the London boys.”
Joe was a larger, broad-shouldered man. He shrugged acceptingly and they continued to
wait in silence.
Ten minutes later, Macklin separated himself and walked over
to them. Joe couldn’t help but look
surprised at the supposed London bad ass. Macklin only stood four-foot-nine. He was thin as a rail and wore loose fitting
clothes with a duster style jacket and pants that stopped three or four inches
before his shoes. The affect showed off
his socks and made him look like he was preparing for a flood.
The British man had a buzz cut of brown hair and a rat face.
He walked with a slight forward hunch.
He did not look like much with the exception of a word tattooed across his
forehead, which Joe believed had to hurt like hell.
The word was “Wrath” in a normal straight-forward font.
“Oy,” Macklin said as he stopped in front of the two
seasoned mobsters. His teeth were broken
and jagged, distorting his English accent. “You the boys form New York?”
Joe and Mikey looked at each other, then Joe turned back to
the little man with a grin. “You have
got to be kidding me. You’re Macklin?”
Macklin cocked his head to the side and scowled. “Why is this so hard to believe, sonny?”
Joe Looked down and fought down the laughter. “Well, you… uh… I guess we thought you would
be taller.”
Macklin considered his words then slowly pulled out a pack
of cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit
it. He took a deep drag, still thinking
to himself. He then gave Joe a hard
look. “Right, I Believe that respect has
to be earned and I ain’t done nothin’ to gain that respect from you.”
Joe listened intently as Macklin took another long drag. “Now normally, to earn that respect I would
crush your bullocks then curb stomp your dumb Yank face. Albeit stereotypical, I have found it is the
quickest and most efficient way to earn respect. I can’t do that however, cuase I need you two
dumb wankers to help me.”
Joe’s hard brow twisted with anger. “You got a lot of nerve, you fucking limey-”
Mikey grabbed his arm to stop him. Macklin just smiled and drew another long
breath of cancerous smoke into his lung and stared up at the big Italian. “So, here’s what I’m going to do. You found Thomas Marren?”
Mikey fielded the question, still trying to keep Joe calm. “Yeah we got the address.”
Macklin smiled at him showing his shark teeth. “Good, let’s go there and earn me some respect,
eh?”
Mikey raised an eyebrow. “Right now? You just got off the plane.”
Macklin’s scowl returned. “Why the fuck do you think I’m here? To get a God damned hot dog? To see a fucking Yankee game? I have four people to kill in fourteen days. So let’s get on with it, eh?”
Macklin then picked his duffle back up opened the backseat
door to the Mercedes and tossed it in before getting in a shutting the door.
“I don’t like him.” Joe growled.
“And I do?” Mikey shot back. “Let’s just get through this.”
They both got into the car, Mikey behind the wheel and Joe
in the passenger side. They headed up
town. The drive was long and Joe
couldn’t help but prod the smaller Englishman. Macklin just smiled to himself and kept quiet.
At a quarter to five they pulled up to
the suburban two story colonial belonging to the family of Thomas Marren.
“There it is,” said Mikey. “Thomas’s house.”
Macklin nodded. “Alright,
be back in a tick.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mikey cut in. “We have to wait and plan, we can’t just go in
there and start killing people!”
Macklin pulled a half empty bottle of whiskey then placed a
rag into the top of the bottle. “Couldn’t agree more, that’s why you blokes
are staying here.”
Mikey frowned. “Are
you nuts? You ain’t even got a gun!”
Mackin smiled and opened his door. “Don’t need one, mate.”
Macklin got out and ambled across the street, pulling his
lighter out and flicking it open. As he
closed in on the house he could see the family eating dinner through the front
window. They were all happy and smiling.
Macklin had no guilt for what he was
about to do.
Thomas Marren did not get a happy dinner. Marren had taken all that from Macklin.
Macklin couldn’t help but think of Carrie.
He struck the igniter on the zippo and the flame washed out
and over the rag. Macklin then took one
step and hurled the bottle through the window. The wife screamed as the glass broke and the
bottle hit the dinner table, dead center. The bottle shattered and the rag acted as the
fuse catching to the alcohol and exploding over the table.
The wife got the worst as the fire washed over her. She screamed. Marren’s teenage son, who looked way too much
like Justin Beiber, stumbled backward and then stared in shock. Marren at least had his wits about him,
tearing down a curtain and tackling his screaming burning wife.
While this was going on, Macklin very calmly walked to the
house, stepped through the house’s broken window and strode to the table. The Marren’s had been eating steak with
potatoes and broccoli. Steak knives were
everywhere on the table.
Macklin grasped a fork.
Marren had just finished putting out his wife. She was whimpering. The room itself was starting to fill with
smoke as the Molotov cocktail had caught a chair and part of the table on fire.
Marren turned, completely confused as he
felt a dark presence behind him.
When he turned, Macklin drove the fork into Marren’s throat.
The blunt weapon had struck Marren’s carotid
artery and collapsed his wind pipe. Blood oozed out around the serving utensils. Marren gagged and started to fall when Macklin
grabbed his collar.
“Do you see my head?!” Macklin screamed at Marren. “Her name was Carrie, you fuckin’ bastard! I am the black fucking death for all you
bastards!”
Marren faded out and Macklin seemed to curb his emotions. He dropped Marren to the floor and
straightened himself as the fire started to engulf the room. He pulled out his smokes and lit up then
turned to see the boy standing there, mouth open, in complete shock.
Macklin took a long drag on his smoke as if considering the
boy then he spoke, “We all get what we deserve, sonny, even me.”
Macklin then stepped back out the window and calmly walked
across the lawn. Neighbors had come out
and were staring. Someone must have
called 911 because sirens could be heard in the distance.
Macklin opened the door and slid into the backseat. Mikey didn’t wait for a signal, he peeled out
and sped away from the house.
“Are you fucking nuts?!” Mikey screamed. “Everyone in the fucking neighborhood saw
you!”
“The other three are still in Cleveland, right?” Macklin ignored his panic.
Mikey shook his head trying to calm himself. Macklin didn’t wait for a response. “Alright, take me to Cleveland then, sonny.”
The car was uncomfortably silent for a couple of minutes
then he turned to Joe, who was silent in the front seat. “I got your respect now, Yank?”
Joe shook his head. “Mister,
you officially scare the shit out of me.”
Macklin took a long drag on his smoke, then shrugged. “Same thing, sonny, same thing.”
No comments:
Post a Comment