Isn’t it strange how life happens? The way it unfolds. Mice and men making plans that never materialize.
That is the one consistent thing in a world of inconsistencies. The one certainty, in an uncertain world.
Shattered dreams and plans littering the highway of one’s hopes. That you can count on.
How does one become a killer? How does one become a hit man for the mob? How does one go against all the norms in a society, and embrace that which most people would abhor? Is it a slow transition? Or do you just leap into it?
For me it was a slow transition.
“Mommy” and “Daddy” didn’t want me around anymore. They were frightened of me. They were afraid of the monster that they helped to create. I was sent to live in a group home in Brooklyn.
They had all kinds of kids there. And some were a couple of years older than me. And some came from very abusive homes.
Homes where the parents were very dysfunctional. Either too much alcohol or drug abuse or parents that just didn’t care. And they carried the scars from living in those kinds of environments.
Carter was crazy. He was the oldest one in the group home, and he would have invading parties at night. He would assemble a few kids and go into someone’s room and terrorize that person. Sometimes they would beat them up. Most of the time Carter just enjoyed seeing the fear in his victims’ eyes.
Have you ever had a group of guys grab a hold of you, while a weightlifting freak is pounding on your leg, in the same spot, until you nearly passed out from the pain. And if you ever told anyone… the next night would be even worse
I have. It happened to me.
And all of this was happening while the fat assed Counselor was asleep in his room.
More than likely, he was too afraid to come out. Or he just didn’t care.
Or maybe he knew that the victim would be too scared to say anything. And if no one said anything… he didn’t have anything to worry about. His bosses would never know. They would never find out.
It’s like the crime in New York City. Most victims don’t report it. And if they don’t report it… those in charge have no problem in not talking about it. Let’s keep it quiet. No one will ever find out. It doesn’t matter that people are being harmed.
This big fat sloppy kid named Dwight was abused the most. And he was the type that didn’t fight back.
You could see the sorrow in his eyes the next day. After a night of being intimidated and abused. He had nowhere to go. The group home was his home. There was nowhere for him to run.
And he better not say anything. Better not get anyone into trouble. There was nowhere to hide.
And night would eventually be descending. People mutate into ghouls at night. And under the cover of darkness do many bad things.
The Counselor would be soundly asleep. No one to help. Best to keep quiet.
Sadness. Sadness in his eyes. This was the closest he had ever come to having a family. But this was no family. And he couldn’t understand why… he was being abused.
Fear. Fear in his eyes. As night turns into day… day turns into night. He was left wondering what was going to happen as darkness illuminated the night sky. What terror would it bring.
Like the little boy being bullied in school… There were no adults around to help.
And of course, I would join Carter and the gang in those raiding parties. If I didn’t… I would become their target.
One afternoon I was sitting in the living room and watching TV. The guys ran past me and told me to go outside with them.
What happened?
We were about to fight. It was over a girl. One of the guys in the group home offended a gang member’s girlfriend. And they came to visit us that afternoon. And the guy that did the offending wasn’t even there.
I knew that there were problems with the local gang. We had already been warned to stay away from their gals. We had a few skirmishes.
The pimps on Fulton Street in Brooklyn… also warned us. They didn’t like us messing with their prostitutes.
I remember them telling us, as me and my two friends were surrounded by several pimps, that they felt it would be healthier for us… if we messed with the prostitutes a few blocks away. Their competition.
But my weight lifting brother from the group home didn’t like the way he was being talked to.
My eyes were practically rolling to the back of my head. We were about to be killed. And he was talking back to them. I was only sixteen. Too young to die.
I looked at Angel… my other brother. But instead of him joining me and looking for a way out… he started talking back to the pimps too. And I noticed that one of the pimps, the one that was in the background, carried a cane, with the head of a snake on top of it. The snake was made of metal and thick. And it looked really heavy.
Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed. The pimps, realizing that my two buddies were crazy, let us go with a warning. The pimps speaking to us… looked at the guy with the cane. It was obvious… he was in charge.
I learned a few things that night. Everyone is afraid. Except guys that are crazy. And I also learned that it was good to have your own brand. Your own Signature. The pimp with the cane had his own signature. It was the heavy metal snake on the cane.
And you better believe that the people in his business… know him by his signature.
I wondered how many men and women the pimp either intimidated or beat with that cane. How many pleas for mercy did that snake hear? How do you even become a man like that?
The story will be continued in The Hitman 3
Photo by Craig Whitehead via Unsplash.
Fictional stories by John Saccone 
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