“I need to see Easy.” Deacon announced when he came to the bottom of the stairs.

The basement was underground, and it felt strange being underneath the large castle building above. But what Deacon was facing was not a dungeon, but an old-fashioned pool room filled with pool tables symmetrically placed in the center and a few jukeboxes and bench seating along the edges of the room peppered with some old arcade cabinets. Where upstairs most of the patrons appeared to be college kids out for a good party, down here the room was filled more sparsely with a group of more dangerous looking men and women. A mixture of black gang members and white bikers with a few well-dressed mafioso types sprinkled in there, it did not look like a roomful of people to be trifled with.

But neither was Deacon, and that was exactly what he intended to do here. Shake it up and see what fell out. The entire room seemed to glare over at him, sizing him up dangerously when he asked for Easy. The message on their faces was clear, this was a question that should be whispered, not shouted. Deacon had already drawn their ire, so he didn’t see any point in dialing it back at this point. He faced the nearest person at the bottom of the stairs, a fat leather clad biker with a long grey beard and hair spilling out from underneath a backward black White Sox hat.

“You Easy, m’man?”

The man shifted his considerable weight to square off against the much smaller cabbie.

“No, I’m death bitch.” He had a slight southern accent.

“Oh. Know where to find Easy, Deathbitch? I need to find Easy.”

A skinny young black man came shuffling over, injecting himself between the two and probably stopping the old biker from attacking. Or, Deacon thought, saving the old man from an embarrassing beatdown.

“Yo man why you buggin’? Keep it down dawg.” Easy lowered his voice as he came close and invaded Deacon’s space.

“You Easy?”

“Yeah man.” Easy didn’t look very easy right now. He seemed rather annoyed at Deacon. “What ‘choo want?” He had his hands in the pockets of a brightly colored jacket and he spread the edges outward as he asked.

“I heard you were the guy to see about getting things around here.”

“Sure, what do you need?” Easy pressed his voice this time, putting emphasis on every single word.

“A friend of mine went missing. Ava Collins.” Deacon spoke loudly enough for others in the room to hear, and he held up the picture and passed it left to right, not only for the man in front of him to see, but for the attention that he had of everyone else in the room.

This brought a flash of fear in the drug pusher’s eyes, and a death glare from several other people in the room. That’s when Deacon knew he was on the right track.

“I dunno her man.” Easy looked away, his body language clearly revealing that he was lying. “Now do you need something or you just trippin’?”

“I’m not trying to involve the police or reporters or anything. But you do know the girl and her friend are both famous. There would be a lot of attention if either knew of her disappearance. I’m just a private investigator. I just need to speak with her and be on my way. Point me in a direction.”

“Yo, man. Don’t nobody know anything about some missing white girl.” A large bearded black man, wearing a black and gold Playboy bunny shirt, a dead giveaway for being associated with the Vicelords street gang, came over. “Get the fuck outta here.” He was intimidating, a man from the streets that has been in scraps before.

Six other black men, several of which also wore black and gold, came to back up the first man. Deacon positioned himself strategically, so his back was almost against a wall, preventing himself from being surrounded. These men were obviously used to intimidating others with their dangerousness and their numbers, but they had not run across Deacon Crawford before.

Three other men came over from another part of the poolhall, two black and one Mexican, all wearing black and blue, which signified a different gang, the Gangster Disciples. They were not known for getting along particularly well. But despite these details not escaping Deacon’s attention on some level, the main thing that came to the front, and drowned everything else out was the fact that this man seemed to be threatening him. And as intimidating and rough as these men looked, Deacon was no stranger to a street fight, as a little white kid on the South Side he had to fight to survive many times in his life and he learned one thing in the process. It was not always the largest, roughest man in the room that was the most dangerous, for they were most used to getting their way and most people dared not draw their ire. No, it was usually the littlest dog in the fight that proved the most dangerous, because he had to fend off all the other big dogs in order to get a meal. And Deacon was starved for a fight.

“You get the fuck outta here.” Deacon responded with an increased hostility behind his growl of a voice. “You want me to leave? It’s easy, tell me where I can find her.”

The large, bearded man looked back once, and Deacon did not miss the exchange between him and one of the well-dressed Italians who seemed to be staying out of the conflict. This man nodded pointedly, giving him permission maybe? Giving him a command?

Either way, Deacon was ready for it when the man suddenly wheeled back around, throwing his weight behind a swinging haymaker designed to knock the smaller man’s head off. For an experienced street fighter like Deacon, the man gave off several telegraphs, he tensed his neck muscles, raised his eyebrows and shifted his shoulder before throwing the punch.

Deacon easily moved aside, the wild punch went wide of its mark and collided with a crack to the wall behind him. Instead of backing up, Deacon moved closer and threw a nasty kick to the inside of the man’s leading leg. With a nasty pop, it came out of place, doing serious possible long-term damage. But the man in his rage and ego still attempted another punch at the smaller opponent. While half as large, Deacon was twice as quick, and moved aside again of the wild swing, grabbing hold of the man’s arm and using his own momentum to swing his entire body around, throwing him into a nearby mirror on the wall.

The gang member’s face went into the mirror, shattering it instantly and cutting his face open with the jagged shards. Mirrors were not made of safety glass and broke differently, and the jagged pieces sliced the man open like weighted razorblades. While he was controlling the man’s arm, Deacon was also twisting his wrist and hand backward the wrong way. He yanked with all of his might until he felt it pop and break. The gang member went down with a yell of rage and pain.

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Deacon looked up to see the others all facing off against him. He hoped by doing some gruesome and possible permanent damage to the first guy, it might deter the rest of them, but in the streets, looks were everything and despite the display, none of the rest of them seemed very intimidated by the much smaller white boy. As they all lunged at him at once, he knew the next few moments would not be pretty.

Deacon managed to strike first and caught one of them off-guard. As they were preparing to attack, he kicked out like he was kicking down a door and caught the nearest one between the legs. At the same time, he dropped his head slightly to catch the first punch of many on the top of his head instead of in the face. He managed to hurt both men, but there were simply too many numbers working against him, even if he had been Bruce Lee.

Though he managed to temporarily incapacitate two of them, one dropped down to grasp his groin while the other stepped back with a possible broken hand or wrist, there were still six more that tackled him at once.

Everything devolved into chaos. Deacon traded punches with several men at once as they fell, giving as good as he got, and he was able to throw just as many punches as were coming in from all of the men at once.

Deacon went rolling to the ground in a mass of punching humanity, and as they fell and rolled, he desperately tried to seek a limb that he could grab and exploit. As two of the gang members grabbed his upper body, he managed to grab hold of a thumb that was gripping his neck, and he pulled back the wrong way as hard as he could until he felt a snap.

Two more men grabbed his legs and now with four men on top of him, it was his turn to be incapacitated. He thrashed against them savagely, but there was simply too much weight in their numbers for him to triumph over. He managed to bite someone’s hand just as they were spreading him out on the ground, one man holding him down per limb, while the other two stepped over him and began striking down at his unprotected body. The first flurry of blows were angry and sloppy, and he felt them striking his chest and ribs.

“Fuck you pussies.” Deacon roared back at them defiantly. “You hit like a bunch of girls…” Deacon was then struck in the face, and this time it rung his bell. “…I’m not scared of any of you.”

The blows kept raining down until another one struck him in the face just right and rang his bell again. This time his ears closed up and rang out, and the shouting and commotion died away for him. Punches and kicks kept coming, and with no way to defend himself, the only thing that Deacon could do was rage against the attack. He screamed at the top of his lungs while they beat him.

Eventually Deacon was dazed, and the surrounding gang members lifted him to his feet. He was probably suffering from a concussion at that point and did not feel the full extent of the multiple injuries done to him from the adrenaline at that moment.

“Fuck you, white boy.” One of the gangsters punched him in the stomach while another held him from behind. The blow drove the wind from his lungs, and he felt a sharp pain that felt like death doubling him over.

Another punch came in, hitting him on the jaw. And then another one to his cheek struck him like a sledgehammer. Deacon’s body went limp, and although he did not lose consciousness, he knew he didn’t have much left. The man whom he’d stuck in the groin got a retaliatory shot in, and the men then let his limp body drop to the ground. Deacon was hurt, and the world was spinning, but though he wished for it, he still did not lose consciousness.

But this time the blows did stop, mercifully, and one of the well-dressed Italians came over to address the group of bloodthirsty animals that would have likely kept beating the smaller cab driver until he was dead. They had delivered the beating with a certain glee, leaving no doubt in Deacon’s mind that they would have killed him there with joy in their black hearts.

“Take him outside first.” The Italian man said dispassionately, with no more emotion than he would use to order a trash can to be emptied. “This is a classy place, no mess here. Take him outside.”

The gang members seemed like it took some effort to suppress their animal mob instincts, but they stopped beating on their victim, as instructed. Apparently, this man called the shots here. They picked the limp cabbie up again and began dragging him up the stairs.

The rest was a blur to Deacon, as he faded in and out. He was dragged painfully up the stairs, and across a floor, but he was in shock and barely felt it. Next, he was dragged through a cold area with a clinical feel, for a moment Deacon wondered how he had gotten to the hospital, but he realized that it was in fact a kitchen. He could see a smear of blood on the clean white tiles, and he wondered if it was from him. He wanted to apologize to someone as the floor looked so clean it was a real shame to muck it up.

Finally, a shock of cold air hit him along with a ringing sound, and he realized they had used his head like a battering ram to open a door that led out into a back alley. He was then roughly shoved against the stone and brick wall of the club.

He could hear their laughter. They were joking about who was going to get to kill him. They were also arguing how it should be done, several of them were about to shoot him it seemed, but others argued that the noise would lead to trouble. A sick feeling began to grow in the pit of Deacon’s stomach and within minutes of standing out in the cold, the feeling had grown and spread. He began thinking that they must have struck a vital organ like his kidney in their assault, and it was getting ready to rupture. As the pain became unbearable, he fell to the ground holding his stomach.

“Yo man, think he already dead.” One of the gang members pointed and laughed, which drew laughter from the others as well.

“Fuck this punk.” Another one said while drawing a kitchen knife from inside his coat. This shorter, beady eyed man was beginning to walk towards Deacon with murderous intent shining in his eyes when he stopped suddenly,

There was now a strange, animal-like growl coming from the doubled over cab driver. The growl grew and several of the gang members screamed, made signs of aversion and leapt backwards. The young man looked up, and his face was no longer recognizable. His facial hair had grown rapidly in just a few moments, his sideburns were now tufts of long black hair. When he looked towards the gang members before him, his eyes were no longer human, but glowing red orbs in the darkness.

There was a sound of ripping clothes, followed by the screams of several terrified men, who did not get a chance to flee the terror that suddenly befell them. The narrow alley became a whirlwind of blood and claws and within moments, the gang members were all dead, shredded into unrecognizable gory pieces.

* * * *

Zoe paid the cab driver and exited the vehicle while it was stopped just outside the Four Seasons hotel. The dawn was just breaking out over the horizon, she was beyond tired and upset at this point. Somewhere in the night, her new cab driver friend had decided to abandon her inside the club. She was usually a good judge of character and had at first pegged him as an honest and dependable man, but now she was rethinking that assessment. She had stayed more or less in one spot during the night, sticking closely to the dance area and the less chaotic bar area just outside of the dance floor.

Eventually Zoe began to get worried when the cabbie did not return or seek her out. They had become separated in the dance club, but she had not been hard to find. She had begun to ask around to see if anyone else had seen her cab driver. A few of the bartenders responded to her inquiries, they told her that he had been there earlier, asking about Ava and then disappeared elsewhere in the club. No one had seen him since. After searching for nearly an hour, she finally gave up the search and called another cab to go back to the hotel.

Now Zoe was on her way back up to her hotel room in a particularly foul mood. She couldn’t believe the asshole had ditched her like that. Had first accused her of something so vile and then ditched her. Zoe was someone, she was famous and beautiful, nobody ditched her, she was the one that did the ditching. As the elevator doors opened, she resolved to find him later in the day and make sure he understood that he was being ditched, not her. And she would probably use more insults than that. She went into her hotel room and closed the door behind her, she would soon be passed out from the busy night. But her last thoughts were of how bad the dirty little cab driver would regret his decision tonight.