Thanksgiving Day came. Families gathered to eat turkey, pumpkin pie, and mashed potatoes. Cornucopias of plenty, among decorations littering porches, plastered the town in the fall season. Nearly leafless trees told any person looking around that winter was coming. The afternoon Sun shined on pedestrians going about for last second preparations.
Jean adjusted his hat once more. His mask was slightly stuffy, but it paid off by the extra protection it provided. Managing a double identity made life harder, but it was acceptable because he could silence the fleas wanting to follow him.
This scratched his burning urges, solidified his reputation, protected his identity, and rooted out any rats that developed in the future. It was all beneficial, despite the recklessness of his murder sprees.
Jean walked up to the looming seven story building. His hands unraveled the newspaper issue from this morning. The front page prominently stated, “Rogue FIBS agent frames Vietnam Veteran For Drug Dealing!” A photo of Alan Cathwright, a well-known loose cannon, displayed him in cuffs outside of the hospital and still with his SWOT outfit on. Underneath it, a small censored picture of Vinnie Saegall in his old fatigues captioned him as the victim.
Jean frowned but flipped to the next page. He arrogantly strode up the seven steps and entered the glass revolving doors. At the receptionist desk, young Lenny sat in a ruffled suit. Although he looked unkempt, Lenny had a constant smile and provocative face. Even Jean had trouble restraining himself from killing the man when all Lenny did was smirk.
Jean kept reading and asked Lenny, “Where’s Kyle? He was supposed to get me a pack of Cuban cigars in the next smuggled shipment.”
Lenny’s smile faltered but he picked back up his cheery expression. He didn’t want to talk to Jacque the Trigger, let alone personally tell him bad news. Hierarchy said otherwise.
“Kyle’s with his family right now.”
Jean lowered his newspaper and Lenny shrunk from Jean’s stare. The darkness in his pupils scared Lenny, so he pulled out a drawer and laid the cigars out.
“Don’t worry. He remembered to send them.”
Jean grunted and placed them in his inner shirt pocket. He ignored Lenny, but now he knew for sure things played out as he planned. It was time to root out the last traitors.
Jean calmly waited through an elevator ride up and the short walk over to the conference room. There, dozens of men in fancy suits sat in chairs at desks and tables all around. They circled around a raised platform. A podium stood in the center. Several men in black three-piece suits stood off against the walls. There were no windows, so a few stage lights and lamps lit up the reinforced room.
A hushed murmur ended all their personal conversations as soon as the double doors opened. Jean stepped lithely on the freshly furnished carpet, almost gliding over to the podium. Most of the men in fine suits straightened up in their seats and eyed Jean with caution. A few remained unaffected or simply didn’t care.
Jean scanned the crowd before smacking his fist on the wooden podium for good measure. The loud bang attracted strict attention.
“Hello, gentlemen. I see all of you have arrived.”
In the far left, the new Guano family’s don voraciously ate a turkey leg. Grease and gravy covered his bulging cheeks and stained his white dress shirt. His floozies chattered on and fawned lustfully over his rotund belly almost bursting the seams of his clothes. The rest of his men followed the don’s suit and ate, but they warily gauged Jacque the Trigger’s mood.
Next to them, the old Borrono family’s don watched in interest. He sipped from his wine glass as his men postured menacingly. They liked to stay intimidating, but always kept open to details. This is why, instead of taking initiative as the forefront of the families, they gladly waited for the strongest to fight first.
The Corrado family’s don impatiently tapped the table in front of him and twisted the ends of his immaculate handlebar mustache. It was so well-groomed, it literally shined with an otherworldly power of its own. The men around him nervously shuffled around and shook their legs in place.
Finally, the Miachi family’s don drooled. He slept through the entire process, not even bothering to pay attention. Wrinkles covered his aged face, but the man just hit his thirties. His men worried and kept calculating whether it was worth it to bother him or Jacque the Trigger.
“I’ll make this quick. On this thankful day, the Lord has brought us together. We have our own families and our own histories. It is time to have a boss to lead us. I cleaned up your mess, so it’s time for you find who’s doing the dirty work.”
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A grumble broke out in the audience. Everyone knew Jacque hated paperwork. Jacque was the “loose cannon” type who killed people he didn’t like. The perks of being the big boss were money, influence, power, fame, and a legacy. But they all knew that if they triggered Jacque… their lives would end.
A few minutes passed. None of the families volunteered to take control. The burden outweighed the benefits. Jean scanned right to left but none of them responded to the call.
Jean slammed his fist into the podium and shout, “No one!? Are we not the Mafia? What’s wrong? Scared?”
Frowns drooped the overall mood to a new low. Jean shrugged and pulled out his gun.
Before anyone could shout, he already fired two shots.
One flew at Nick the Picker of the Borrono family. Instantly, he died in a spray of blood. His brothers broke character and reflexively recoiled from his body. The Borrono don stood up and glared at Jean.
The other bullet killed one of the bodyguards along the wall. He had his gun half-drawn and fell back against the wall. The gun clattered onto the floor, speckled with blood. The other guards drew their guns and aimed it at Jean.
Jean chuckled before shouting, “I will not take any traitors! Get rid of their bodies or I will get rid of your families!”
The frustrated families complied to his demands but the guards kept Jean at gunpoint. The double entendre struck a chord with them. Perhaps they thought the madman had gone too far.
The don Mercelli Miachi woke up in the kerfuffle and yelled, “Let me sleep, for f*ckssake!”
The tension built to a new high but only a few seconds passed so far. At the double doors, Jimmie and Timon strolled in with M4’s in hand. They took aim at the men aiming at Jean and fired.
Chaos broke out and everyone took out their guns.
A few more seconds passed.
Glass bottles and cups shattered.
Food and drink sprayed all around.
A few lights exploded but luckily, didn’t catch fire.
A smoky haze built up.
The gunfire ended.
Over half of the guards were dead and the furniture, walls, and floor were filled with bullet holes. Miraculously, none of the families’ members died but they were shot up. A few needed immediate attention or they would bleed out.
Jean crouched behind his ballistic-resistant podium covered in bullets and dents. He breathed heavily in excitement. Two bullets struck his mask and made grievous cracks. Jean looked more like a demon than ever.
Jimmie and Timon emptied their rifles and dropped them to the side. They moved confidently in their suits and ruffled through the bodies of the guards. Wires and recording devices fell out.
The sounds of painful groaning and whimpers filled the room. The dons survived unscathed and realized the two teens’ discovery.
“We were being watched!?”
“Who was it?”
“Jacque, did you know about this!?”
Jean chuckled before standing up again and shooting two bodies lying against the wall. Their chests stopped rising a few moments later.
“Gentlemen, when we get a boss to lead us, we have to keep loyal members. If anyone squeals or if anyone is a spy, we lose the entire organization. We are newcomers to the game in the United States. We are not the only mafia or the only hidden powers that control behind the scenes.”
Jean reloaded and gripped his gun tightly.
“We haven’t even touched the Deep State yet.”
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After the mafia cleaned up its mess and instated Rob Golspie as the defacto boss, Jimmie and Timon left. They got special treatment and got paid big bucks. In the time since Jacque took them in, Jimmie finally ate in peace and dressed nice. He newly uncovered his strong Swedish features, getting girls to look at him in interest instead of disgust.
Jimmie earned respect in the streets. No one, not even gangs, held him up or looked to mug him… well, the reason also being he killed whoever messed with him didn’t need to be mentioned. Jimmie liked his power, his money, and his new health. Jimmie liked being able to do things he wanted and feeling good.
The problem was that Jimmie didn’t want his dad to know. His dad was the most honest man there was. If he thought something was wrong, he’d say it. If he saw something needed to be done, he’d do it. If someone was in need, he’d help.
The trouble all started before Jimmie was born, when his dad married the wrong woman and had three kids. Jimmie’s dad worked as a chef for a Nordic themed restaurant and Jimmie’s mom thought it was the greatest. But one day, she realized her bland life with her bland husband wasn’t enough.
She left Jimmie and took his two sisters. The judge ruled in the divorce that Jimmie’s dad abused them and he was forced to pay child support and for the damages. All of it was made up, of course, but no one believed the tall and strong-looking man while his wife cried with her daughters. They were covered in severe injuries that were self-inflicted.
Jimmie’s dad lost his job and lost his respect. He only found work as a busboy, washing dishes he cleared and cleaning up the obscure restaurant called “Bigolies”. He’d then go home and whip up his own Swedish recipes, especially his juicy meatballs, to peddle to people he knew. Sometimes, when he had free time, he’d do odd jobs, cleaning people’s toilets or help roof a house.
Jimmie never spent much time with his dad because he was always busy. His dad still couldn’t get over his ex-wife, who kept taking around a third of his income. Jimmie felt like another burden to his dad, so he ate very little so the rest of the food could pay bills and for more ingredients.
Jimmie blew a cold mist of air. It curved around his face and trailed up to the sky. It dissipated quickly. It was cold on this Thanksgiving day, and Jimmie pulled his overcoat tighter against his cooling skin. He regretted not bringing a hat.
Jimmie walked by several people, but one weird man in a purple hoodie and grey slacks pestered people in front of him. The man had a greying but groomed short boxed beard. His brown eyes darted up and down the person he spoke to and he left them after saying a few words.
Jimmie frowned and walked faster when the older man approached him.
The man joyfully called, “Excuse me, young man! Do you know the area around here? I wanted a tour of the most exciting places! I’m sure you have time to help me.”
Jimmie said, “No. No one has time to help you. We all have to do stuff with our families. It’s Thanksgiving, don’t you know that?”
Jimmie picked up the pace but the man incessantly followed.
“Sometimes you have to let down your family or else they’ll drag you down. People are fickle and need to know everyone should care for strangers like their own brother.”
Jimmie stayed silent but the man hovered near him like a shadow.
“My name is Thomas. What’s yours?”
Jimmie ignored the man.
“You have many brothers now, don’t you? Whether they are your own blood or a sworn friend, you need company. Crime families stick together like that.”
Jimmie paused in his step. The man gripped his shoulder as two other men appeared.
“We spent a long time just to talk to you. It’s rude to keep us waiting when we were so nice.”