Vinnie Saegull traced the brim of his bowler cap with his scarred left hand. His left pinky's tip throbbed invisibly and reminded him of the Vietnam War. Vinnie still remembered joining the moment he could enlist. He wanted to help out his older brother Paul, who left four years before him. And the moment Vinnie landed with his friends Benjamin, Carl, Quincey, and Thomas… was the second that guns opened fire. It was the start of pure survival.
Vinnie looked at the bottle of Napoleon-aged cognac on his desk. The name "Frappin" decorated its label and its origin printed underneath spelled out, "Grande Champagne, France." Like how much France once wanted to keep Vietnam under its colonialism, Vinnie couldn't stop drinking the brand. It stuck to him, like the hot branding iron that burned long scars into his skin. Both brands were marks on Vinnie's stomach: one being the burnt skin spelling out "Người Mỹ" (American) and the other being his slight beer gut.
At the moment, Vinnie finally came back to his new room in the Wellington Apartments and enjoyed himself for the time being. Although he looked strange, as Vinnie looked suited up and poised to draw his gun at any moment, years of torture and living under constant fear honed his habits. These times when anger and fear spread across the nation and when people clouded their judgement felt all too familiar to Vinnie. Life passed by in a blur since he came home, after the Vietnam War.
Vinnie groaned as he shuffled through all the papers and files in front of him. The overhead light flickered annoyingly and the large window near the apartment door shone in the last vestiges of today's light. Words spun in Vinnie's mind and his head throbbed as pictures flashed.
Vinnie somehow ended up working as a private investigator on the State Government payroll. Recently, his work picked up more and more interesting crime scenes in his county: specifically, murder and arson. He was badgered by the top brass in the Department of Public Safety for the increasing irregularities. Vinnie didn't have any concrete answers they liked. Mafias or conspiracy weren't enough for the public.
Vinnie puzzled over several case files, like why a gay teenager would write, "Why, God?" in his own blood after poisoning himself or the incongruities in the Homophobic "Cult" Mass Suicide Incident. Vinnie didn't like the sloppy handling of the second case, since he personally investigated for Danny, his partnering prosecutor and state attorney.
The damage of the bullet wounds and position of the bodies didn't suggest suicide; they were most definitely murdered, let alone that they were definitely extremists that followed the skewed words of Christ. No normal cultist started their life as an honest Christian man of God; rather, they resembled a radical homophobic hate group. It had nothing to do with an occult influence.
Frankly, it smelled like the law enforcement's underhandedness used by the Southern Vietnamese who murdered innocent Buddhists in their temples. One time was a suspicious coincidence, but when it happened over and over and over again, yet for different reasons… The first Vietnamese President Diệm was an example of that oppression, which is why the Intelligence Center Agency plotted his assassination. There had to be a link to something bigger. Too many people got silenced for there to be a coincidence happening.
Vinnie knew this. His mind always revolved around the unsolved and suspicious case files he read over the past two decades. It wasn't the work of a gang. Gangs were too crude and overt. They liked attention and respect. This was more the style of the mafia. There was a reason why cops or other PIs went missing when poking around too deeply.
By the time Vinnie brought up his concerns, the Federal Investigative Bureau Service busted in and kicked him out "to preserve the crime scene." It was all bureaucratic horse sh*t, but he couldn't do anything about it. In the end, a cover up was issued when the two agents went missing.
The big dogs of the FIBS took a step back for now. There were too many places to be and too many leads to follow. Also, sending more would only raise public suspicion and panic. No one needed to know that shortly after arriving, the very investigators that the President encouraged to look into the deaths just disappeared into nothingness. For now, only local and state law enforcement could act.
Vinnie found in his office a kindly worded anonymous letter to f*ck off, and in that letter was the letter M. Vinnie was stumped. It all stank of an underground operation. None of it was directly connected, but someone called the shots to be taken. It had to be a group with enough power to pressure even the cops, since none of them dared to look deeper anymore with Vinnie.
Actually, Vinnie was the sole madman deranged enough to continue. He didn't understand their fears, especially the warning he got from the Police Chief. What did the big M in the dated Mariage font mean? Why did they all the missing people get sealed letters with only an M on it at different times? He knew there was something he missed, because Vinnie didn't disappear yet.
For now, Vinnie could only trust Thomas and Benjamin, who were with him since the Vietnam War. Benjamin always stayed by his side and suffered through and through with Vinnie. If it weren't for his amazing survival skills, Vinnie would've died early on.
Thomas was the lucky fool who never got captured. He was vital in informing the military that Vinnie, Benjamin, Carl, and Quincey went MIA. Thomas helped rescue several POWs too. It was Thomas's final push that saved Vinnie and Benjamin.
Vinnie took a sip of cognac and cleared his throat. Then he closed up the bottle and set it down. He grabbed the landline phone at the corner of his desk. The cord curled and dangled, shifting over a few papers on his desk. His finger stabbed out Benjamin's number so he could arrange the meeting.
But suddenly, Vinnie instinctively felt off! There were way too many weighted footsteps in the hall. He pulled out his pistol and opened up one of the lower drawers, pulling out a few magazines and taking cover. He tipped over his desk, sending papers flying!
Ban-Ban-Bang!
Vinnie heard slamming at his reinforced door. The locks held the door in place. Muffled shouting from the other side droned over.
Ban-Ban-Bang!
Vinnie's apartment door burst open and he saw the barrel of presumably a shotgun peer past. In that time, Vinnie knelt, peered around his desk and fired two shots at the first head that popped in. Instantly, their black helmet cracked and they pulled back.
"He's firing! Get back!"
"F*cking mafia! I'll kill you all!" Vinnie cursed and threw a flashbang over. He ducked behind his desk again and slipped on his protective goggles. Several shouts followed.
"Surrender—"
"Drop your gun!"
"Put your hands—"
The flashbang set off, temporarily distracting them. More shots fired. Vinnie sprinted over to the small alcove connected to his room and emptied his Glock 19 wildly out of the door frame. Plings of loud rebounds echoed in the small enclosure.
"Oh fu—"
Vinnie saw the Remington 870 poke from the corner.
BANG!
Vinnie's ears rang and immediately, his shoulder splattered red. He barely ducked a body shot and dropped to his knees. Vinnie cursed silently as he recognized their uniforms.
"I surrender!"
Vinnie dropped his gun and watched as the Special Weapons Of Tactics officers storm in. They practically dog piled him so that he was properly restrained and handcuffed. Hands trailed up and down and down and up Vinnie's body for hidden weapons. Magazines, knives, pepper spray, tasers, another flashbang, and a nightstick were confiscated.
Vinnie never hated the disgraced President Rick Hard Dixon more than now, even when he resigned long ago. It was his War on Drugs policy that escalated police power in ramping up search warrant raids. Not only that, President Dixon formed paramilitary forces who needed little convincing for the judiciary to approve of their extreme raids.
Of course, some of it was warranted in times of rampant and outright vicious drug dealers of the North and South American cartels. But, nowadays, it was easier for the SWOT teams to be called in for fake or unnecessary calls, making most of the raids on innocent people.
Surrounded by M4s in his face, Vinnie smiled. He didn't kill anyone, but he did clip a few close shots. If they didn't have their ballistic-resistant gear, four officers would be dead. Vinnie watched as the rest crowded in and began searching for any illicit narcotics or threats.
They roughly led him out and secured him for detainment. One specifically accompanied Vinnie in the ambulance, albeit given a few strange looks by the rest of the team. After all, his gear was the most damaged.
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"There's only enough space for one of us and I need to be the one to keep watch over him. He's gotta be cleaned up before we can arrest him.”
Vinnie looked around him and saw the far ends of the street were crowded with ambulances and FIBS vehicles.
"You can get together to take me down, but you refuse to find out who's behind this!?" Vinnie cursed the FIBS.
The medical staff strapped Vinnie down on the gurney and rode off. They treated his shoulder swiftly and cleanly.
"You're one lucky man," said the EMT dressing Vinnie's wound.
She was in her early forties, like Vinnie, and comforted him with a slightly wrinkled smile and a nod of appreciation.
Vince frowned when she brushed back a lock of her reddish hair and strapped herself back in her seat. Her paramedic partner continued checking Vinnie's condition.
"Well I'll be a monkey's uncle… If you weren't drinking so much and had a firefight with a SWOT team, you'd be in good health," complimented the man with black and white hair. He adjusted his glasses back into place with his shoulder and started cleaning up after himself.
The rest of the ride had Vinnie staring back at the SWOT officer who accompanied him. After a swirl of activity and bustle from the hospital, the doctors and staff left Vinnie to be interrogated by the SWOT officer. When he took off his gas mask, Vinnie confirmed his suspicions. He startled wiggling on the gurney.
"Ah, it's nice to see you again, Alan Cathwright. You were that stupid hotshot rookie I trained—"
"F**king Hell, Vinnie. Shut up. This is why you Viet Vets are as disgraceful as your President was," he sneered as he interrupted.
"Dixon was not my President," Vinnie frowned. "Not Dixon, not Tord, not Farter, and not the new President Wuss. I served my country, not for the person who won a rigged election from the Electoral College."
"Crazy like always." Alan laughed merrily. "Bet you cried when President Dixon called for Vietnamization. He replaced you with Asians because you couldn't even fight in wars right."
"Alan, I hated fighting. The Vietnam War never meant to help our American people—"
"I don't care what you think!" Alan shouted. "What I care about is extracting a confession from you. It just so happens that the special job I was assigned to had you here."
Alan grinned and patted Vinnie's shoulder. Vinnie kept wiggling futilely.
"We're gonna flay you Viet Vets like pigs! Ben and Tom are getting raided as we speak. So it's best that you confess to killing our FIBS agents now, before things turn REAL ugly. We received an anonymous call already that you were hyped up on meth and LSD before screaming that you were gonna shoot up your office. I can make you elaborate on that story."
Alan turned around and put a chair under the locked doorknob for extra measure. When he turned around, Vinnie finished unlocking his handcuffs and cutting the straps holding him down. Being paranoid led Vinnie to keep a Swiss Army knife up his ass.
"What the f—"
Vinnie dropped off the gurney and threw the knife. The brownish object almost was deflected by Alan's reflexes yet managed to smack against his helmet. The dark substance trailed down and plopped onto Alan's nose.
"Is this shi—?!" Alan cried in shock at the stench.
Vinnie charged Alan. Alan broke out of his stupor and aimed his M4. It was too late to shoot at this distance now, so Alan clicked his tongue and threw the assault rifle at Vinnie.
Vinnie caught the gun, grabbed it by the butt, and swung it at Alan. Alan pulled out his pistol and grabbed his knife in his other hand. The M4 whacked the pistol, sending it flying across the room.
Alan expected this, so he didn't resist and charged Vinnie with his knife. Vinnie let go of the M4 after smacking the pistol and took a stance. He tripped Alan and pushed him down. The weight and bulk of Alan's equipment played against him. He fell forward like a bag of rocks.
Vinnie easily reused his handcuffs on Alan.
"Motherf**ker, I swear I'm gonna kill you for this! You hear me?! Kill you!!! Get me outta these!"
"Sorry, Alan, but no," Vinnie breathed heavily. He was slightly winded and had to keep Alan down.
"I'm having a talk with the big boys to see why I keep getting served this crap."
Vinnie needed these false allegations dropped and join the Witness Protection Program. He didn't want to go missing without telling anyone else what was going on. Vinnie also needed to ensure the safety of his close friends.
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Jean hung up on the payphone. Although speaking like a panicking woman in her twenties wasn't as tasteful in Jean's eyes, it worked well enough to alert the FIBS. It helped that there were no wiretaps monitoring either, since Jean thoroughly checked.
Jean readjusted his three-piece suit after stepping out of the confining phone booth. It wasn't to his liking that there were no immediate escape routes, but Jean accepted the calculated risks.
Jean slowly strangled more and more shares out of the hands of investors and gained more and more control. Eventually, all the shareholders would consist solely of those under his control.
Jean personally killed the vindictive and troublesome ones as his alternate persona of Jacque the Trigger.
As Jacque, Jean killed any lawless troublemaker that didn't follow the mafia's code of conduct. It meant, basically, he had a fun shoot out with all the big-headed fools who were too egoistic. At first, he crushed necks underfoot but when Jean got his hands on unregistered guns, he began shooting people at a moment's notice.
Because of his quick fingers, little patience, honesty, and ruthlessness, few were left that posed a threat. Those were the ones Jean could control with his reputation, his skills, and his people. The thirteen assassination attempts on his own life were dramatically reversed in the short time that passed.
The car bomb failed because of the tampering was obvious. The assassins were tortured before they and Big Belly Billy were filled with holes.
The poison failed because Jean swapped it back to his assassin. He traced Needy Nelson, the culprit, to an underground bar. Nelson also took a permanent rest in a coffin, with some shattered vintage wine bottles to wash his death down.
Three hitmen were shot using rebounds and Melburn got shot while watching from his barber shop.
There were many tales of his showdowns with other criminals, but Jacque the Trigger shot them all dead.
It was a frightening reputation whispered in the underground and the cops steered clear of Jacque. He was practically a hero, for taking vigilante justice, but also, he was a cold-blooded and experienced killer. Anyone that attacked should expect to kill or be killed and it just wasn't worth it. Jacque's mask became a legend in its own right.
Soon, Jean could activate the final part of his plan to clean up his network and install Rob Golspie, an Irish-Italian ex-Jew, as the new boss with all the crime families serving him. Golspie was the only one Jean trusted to be fair, yet lucrative and brutal.
The grunt work for a new generation of mobsters already started with two teenagers he started grooming. Jean knew they had talent and they shined brightly for it.
It made things easier that all the new and old big shots left were now deeply Roman Catholic. By being Jean the Priest or Jacque the Trigger, he could start controlling the surrounding cities before moving onto the entire county.
Then he'd move onto the next and the next until he took over the state. Then he'd move onto the next state and the next before he took over the country. Then he'd move onto the next country and the next.
Finally, Jean would spread a ruthless yet honorable code that allowed duels and straight-up murder. He aimed to transform the culture back to the gunslinging days or start a War on Crime or create absolute chaos.
So long as Jean caused death, it didn't matter what happened in the end.