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by Adam P. Rothstein

I am cold; I am in pain, and the darkness surrounds me. Will it ever end? Will my eyes regain their usefulness, or will I be forced to remain a prisoner amongst the shadows? I thought I knew the answers to these questions, but perhaps I was incorrect in my assumptions.

“Argh,” I said, and repeatedly say, since I have been unable to form coherent sentences for what feels like weeks. A great pressure is building within my chest, as if my cold heart has suddenly become an explosive device. I pray for the end, to meet whatever god has created me, and accept my punishment for the many transgressions I have committed. It seems that the lord is almost as unmerciful as I am, consistently ignoring my requests to end my suffering. Even engaging in conversation with the deity of deities would have sufficed, but my world remained silent. Such is the nature of the darkness.

To be quite sure, I deserved my current prison cell. I have done horrific things in life, terrible, gruesome acts which scream in dulcet tones for this incarceration to end with my own bloody demise. But not today, my friend. Not today.

How much longer must I wait? My limbs were frozen, and I felt quite certain that I could snap each of my fingers as easily as twigs. Intense, icy numbness coursed throughout my body, and I knew it could not be much longer. Soon the light would come, and with it, a brand new day filled with the screams of the innocent. Such cries shall be music to my ears.

For those of you unable to discern my identity, allow me the opportunity to introduce myself. My name is Humphrey T. Schunk. I have no friends, and therefore, no nicknames. You may call me Humphrey; or if it so pleases you, master.

I yearn for blood; no one in particular, just the euphoric sensation of watching the oxygenated liquid spurt forth from an open gash created by mine own hand. Beautiful, crimson nectar of life, the brain’s “go to guy”, now outside of its home and pooling on the floor. Such a sight I would welcome with open arms and wide, eager eyes. But not yet; not until I have gone through the necessary steps to reach that point, the agonizing discomfort before the sweet, serene release that goes hand in hand with ending a man’s life.

I have been killing people most of my days, since the tender age of fifteen, but I am not crazy. I hear no voices, nor speak with divine beings. I do not kill to start wars, or for any political purposes. I have never committed a crime of passion, though the embers within my heart burn passionately when I have a knife in hand. What compels me to drain the life from a person I do not know is the simple pleasure of watching him breathe his last breath. I have sent many men to their graves, but now I fear I may be in my own. An eternity of darkness; such an idea made me shiver.

Looking down at my wrist, I noticed that the watch upon it had begun to glow. Oh, my compassionate, merciful watch. It seems I will live to kill another day, and I suspect that if my mechanical friend has anything to say about it, that day will last forever.

I have travelled through time, and seen things natural men read about in dusty history texts. I alter those books, as best I can, and shape my own future. But my work is never done; on the contrary, it is simply the beginning.

Another flash of light from my watch drew my attention to it once again. In simple, block letters, my companion and only friend flashed a comforting message; READY?

“Why yes, good sir watch, I do believe I am. Any longer in this cold and I fear I will not be much use to anyone.” The watch did not respond; it never does, at least not with words. Before I could ponder my next mission, my mechanical friend flashed a number before my eyes; 1929.

“And so I shall travel to a simpler time; when men wore hats outdoors, but never inside, and women who cut their hair short were considered to be ‘crazy youths’. Yes, I believe I will enjoy myself immensely.” Once again the watch was silent, but I noticed that my surroundings had already begun to grow brighter. A small hole of pure light began to form directly in front of me, and I brought myself to my hands and knees, crawling toward it with fervent purpose. No sooner had I reached within a foot of this welcome sight than I was spit out of a giant mouth onto a rock hard surface.

As I looked up, I realized that a car was heading straight for me. Confused, and almost on the verge of panic, I rolled to my side only an instant before the automobile would have made contact. The driver rolled down his window and screamed as he drove off.

“Get outta the road, moron!”

“A thousand pardons,” I yelled back, committing the license plate number to memory. I would have to find out where this strapping young gentleman resided; such rudeness could not go unpunished.

Standing up and brushing myself off, I noticed that I was in a city. For a moment I believed it to be New York, but that was quickly disproven when I beheld a poster for the Chicago Cubs hanging in the window of a nearby candy store. A New York man born and raised, I knew that even the most diligent of Cubs fans residing in the Big Apple would not hang a poster of another city’s sports team; even a Mets insignia would be pushing it.

Still wearing the clothing from my time in 1402, I must have been a strange sight to behold. I wore a brightly colored tunic of red and yellow, my battle helm still perched atop my head. The people walking in my area were not shy to point out the fact that I was out of place.

“What the hell is this guy wearing?” asked a young man in a mocking tone.

“He’s probably one of those foreign guys come over to steal more jobs,” responded his friend. It was clear that I needed a change of wardrobe, and I hastily walked along the sidewalk searching for a place to procure fresh clothing.

It did not take long, and before I knew it I was standing in front of “Bob’s Suits Galore”, a small shop with a number of fancy ensembles displayed in the window. I opened the door, ignoring the bell that rang to announce my entrance. The shopkeeper, however, perked up and ran to the front of the store.

“Hello, hello and welcome to Bob’s. We have everything you could hope to wear, unless it’s lady clothes; but you don’t look very much like a lady to me,” said the store owner with a wide smile. He was short, perhaps a shade over five feet tall, and the only hair atop his big, round head had been redistributed from its sides. I believe people call it a “comb over”. He wore a suit seemingly made of silk, and navy blue in color.

“I seldom act like a lady, as well,” I responded with a toothy grin.

“So, what can I do for you today? Looks like you could use a whole new kit and caboodle.”

“Yes, I would like a two piece suit please. For the pants, please find me a pair with a thirty eight inch waist and thirty two inches in length.”

“That’s what I like to see, a man who knows what he wants. Any particular color?”

“I will leave that decision up to you, my good man,” I replied.

“No problemo, I’ll be back in a jiff.” The man did not wait for a response, and quickly ran to the back of his store, sifting through a number of suits hanging along a large, silver rack. Grabbing three, he quickly waddled back to my position, running as fast as his stunted legs could take him.

“Okay, let’s try this little blue guy first.”

“No, that is appalling,” I explained in disgust. Though the suit appeared to have once been brilliant, years of neglect had reduced it to a wrinkled, musty smelling collection of rags.

“Hey now, this is quality stuff. You ain’t gonna get much better than this,” said the man with a smile. I have always hated salesmen, and it made me giddy as I anticipated disposing of this worthless waste of space.

“My friend, if that is what you consider to be quality, then I believe I may be in the wrong place.” I began to turn on my heels, but the man grabbed my arm, thus impeding my efforts.

“Oh come on, this ain’t the only suit I got. Don’t you wanna look at some others?” his tone reeked of hope, a stench I have quite often enjoyed erasing.

“Very well, but I must warn you. I only have a thousand dollars to spend today.” This made the man smile, as I knew it would. Perhaps he would show me his real merchandise.

“Well, a grand will buy you a nice suit, I can promise you that. Would you like to come into my back room? I got tons of top notch merchandise.” The man began walking toward a door behind the register, opened it, and walked through. I quickly followed suit, no pun intended, thinking how silly this man was for trusting me in a confined space devoid of prying eyes. Unfortunately for him, his folly would not be something he would laugh about later.

The salesman opened a large chest, and smiled as he pointed to the suits hanging within.

“So what do you think? I got some o’ the North Side boys as customers, and they always take care of me. Seems these suits was headed for some fancy department store downtown; oh well,” he laughed, and I could not help but equate his guffaw with a nail scraping a chalkboard. This man was giving me a headache.

“How much is that one?” I asked, pointing to a dark black suit with white pinstripes.

“Well, I’ll be damned. That suit’s exactly one thousand dollars. Who would’ve thunk it?”

“Yes, I am sure it is a freak coincidence. May I try it on?”

“Certainly; the room is yours, take all the time you need.” The man walked from the room and closed the door behind him. Removing the suit from the rack, I noticed that it was a fine, heavy material, the kind that could breathe during the summer months but retain heat during the cold of winter.

As I closed the button on the pants, I was delighted to find that it was a perfect fit. Grabbing a white shirt from a different rack, I put it on, and then slipped my arms through the blazer. Tucking in the shirt, I looked at myself in the mirror.

“Why hello there, you handsome gent. Planning a night on the town?” I asked myself.

“Yes I am, and a marvelous time it shall be,” I responded. After realizing that I was conversing with myself, I decided to close my mouth and continued to gaze at my reflection. Not in a narcissistic fashion, but a viewing deserved by someone who looked as sharp as the man in my mirror.

“Bob?” I asked, hoping that the owner had in fact named his store after himself. The man walked in at the sound of his name, and looked me up and down before grinning ear to ear.

“Well I’ll be, aren’t you something? I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so good in a suit my friend; never.” Bob shook his head and laughed.

“Yes, I must admit I am rather pleased with myself at the moment.”

“Well, if you follow me to the register, we’ll get you all paid up and on your way. Feel free to wear it out of the store. After what you were wearing when you came in here…let’s just say I knew you wasn’t from Chicago.” The store owner laughed once again, and held his stomach as if to prevent it from falling off his mid section.

“I am an out-of-towner, it is true.”

“Alright, let’s get you all paid up.”

“I was hoping to see another suit, if you do not mind,” I said coolly. Apparently this gentleman was in a hurry to receive his payment; perhaps his business was not very successful.

“I thought you said you only had a thousand bucks, and, well, that suit’s a thousand bucks. So what else could you want?”

“I did not say that I only had one thousand dollars, I simply stated that I did not want to spend more than that. Now that I have seen the quality of your backroom merchandise, I find myself itching to spend more. Unless you do not have anything else for sale…” I responded as I began to walk toward the register.

“No wait, I’m sorry. I must’ve been mistaken.”

“A fair assumption. Now, please show me some of your other ensembles,” I said as I began to search the room for a tool of my deadly trade. Bob turned around and began to seek out his next sale. Spotting an empty rack, I quickly moved over to it just as the shop keeper turned back around.

“I have a great grey guy right here, if that’s something…”

“I am afraid grey does not do justice to the eyes my mother saw fit to bestow upon me…perhaps a nice tan.” Bob began to rummage through his suits once again, as I lifted the silver pole from its resting place. It had a nice weight to it; heavy enough to inflict my intended damage, yet nicely balanced to ensure a precise swing. The man turned back to face me, and I just had enough time to hide the pole behind my back. Luckily, the shop keeper did not notice.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see anything here that’s tan.”

“Please, I do look so debonair whilst wearing tan.”

“I’ll look once more.”

“Perhaps it fell behind the others,” I suggested airily. Bob nodded, and began his search. After what seemed like an angry few minutes, at least for my new friend, he turned back with disappointment written all over his conniving, age weathered visage.

“I’m sorry, I guess we musta…” My pole finished his sentence for him, slamming into his mouth. Blood and teeth flew in a hundred different directions, showering the room in tidings of crimson and ivory. Bob fell to his knees, and though he no longer had what one would consider a mouth, the bloody opening in his face moved up and down in disapproval.

“Can you believe it Bob? Somehow the laws of physics have been defied; I did not get any blood on my suit.” I smashed the top of his head this time, leaving a dent the width of the clothing rack I currently wielded. The store owner fell to the ground, and never made a sound again.

Spotting a sink in the corner of the room, I quickly washed the blood off of my hands, and breathed in deeply. How I cherish the sweet aroma that is death; such a scent empowers me, and enables me to do what must be done. I grabbed a pair of patent leather shoes from a shelf, laced them up, and walked out of the room.

The store was still empty, and it did not take much force to break the cash register. There were eighty seven dollars and sixteen cents, and I took it greedily. It might not have been a fortune, but I was willing to take what I could get. After all, I had not carried any money with me from the past. I might be able to sell my battle helm as an antique, but I did not know where I could find a man who dealt in such goods. In the end, I grabbed an overcoat hanging from a rung on the wall, slung it over my arm, and walked out into the windy Chicago afternoon.

Murder has always instilled a fierce hunger within me, so when I found myself standing outside of a diner, I quickly walked in. A young lady, no older than twenty, ambled over to my table on what seemed to be sore feet. When she arrived, I was given a faux smile before being treated to her voice.

“What can I get for you honey?” she asked.

“I would like a coffee please, and a cheeseburger with mashed potatoes.”

“Mashed? You don’t want fries?” she asked, confused.

“Fried foods upset my stomach, so I do my best to stay away from them.”

“No problem, I’ve seen your type before.”

“Pardon me?” I asked, perplexed. Did this woman mark me for a killer?

“You know, weak stomach, can’t keep nothing down; I bet you get real queasy when you see blood too, don’t you?”

“Not as much as you would think,” I responded with a sly smile. The waitress scratched her head with her pencil, nodded, and moved toward the kitchen.

After finishing my fourth cup of coffee, and the last few bites of the cherry pie I had ordered after my meal, I was ready to call it quits. In fact, I was in desperate need of a nap. Before I could get my server’s attention in order to pay the bill, the glass door to the diner opened. Three men walked in, all wearing pinstripe suits and sleek felt hats. The biggest of the three walked up to the counter and rang the bell.

“Hey, can I get some service here?” he asked in a gruff tone.

“What do you want Tony?” asked the young lady that had served me.

“Woah, Sheila, lookin’ good. I’ll tell you what; you gimme a piece o’ that, and I’ll forget why I came in here.” The woman called Sheila rolled her eyes.

“We been through this before; I’m a married woman, and I ain’t the cheatin’ type. And if I was, it wouldn’t be with you.”

“Aw, you’re hurtin’ my feelings. Tell you what; just get the old man out here and we’ll be on our way.” The man attempted to brush some hair out of the waitress’ face, but she smacked his hand away.

“He ain’t here; he’s home in bed.”

“Well in that case, open up that register and gimme my protection money. I want at least ten percent of whatcha got in there.”

“My father told me not to pay you; we don’t need no protection,” responded Sheila with force. The man’s smile faded.

“Now we don’t want this to get messy…just pay me my money, and we’ll get outta your hair.” The man extended his hand and rubbed his fingers together.

“I already told you, I ain’t paying…” The man backhanded the young girl across the face before she could finish her thought. Sheila rubbed her cheek in pain.

“You’re nothin’ more than a bully, you know that Tony?”

“Might be that’s true; either way, open up the drawer and gimme the cash. And my price just went up; now I want half. Do it quick, or I’ll give you a fresh one.” The two cronies behind him laughed with amusement, and patted their leader on the back. As if entranced, I found myself walking toward the three men, anger seizing my consciousness.

“It is not very chivalrous to hit a lady, my good sir. Perhaps you should turn around and walk out before you do something you regret.” The man looked me up and down, turned to his friends, and the three men chuckled.

“Who the hell are you? You’re wearin’ a nice suit, I’ll give you that, but none o’ this concerns you.”

“You are mistaken once again, my friend, though not about my attire. Once you hit a lady in my presence, you made it my concern.” This time the man eyed me with contempt, and patted a bulge on the side of his sport coat.

“Look buddy, trust me when I say that you don’t wanna get into this with me. This ain’t no handkerchief, if you catch my drift.” The man rested his hand on his bulge, showcasing it once again.

“If you are threatening me, you will find that it shall not fall on deaf ears as it has with the lady Sheila. Turn around, walk out, and take a long hard look at your life. A man who threatens a woman is not a man at all; he is a coward, and a pathetic one at that.” My insult had clearly hit its mark, and the three men made to surround me.

“You must be from outta town, but maybe if I tell you who I’m with you’ll go away. Ever heard o’ the North Side Boys?” he asked with a confident expression.

“I suppose it is a fraternity based in the northern part of this city,” I responded with indifference.

“Yeah, you could say that. Except my brothers don’t like it when smart ass out-of-towners like you poke your nose into our business.” Quickly, the three men drew their guns, and pointed them menacingly at my face.

“Three men armed against one who is not; that seems quite equitable,” I said sarcastically.

“What can I say? I like them odds the best.” As the three buffoons laughed once again, I grabbed a butter knife from the counter, and pointed it at my new foes.

“I would rather not make a scene, with women and children about; please do not make me do what I was born to do.”

“You think a butter knife is gonna stop me? Whatcha gonna do, spread me on a cracker?” His cronies laughed before he even had a chance, and they all cocked their pistols. Without a hint of fear, I turned to them and grinned my evilest grin.

“I believe you will be surprised at how easily any knife slices through an exposed neck, if jammed with enough blunt force.”

“You move on me and my men will kill you,” he said, a bit more nervous than before. I do so enjoy breaking down the confidence of a man.

“Perhaps, but before they do, I will already have killed you. Is that a sacrifice you are willing to make?” This time the man called Tony turned back to Sheila, attempting to ignore my rebukes.

“Gimme the money, Sheila!” he screamed as he reached his hand back to hit the girl again. Before he could send his meaty paw forward, I had already moved. Stabbing the knife through my new victim’s throat with all of the strength I possessed, it obliged, and tore a hole in his jugular. He dropped to the floor, bleeding profusely and attempting to breathe. The other two men pointed their guns at me, but seemed afraid to pull the trigger.

“Who is my next contestant?” I asked carelessly.

“You killed him,” the man on the right said in stunned disbelief.

“Yes, I did.”

“You didn’t even think about it,” replied the man on the left.

“It was not my first time; nor my last. Would you like to be next?” Quickly I grabbed Tony’s gun from his cold, dead hand, and pointed it at my two newest playmates.

“We still got you outnumbered,” said mighty righty in a strained voice. Without uttering another word, I pointed my gun at him and pulled the trigger. The bullet flew its course quickly, ripping through the man’s head with ferocity and shattering the glass behind him. I daresay there was not even enough of a brain to act as an impediment. The man fell to the ground with a surprised expression on his face, as if he could not believe what had just happened. Smiling, I turned to the last man standing.

“I believe the odds are in my favor now, would you not agree?” The man did not respond, but simply turned on his heels and ran out of the diner as quickly as his immoral legs could take him. Turning back to a severely shocked Sheila, I picked up a napkin and gingerly wiped away some of the blood that had spattered on her pretty face.

“I was hoping to get the check, when you have a moment,” I said with a smile. To my great joy it was returned, as was, seemingly, my waitress’ consciousness.

“I think you’ve paid enough, sir. Might be I could see it in my heart to let this one be on the house. But you better get outta here, before they come back and beat you bloody.” The idea that more would turn up made me a bit giddy, as I had only killed three people so far on this glorious day. However, I decided it was probably best to heed the young woman’s advice.

“My apologies for the mess; I do hope it does not ruin business.” I bent down, picked up the fallen hat that had once sat prominently on Tony’s crown, and placed it on my own head. Tipping it respectfully, I walked out of the eating establishment, feeling both satisfied and nourished. And the burger had been delicious as well…

The news that evening was quite harried; two reputed gangsters and a numbers man for the North Side gang had been killed, in two different locations, and the media was blaming another group for their deaths. I read my extra edition of the Chicago Times with a grimace; it was not the first time I had not been given credit for work done by mine own hands. However, what surprised me most of all about the article was the name of the lead detective; Mike Knotts.

This was beginning to be more than just coincidental; I had been thwarted by a Knotts in two different time periods already, and I was upset to see the name once again. Was it the same man each time? I had to admit, the features were quite similar to the two full grown Knotts men I had already met. At that moment, I toyed with the idea of getting on a train and chugging off into obscurity. Then I remembered that the watch had brought me here, and probably had a reason. I did my best to put this latest human impediment aside; there was still be fun to be had.

Yawning, I decided it would be prudent to find a place to sleep for the night. Before I could begin my menial quest, a car pulled up alongside me. The back door opened, and an imposing man stared out at me.

“Get in,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“No thank you, I believe I can walk from here.”

“That wasn’t no request; get in the damn car.”

“Perhaps if you ask nicely,” I responded in an airy tone. The man sighed, and drew a gun from his coat pocket.

“This is as nice as I’m gonna be; get in.” Nodding, I stepped into the car and sat down. Aside from the driver, and the man that had graciously invited me to join him, there was another man in the car as well. He had a round, seemingly good natured face, adorned by a series of vicious scars. His eyes studied me intently, but he did not make a sound. The man sitting to my left seemed to speak for everyone.

“What’s your name soldier?” he asked bluntly.

“My name is Humphrey T. Schunk,” I responded cheerfully.

“What do you know about the North Side boys?”

“I know that I killed a few of them, but other than that, I do not know anything.”

“Any particular reason?” asked the man with a stern look.

“I killed the first man because I could not pay for my suit, and the second two for being rude to a comely young lady.”

“And that’s all?”

“Does a man truly need a reason to kill another?” I asked calmly. The man to my left laughed, though he quickly returned to his gruff attitude.

“Might be we could use a guy like you, in our outfit.”

“I do not recall applying for a position.”

“You don’t apply; you do something worth noticing, and then we call on you.”

“And if I refuse?”

“We put two in the chest, one in the head, and mix you into the cement used by our construction guys on the payroll.” I believe the man expected me to be afraid, but such threats do not frighten a man of my talent. Noticing a glow from my wrist, I quickly looked down at my watch, which flashed a simple message; ACCEPT.

“It would appear I do not have a choice in the matter,” I said.

“No, you don’t.”

“Might I inquire as to who will be employing me?”

“That’d be me, tough guy,” said the chubby man in the front seat.

“And who are you, my good sir?” The three men laughed, and the man next to me turned to speak.

“Where you been the past few years? You never read a newspaper before?”

“I am not from around here…”

“This guy in front of me is a national celebrity. Ain’t that right boss?”

“I don’t like to brag…then again, yeah, I do,” responded the surly gangster.

“The man in front, he’s Al Capone.”

“The Al Capone?” I asked, with a hint of reverence. The scarred Mafioso in the front seat laughed hysterically.

“Unless there’s another I ain’t aware of, yeah,” he responded.

“I’m Jack McGurn, but my friends call me Machine Gun, and the kid in front’s name is Shithead,” explained the man sitting to my left.

“Your mother was cruel to give you such a name,” I said to the young man driving the car. The two older gentlemen laughed.

“That’s the name we gave him, since he’s a…well, he’s a shithead,” Jack replied.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, though I cannot say I enjoy the use of machine guns.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I like to look a man in the eyes before he dies, and watch as the pain slowly and agonizingly tears away at his soul.”

“You’ll fit right in, with an attitude like that. Though I gotta say, when you got a Tommy by your side, there’s nothin’ better.”

“Far be it for me to dispute a fellow artist’s techniques. May I ask where we are heading?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” responded Al Capone. The car continued on, and though I felt out of place amongst these ancient gangsters I had only read about, I knew that their intentions were similar to my own. At the very least, their lust for money could present me with a delicious opportunity to satisfy my personal desires. And that, my friends, is why I began traveling through time in the first place.

About a half an hour later, the car pulled into the garage of a large warehouse. No sooner had we entered than the door was slammed shut behind us.

“Get out, and don’t touch nothin’,” said Jack as he opened the door. I did as I was told, and exited the vehicle. The room in which I was currently standing was quite bare, with dark, unfriendly grey paint covering its entirety. A large wooden table accompanied by similar looking chairs rested in the center, the remains of the evening’s meal and poker game still lying upon its surface. The man known as Machine Gun walked beside me and introduced everyone in the room.

“That guy over there is Jake Gusik, but we call him Greasy Thumbs on account o’ the fact that he’s a genius with numbers. The goofy lookin’ mook in the corner is Frank Nitti, and he’s called The Enforcer; you can probably see why,” explained Jack. I could clearly see that the young man named Frank had earned his nickname; his arms were covered in scars, and he was well over six feet tall. He clutched a baseball bat to his side, as if it were a holy object sustaining his life. Deciding that it was rude to stare, I attempted to greet my new companions cheerfully.

“Hello everyone, my name is Humphrey T. Schunk. Feel free to call me Humphrey.”

“That reminds me, we gotta come up with something else to call you,” said Al as he strode up beside us.

“I have never had a nickname before; then again, I have never had friends before either,” I said ponderously. The head gangster put his hand on my shoulder as he spoke.

“Well, stick with us, and I promise that’ll change. Especially…” Before he could finish, a young man barged in through the side door, covered in bruises and mounds of dried, caking blood. Al turned to him immediately as he collapsed to the floor.

“Johnny, what happened?” The young man swallowed, wiped his mouth, and then coughed up a gob of blood, thus negating his efforts. With a great deal of effort, he finally found the words.

“Moran and the North Side Boys…caught me while I was buying a sandwich. Said it was payback…for the numbers guy and the others. He said…” But we never found out what the gentleman called Moran said; Johnny died before he could finish his sentence. The young man that had been introduced as Shithead bent down and closed the dead man’s eyes. As I looked at my new fearless leader, I could see the fury written prominently across his scarred visage.

“We gotta hit ‘em back boss,” said Jack matter-of-factly. Al nodded, and looked out into the distance, seemingly lost in thought.

“Let’s do it tonight; I know where they’re gonna be,” added Frank.

“That would be unwise,” I interjected. My comment brought many an unfriendly stare, but I stood resolutely, eager to defend my position.

“And why shouldn’t we do this tonight?” asked Al Capone.

“They will be expecting you to do it tonight. I daresay they will be expecting something for at least a few days. If we wait long enough, they will assume that we took this in stride, and their defenses will be down. That is when we should seek our revenge,” I explained. Though new to the gangster lifestyle, I did know a thing or two about killing. I also understood that while absence makes some hearts grow fonder, it can also allow an enemy to feel a false sense of comfort.

“He’s got a good point,” said the boss as he rubbed his chin.

“So when should we go?” asked Jack.

“That is not for me to say.”

“But you’re the brains of this operation, so you gotta know,” he responded in a stern tone. The man named Frank began to laugh.

“What’s so funny Frank?” asked Al.

“I just realized, we can call this guy ‘the brain’; I think it fits perfect,” replied the Enforcer. Capone and the rest of the gang began to chuckle.

“I like that; what do you think Brain?”

“As a man who has spent his life opposed to nicknames, even I would have to agree that it is quite flattering to be bestowed a pseudonym of such magnitude and respect.”

“He even talks like a smart guy,” said Jack. The rest of the group nodded and grumbled in agreement.

“Okay, now we got that outta the way, perhaps the Brain would like to tell us how long we should wait,” said Al in an attempt to bring the conversation back to the more pertinent topic of discussion.

“What is today’s date?” I asked.

“It’s the tenth, of February,” responded Jack.

“Excellent; we will wait four days, and then hit them on…”

“Valentine’s Day?” interrupted the boss.

“Exactly. We will wait until this day of lovers, and then hit them as hard as we can. We will stab them, and shoot them, and rip their insides out with glee. They will bleed profusely, but we shall not mind; after all, the color of love is red.” The gang guffawed at that, and many clapped their hands on my back in approval.

“We gotta set it up first,” said Jake.

“What do you mean?” asked Frank.

“We can’t just show up at their place, we gotta have a meeting set up. I’m thinking a few of us pose as small time bootleggers trying to sell them something. Maybe even some Canadian Whiskey supposedly stolen from us. We do one deal with them, earn their trust, and then go back on Valentine’s Day and finish the job.”

“He’s got a good point. I want Thumbs and the Brain to set it up. And do me a favor, fellas; don’t give them any of our good stuff. I’d hate to waste it on a bunch of mooks like them.” Al looked at each of his crew sternly, as if to say that this was not the time to engage in “funny business”. For this plan to work, every man would need to do their job, and they would need to execute these tasks efficiently.

“It is a sound plan, and I cannot wait to begin my part,” I said in a friendly tone. This was the first time I had ever been a part of a group, and though these gangsters seemed a bit rough around the edges, I could tell that they were good natured men. Good natured men who would kill you for three dollars and a carton of cigarettes without batting an eye, but then again, whom else did you think I would find as allies?

“I’m gonna go hit the hay; Humphrey, there’s a bed in the back room if you wanna knock off for a little. You can use that until you find a place to stay. Other than that boys, don’t get yourselves killed before the next time I see you.”

Without uttering another word, Al Capone motioned to his driver and the two stepped into his car. Moments later, the engine whirred into life, and the car drove off.

“I believe I will do the same. You would not believe the journey I went through before arriving in Chicago. Exhausting, I assure you.” Bidding my new friends goodnight, I walked into the back room as if I were sleep walking. The bed was in the corner, and no sooner had I plopped myself down than I was snoring peacefully, dreaming of death, destruction, and bloody holiday tidings.
The next few days went by in a blurred haze; the first meeting was set up by Greasy Thumbs Gusik, and the young men we sent did their work well. The North Side Gang went for it hook, bait and sinker; and a special gathering was set for the evening of February 14th. Al Capone himself was almost impossible to locate, as he had intelligently brought himself underground until the chaos had cleared. When the day for the meeting arrived, I found that my cohorts were quite antsy, as if nervous that our plans would not be completed as intended.

“You have nothing to worry about; we will outnumber them in both men and guns, and we also have the element of surprise on our side,” I explained to a nervous Jack.

“Besides, if they was still angry about the stuff that happened the other day, they would have reacted already, and we’d be in a full out war. They probably think that we don’t wanna do that, on account it’s bad for business,” explained Jake Gusik.

“I don’t know, this sneaking around crap…I’ve just never had to hide. When I want someone dead, I walk up to them and pull my trigger. That’s the end of it,” responded Machine Gun.

“We will be leaving in a few minutes; would you rather stay behind?” I asked. The look that Jack gave me was of the utmost contempt; in fact, I rather believed that he would test his new Tommy gun on the soft underside of my belly.

“I ain’t scared, and I ain’t stayin’ behind; I just don’t like the sneaky crap.”

“Hopefully it will not be something we will have to do again,” I replied in a calming tone. It seemed to take effect, and when everyone entered their assigned cars, Jack appeared as if he was ready for battle. Then again, the term ‘battle’ oft entails that the other side will have a chance to fight back. If our plans went smoothly, they would not even have a chance to blink.

The cars rolled along silently, and passed by many restaurants filled with young lovers cooing over expensive meals and elegant bouquets of flowers. Simple minded fools; they will never understand that man was not meant to love others. He was meant to love himself.

We arrived at our destination almost ten minutes early, and those of us in the first wave exited our vehicles. The others, all wearing police uniforms, remained in their seats, waiting for the correct time to storm the warehouse. The building looked simple enough to infiltrate; grey stone and red brick combined to make what was called “SMC Cartage Company”. The men in blue would wait until they saw that Moran himself had entered the building, at which point there would be a “raid”. Such things were common back in these days, as the sale and distribution of alcohol had been prohibited a few years previously.

Knocking on the door of the warehouse, I could not help but smile; I always get jittery before I am about to commit murder. A small slit in the door slammed open with such force that my grin faded immediately. The man staring out at us did not look very friendly, and seemed intent on finding something wrong with our appearance.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked menacingly.

“We’re here to do business,” replied a disguised Jack.

“Really? What kinda business?”

“The kind that needs to be done behind closed doors; let us in.”

“You’re early.”

“Better than late; you gonna let us in or do we have to take our stuff somewhere else?” asked Jack, clearly becoming impatient. The flap was closed loudly, and then the clicking of locks was heard, followed by the door opening. The man that had questioned us stood in the doorway, and past him I could see that five other men were present. As we made our way inside, I noticed that the room was actually a garage. Two cars hung on lifts, and a man stood under them, tinkering away in an almost noiseless fashion.

“Where’s the stuff?” asked the man that had opened the door.

“We got it outside; we’ll bring it in once we know everything is on the up and up.”

“You have a lovely work space here, my new friend,” I added sweetly.

“Yeah, whatever. Have a seat, and we’ll talk cash.” My group, along with the North Side members sat down at a large table, and the discussion began. Jake and Jack played their parts well, haggling over the price as if they were actually planning to sell the alcohol of which they spoke. Before any decisions had been made, a man in an expensive overcoat and a sleek, felt hat walked into the garage.

“Did I miss anything gentlemen?” he asked in a casual manner.

“You’re late, Weinshank.”

“The sale is finished?”

“No, but you’re still late.”

“I was told by the boss that I was just supposed to help load the truck. The way I see it, I’m early.”

“Just sit down and shut up,” said the man who had opened the door for my group. I had learned that his name was Peter Gusenberg, and that his brother Frank was also in attendance. The others were also high ranking officials within Moran’s gang: Albert Kachellek, the number two; Adam Heyer, the business manager; Reinhart Schwimmer, a simple man that some would call a “Mafia Groupie”; and the auto mechanic named John May, who did not participate in the conversation. As the discussions began once again, I noticed that none of the North Siders were armed; a mistake they would not live long enough to make twice.

A price was finally settled upon, and as Jack and Kachellek were about to shake hands, there was a loud banging on the front door. Peter walked over to it, and opened his flap again. He closed it quickly, and turned back to the rest of us, his face as white as newly fallen snow.

“There’s a bunch o’ cops outside,” he said.

“Let ‘em in; we got nothin’ to hide, right boys?” asked Kachellek. Peter obliged, and no sooner had he let the men in than the shouting began.

“Up against the wall scum, this is a raid!” shouted one of the young men dressed as a police officer. We did as we were told, and hugged the wall as close to our bodies as was physically possible. The faux authority figures walked up and down our line, pulling out the members of Al Capone’s gang as they went. Before long, the only men left against the wall were those in the employ of George “Bugs” Moran.

“Turn around,” said the other policeman. The seven gentlemen turned to face us, their eyes overcome with terror. Jack and Jake removed their disguises, and the men standing before us gasped in surprise.

“This was a set up?” asked Peter.

“Now there’s a smart guy for you; hey Kachellek, maybe this guy should be number two.” Our team laughed, and did so long enough to instill an even greater sense of dread within the hearts of our enemies. Turning to Jack, I gave a huge grin and patted him on the shoulder.

“I believe this is where you come in, my machine gun aficionado.”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna do it alone. You take the other Tommy.”

“To be honest, I have never been very comfortable with automatic weapons…”

“Come on Brainiack, you deserve this more than the rest of us.” The other men seemed to agree, and nodding, I reached for the machine gun. It was heavier than I had anticipated, and as black as a moonless night. However, my hands and arms acclimated to its weight quickly, and I found that the weapon exuded great power, a force which permeated my very soul. I was beginning to see why Jack enjoyed these toys with such vigor.

“You ready?” asked Jack as he raised that which had given him his nickname.

“When it comes to murdering a mass group of people, I do not require any time to mentally prepare.”

“Does that mean yes?” asked Jack with a bemused grin.

“I am waiting for you, my friend,” I responded. With a nod of his head, he raised his gun and pointed it at the victims. I did the same, and with one last look at our foes, we screamed.

“HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!” The hum of machine gun fire was deafeningly loud, so much so that the dying men could not even hear their own screams. In only a minute of smoke, gunfire, and raining bullets, it was over. The man named Peter, the only enemy still alive, writhed in pain. Pulling a knife from my pocket, I casually walked over to his position, whistling the whole time.

“I do not believe you heard us the first time; happy Valentine’s Day,” I whispered before slitting his throat. Blood spurted forth in a powerful gush, and then another, and then another, and before long, it seemed as if the red liquid would never stop flowing. Eventually it did, leaving Peter and the man closest to him lying in a pool of blood. If only it were a literal pool; I do believe I would enjoy taking a dip in such a facility.

“Our work’s done here; let’s do a quick look around to see if they got anything we want, and then let’s get the hell outta here.” Everyone nodded in agreement, and we made to tear the place apart. The only thing of value that anyone found was a small cash box, filled with almost ten thousand dollars. With the money stashed in several pockets, we left the scene created by our own hands hastily. Everyone jumped into their assigned vehicles, and in an instant we were off.

As the car chugged along, there was a great roar of laughter inside, and it remained consistent throughout our drive. Apparently, the violent act we had just committed was rare, even for these sociopathic gangsters. Even though our “policemen” had mistaken the wrong man for Moran, the evening was considered a success. I remained silent, allowing my friends to make their jokes and have their laughs. A man like me does not celebrate murder in such a fashion; I simply move on to the next group of innocents marked for death. Before I could ponder who would be next, a siren sounded in the distance, and almost immediately, a set of police lights shone brightly behind us. We pulled the car over, and waited for the officer to make his way over to the front window.

It did not take long; in fact, the police car still seemed to be moving, though that very well could have been my imagination. The policeman walked to the driver’s side window, and tapped his baton on the glass. The young man named Shithead opened it, and handed him his license and registration before he was asked for it.

“Did I ask you for that? I know who you boys are; get outta the car, we’re doing a search.” Without question, everyone exited the car and watched as the original officer, along with a few of his colleagues, ripped through the automobile with fervor unlike anything I have ever seen. After finding nothing more than a few empty cigarette packages, they turned back to us.

“You know who I am?” Strangely, the man did seem familiar, though I could not quite place his identity.

“Yeah, you’re that detective Knotts guy,” said Jack in a steady voice.

“That’s right, I’m Mike Knotts. And you’re all under arrest for bootlegging.”

“I don’t see no liquor.”

“And I don’t see no warrant,” added Gusik. Knotts smiled, in that vile, nauseating fashion accustomed to his noble line of men.

“I’m sure if I went through your pockets I’d find plenty of illegal things; cuff ‘em boys.” As the officer nearest me began to close the handcuffs around my wrists, I broke free, grabbed him by the throat, and pointed my knife directly at his Adam’s apple. Knotts and his cohorts immediately drew their guns.

“Let him go, and we’ll only throw you in prison; kill him, and we’ll pump you full o’ lead,” said Knotts in a stern tone.

“Michael Knotts; I cannot say we have met personally, though I have had encounters with others in your family.”

“What do you mean?” he asked confusedly.

“If I took the time to explain, you would not believe me. Back away before I slit this young man’s throat,” I said in a tone that exuded confidence.

“You do that and you got nothing left; let him live, and we’ll play ball.” I noticed that my partners in crime remained silent, as if they wished to remain uninvolved. Perhaps they were not the cold blooded killers I believed had graced me with their presence.

This was the end; the end of my time in 1929, that was obvious, but also the end of my time with friends. I suppose a man like me does not deserve friends; at the very least, my personality is not one that would be optimal for nurturing such relationships. With a cool smile, I turned to my former gang brothers.

“As a man who has never had friends before, I want you to know that I have cherished our time together. Perhaps we shall meet again someday. Until then, keep your chins up, and if you could, please relay a message to our esteemed boss.”

“What’s that?” asked Jake and Jack at the same time. It seemed that they were the only men upset with the fact that my demise was imminent.

“Tell Mr. Capone to remember to pay his taxes.” With a wink, I moved the knife across my captive’s throat, and blood immediately soaked the front of his shirt. Laughing, I allowed him to drop to the floor before charging at Knotts and his men. I had not made it more than a few steps before the first bullet pierced my skin. It was followed by a number of others, and each contributed to the symphony that was my agony. Dropping to my knees, I watched as Knotts walked toward me, along with another gentleman. As they reached my position, I threw my knife with all of my remaining strength, and watched with glee as it lodged itself in the eye of the man at Knotts’ side. He fell to the ground screaming, both blood and fluid from his ocular cavity spurting forth in copious gushes before finding a home atop the pavement. Knotts looked down at his man in dismay, put the gun to my head, and pulled the trigger.

I had only heard the loud BANG of the gunpowder before being instantaneously transported to the darkness. It was as cold as ever, and each bullet wound I had sustained cried out, shouting to be heard amongst the others through the pain that they inflicted. I brought my knees to my chest and sat huddled, shivering violently.

It was the end; the end of another journey, another party, another chance to send the world into the chaos to which I so desperately cleave. I am a man who walks through the sands of time, and I bring carnage and despair as my only allies. And blood; glorious, gushing red blood, which flows freely from each victim introduced to my wrath. I shall not die; neither today, nor tomorrow, nor even the day after that. The watch will make sure of that; after all, my work is important, and not nearly at its completion…

About the Author
Adam P. Rothstein is a 23 years old who recently moved to Los Angeles from New York. It has long been his dream to be a writer and he has received rave reviews from a number of online writing communities. He has won several contests for his work, including poetry and short story merit badge awards on writing.com and was ranked in the top 70 authors out of 500,000 members on the site.

(3 votes, average: 5 out of 5)
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