another way to die

[H e y - - L y l a]

Another ringer with a slick trigger finger.

[H e y - - L y l a]

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[H e y - - L y l a]

Caroline Marie D'Angelo

prefers Caroline ● the mobster prince's wife ● twenty-four years ● female● #ca9f8c ● h e y - - l y l a

[rhapsody of armageddon]

archibald james polk

Archie ● the undercover detective ● twenty-eight ● male ● #548d52 ● paper scissors

[rhapsody of armageddon]

Have you ever been involved with the mafia? Probably not. Therefore, you have no clue how bad it really is. The 1930's are tough enough, what with the depression going on, that we don't need to be dealing with the alcohol smuggling and shootings that they've been giving us. If you know me well, you know I'm a detective. Polk. Archibald Polk. I'm the man that they go to when they've got a problem, because I'm damn good. I'm a liar and a half, I'm the best on the force. Guess that's why I got tossed to the wolves the second I made a screw up like I did. Now you're wondering, "What could make a man get thrown into this world when he was once a top-detective?" Well, I screwed up big time on a case involving a drug smuggling business and some how wound up getting powder under my nose. You wonder why people judge me, it's because of that damn day. I also managed to learn a few tricks of the lying trade while I was at it, though. Got cleaned up, not before my wife left me. All this happened before the time I was twenty-eight years young.

That's how old I am now. I've been on this earth for twenty-eight damned years. Hell could probably be nicer than Earth a lot of the time, and I've considered sending myself there. Who hasn't during this day and age? People are out of work, there's not enough money circulating. The economy has gone to s**t. Go walk down the street and you'll see at least ten men who are asking people for money, and the people they're asking don't have a damn penny to their name, so it's a pointless circle of beggers and poor people. Who the hell has money to spare on little things nowadays, even if those "little things" include a poor guy sitting on the side of the road with his two kids at his side. It's only thirty-one, and we're all on our way downhill. Prohibition caused a lot more people to get involved with the gangs, and my job involved me gettin' involved with them. Yeah, it's been a tough run of the mill so far, but I know where I'm going with it all. It's gonna be a long road to ruin if I screw up, and I know I won't live long if I do.

You know one thing I've learned is you don't provoke the fat b*****d who rules the whole damn thing. When you do, and he's got heart problems, his face goes redder than a beet. It ain't pretty. Danny D'Angelo the first is a big guy. He's huge, actually. I don't think I've ever met a man who could get red in the face so damn fast from just a few simple comments. Dead serious, it's been an interesting day, and I'm pushing this guy over the damn limit. "We've got a problem," I say, my Massachusetts accent poking it's head up as per usual. It makes me sound tougher than I really am, a good thing in this damn place. "Your son and his girl haven't been seen around in a while. We think they're off baby makin' instead of what they should be doin. The alcohol runners are runnin' short right about now, and we're gonna need your boy to get in and take control of it again," I watch. He's a beet. I knew it was comin. The big guy stands up and looks down at me. "Well then go find him," he growls, and I know I'm in deep s**t.

"Would if I could, but I got a job to do," I'm pushing. I'm pushing hard. I want him to go down, because if he goes down, I get the hell out of here unless Daniel Junior takes over faster than we expect. I know that Danny D'Angelo's got a damn bad heart. A damn bad heart. It'll be his undoing, if I have anything to say about it. Right about now, that's what I'm workin' towards. He glares at me, and I know I'm doing what needs to be done. The face starts to go purple at the edges. "Your goddamn job is to do what I say! I say go find my son!" Push further, harder, and we'll get him. We'll get him good. I shake my head. "You told me no one could stop me from doin' the job I'm sposed to do. I need to get the barrels packed, need 'ta get em loaded or we're not getting the shipment out of here any time soon," I say. Veins look like they're going to burst from his face, and I feel a grin trying to poke it's way out. If it weren't for my training to be a cop, I would've lost it that time.

D'Angelo looks like he's about to knock my brains in. I wait, I watch. The purple expands across his face a little more, and his words come out more stunted. "Go. Find. My. Son," he snarls, and I stare, acting like a damn fool. What else am I supposed to do? Roll over and bark? Not with what I'm trying to accomplish here. I just gotta get him outta the picture, and then things will be good. I don't wanna shoot him, because then there's evidence, I just need to get him gone. Gone for good. He stares, and I stare right on back. Not a word is spoken, but I don't move, and I see the hand moving towards the gun holstered at his hip. s**t. I'll be dead if I don't move. Being dead would be better than being alive in this day and age, though, and I ignore it. What the hell else am I expected to do? It's not like I'm gonna jump away because he's "scaring" me. That's when his face goes even more magenta than it already was.

Ya see, the boss has heart problems, I've known it for a while. Everybody knows it, nobody says it though. Who the hell wants to get in s**t because they let the wrong guy hear about the mafia boss's heart problems? I overheard Danny Junior telling little wifey about the whole thing, and that's when my plan started forming. He was dumb enough to tell her that if Daddy Dearest got pissed off enough, his heart would stop, and if he had one more heart attack, the man was dead. What was I pushing for? The latter of the two. I wanted Danny D'Angelo dead as soon as possible. Danny Junior could wait, maybe for a long time, maybe forever. If the kid ever found out it was him who got his daddy killed, I think it'd put the wife in jeopardy. See, with most broads, you wouldn't have a problem doin' that, especially if you knew it needed to be done. When you're trying to wipe out the gangs, you gotta put a few necks in the way of the knife so your own has time to get out of there. But this one... Damn, this one was mighty fine. Ruining her neck would be a shame.

She's blonde. Her hair looks like gold that's been spun into the form of hair, and it's just perfect. Her eyes, pretty and dark, they're scary almost. Scary serious. she knows what happens if she ******** up, and I don't wanna be the one to make those eyes cry. Lips the size of strawberries she's got, and probably as succulent too. They're something that I wouldn't mind havin' around to kiss to sleep every night. And a body of the angels. Damn, any man that gets to hold that body, cup those breasts, I'm damn jealous. Who wouldn't be? Not to mention Danny Junior ain't exactly the sweetest peach around. I feel bad for the little angel that has to sleep at his side every night. He must sleep well. Her, on the other hand... Not so much. I know I'd be thinkin' of ways to stab hubby if it was Danny touchin' me. Now that's just a homosexual thought, and that's damn wrong, but still. I know what's what in this world, and that's the damn truth. I won't be surprised if she does part of my job for me and takes the kid out.

Now where I'm standing now, I see daddy dearest looking about to faint. I should be rushing around trying to figure out what the hell to do, try and figure out why he's not breathing, but I already know. He's gonna die soon, and it's gonna by my damn fault. Will I feel remorse? Hell no. There's no reason to regret a bastardly man dying. I stare, cold and icy. My trench coat hides the clothes that I wear, my hat tipped slightly over one eye. I'm watching, but he doesn't know it anymore. He's trying to get his composure, but it's not working. He's dead, he knows it. I know it. We're both just waiting for it to happen. As he sucks in what is to be his last breath, I look at him, dead in the eyes. "You... b*****d..." he groans, and I shrug. "I just know what I gotta do," I say, turning then. It's time to leave this guy to die, and get on with what I'm supposed to do. Maybe I'll catch a glimpse of little wifey later and have something to dream about late into the night. Damn, do I ever hope so.

[H e y - - L y l a]

How did I get involved with the Mafia? I was charmed into it. Like an adrenaline whore. Two years ago I’d never be caught using such a word. Whore. It didn’t take long for me to learn how to use more of the Devil’s vernacular: Hell and s**t and Goddamn Jehosophat. The words of the filthy underground were always a part of me, hidden behind every silly smile, every proud, picnic-mat quotation of some book I’d read, every instant my weak ankles gave out on me going up the stairs to father’s office, his dutifully arranged lunch pail in hand. I just never knew how to use it, this forbidden tongue—this vestigial organ. The main idea is that I am not the girl I used to be, that something else has taken over me. And yet, I can’t blame the devil. Or God or the angels or Fate. Or even the fact that I was charmed into this new criminal lifestyle. I was given the choice. I allowed myself to get sucked through this porthole that led into the very bowels of Hell, where there was an unending supply of pleasure and luxury. It seemed more like paradise than a place of punishment. If you ask me, or any of the resident hoboes on the streets, Earth was the real Hell, where demons fornicated in the White House and broke their own damned acts and laws, while vampires sucked Wall Street dry with their voracious mouths. Only on Earth

I met Danny D’Angelo Junior at a diner where I was relaxing with some friends and one of father’s young coworkers who’d too obviously taken an interest in me. He was impeccably dressed sitting in one of the dark corner booths, flanked by two of his buddies. Three after-dinner espressos were set in front of them in bone-colored coffee cups, though there was no evidence of there being a deep-fried entrée before. There was something magnetic about his presence in that little diner. What was the source? Maybe it was the seamless blackness of his trench coat and his matching fedora, or the way his thick eyebrows added to his savage—savage. Yes, I suppose that was it. Danny was built like a beast, the kind of beast that undressed women with a glance, the kind of beast that bellowed like a Spanish bull when things didn’t go his way. And he made damn sure that he got his way; once I sneaked that first glance at him over my shoulder, he made sure I couldn’t relax without getting another look at him.

Danny had sent away his two pals and caught me at the diner doors. He told me his name in an accent that ruled the tough streets and the shipping docks; it contradicted his fancy clothes and his clean-shaven face. “Been watchin’ you light up the whole restaurant with your pretty golden hair. Whatcha name, lil’ pixie?” He pinned me down with his eyes. Decided what kind of smoldering smile to give me after looking me up and down like a lion appraising his gazelle. I liked the blatant, lewd attention he paid me. It was primitive, raw, and spoke of danger. It would make any good girl want to go bad. Then, the young man from Daddy’s work, a skinny little garden rake compared to Danny’s Appalachian physique, tried to whisk me out through the door, giving away my name in the process. It must have been apparent that I didn’t want to leave. Danny held the door closed with his iron grip. I swear he must’ve left dents on the metal handles. I remember it as clear as day. “Wait, wait, wait, wait!” he said, exercising no kind of strain…only self-confidence. Cool as a cucumber. “I was just about to invite sweet Caroline over here for a picture down at the Uptown. And if she gets a little hungry afterwards—I’ll take her for some dinner at a café. I think it’s only fair that we give her the choice. Eh, necktie?”

I was given the choice that night. Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I downed the potion, chanted abracadabra, and tapped my two heels together. Accepted more than one alarm-clock kiss.

I didn’t realize what Danny and his family did outside of the “garment business” until he tracked blood of a dead man into the foyer one night. His booming curses threatened to crack the roof of the house his daddy gave us. That night wasn’t a nightmare. It was more like being forced to wake up from a good dream. He made sure I didn’t go nowhere and told me that, “Baby, you’re stickin’ with me for better or worse, in sickness and health, ‘til death do us part…AND IF YOU EVER RAT—well, there’s no need to worry about that because…you’re NOT going to rat. ‘kay? Sweet Caroline?” You hardly have time to remember the deathly chill of those words when he’s kissing you all over, needing your love and attention like a puppy. But I’ve kept that train of words in my mind. And my mind’s been chugging up and down those warped and rusty tracks, blowing up like a siren, refusing to let me even sleep. I read the death threats from his soldiers. His furrowed-eyed pals. His menacing sailboat of a father.

Yesterday, we promised to meet Daddy D’Angelo at his house. Before we go in, Danny lights up a roll of D’Angelo cannabis and offers it to me. I accept. Take a drag and let the smoke make the brown filth more black and the starving less skeletal. Then, he pockets his lighter, takes up a f** for himself and bums a light off of mine—but it’s not like we’re pinching pennies or anything. It’s just an excuse to-- “Kiss me.” It’s an order, and Danny doesn’t move out of the way of the door ‘til I comply. With our lips locked like teenaged hands, we enter.

Danny-boy breaks from my mouth long enough to holler, “DAD! Where are ya, pal?” The air tastes stale. And the welcome mat’s gone askew in the modest foyer. Usually, the Boss would come out promptly, echoing his son’s booming greeting, and engulf us one at a time with his bear arms—and bear would be an understatement. And whenever there’s talk of bear-persons, there’s always a diseased heart underneath the layers of fat and fur gained from leading a sedentary, luxurious lifestyle of waving nothing up left arms and moving nothing other than the two flaps of lips. My own heart lurches at a certain possibility—not in mourning, but in fear of the approach of our darkest hour. Danny-boy’s face drains the merriment and the lewdness that defined him. The quiet is too much. “Dad?” We go into the living room.

The Boss is dead.

He wears a stiff, ugly grimace in death. His veins pop on his face like worms beginning to devour him in a dirt ditch. His gun lies on the carpeted floor beside him, but Danny boy doesn’t even notice. He stands like a quivering skyrocket ready to burst, his eyes dead set on the only other man standing in the room.

I’m still smoking, because if I didn’t, I’d be on the floor, too. I’m too afraid to touch Danny, too afraid to get burned. I steady, brace myself against the wall, black against a shrieking shade of white. “Why didn’t you call a doctah?” Danny stalks towards the smaller man and grabs him by his collar and snatches him in so close that their foreheads collide. “WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL A DOCTAH?! WHY? WHY?” Every “why” is a punch that could make a boxer cry. I’m forced to recall the blood in the foyer, and every thundering sound of fist against helpless flesh brings me a step closer to delirium. If I don’t try to do something, Danny’s going to kill him. He’s going to kill.

“Danny. DANNY, STOP.” I’m at his back, pulling desperately at his collar, raking my fingers through his hair, trying to restrain his arms. It’s like trying to waltz with a raging fertile bull in Barcelona. “HE DIDN’T KNOW, DANNY! He didn’t know about his bad heart. You gotta stop. Please…” The last volcanic breath steams out of Danny’s mouth when he finally sinks to his knees, allowing the fact of his father’s passing to be realized. And I’m holding onto this poor weeping bull.

The man in the trench, now a bloodied mess. The gun on the floor. The grimace on the Don’s face. They’re brush strokes of a painting that only I can make out.


OOC: it's terrible and unedited...but it'll get better. Shorter posts would be apropos. Dx

[rhapsody of armageddon]

Damn, Danny Junior has some kind of punch. It feels like a hundred pound sack bein' dropped on my damn face every time he hits me, and I can feel the tiny little bones crunchin' and crackin' every place that his fist collides, but I don't make a face. I can't do nothin' about it, and I knew damn well that this was comin'. I just need to maintain my composure, keep things the way that Danny Junior wants them to be, and maybe I'll stay alive. If I'm lucky I will, least. I drop to the ground with one of his punches to the gut. He knocked the damn wind out of me and my lungs can't seem to grab on to any sort of air. s**t! Sucking in a breath after a few seconds, my eyes go wider than a newly baptized babe. If I didn't deserve everything he was givin' out, I'd be fightin' back. I could fight back, no doubt about it, but he needed to get his damned anger out somehow, and I could be a punching bag. I'd killed his father after all, and why hadn't I called the damn doctor? Good reason for that.

If I called him, Daddy D'Angelo would still be alive, and that sure as hell wasn't what I wanted. I wanted him deader than a doornail so I could get outta here sooner. Another swift punch, and I'm disorientated. Blood feels like it's pooling out of every crevice in my body, and it's startin' to ******** hurt. You try living like this and you'll realize why it hurts so goddamn much. When you got this ape beatin' on your a** as hard as he can, you'll understand. It's like he's the owner, and I'm some poor little dog that's done wrong. And I don't like it. I don't like it one damn bit, and if I could fight back and actually win with all my bruised and broken body parts, I sure as hell would. However I know, I know damn well, that it'd be a fight I'd lose in a second. I'd be down for the count, not like I'm not almost there already. Fightin' this one isn't gonna end well for anybody. Another smoke to the face and I can't see worth s**t. My eye's already puffin' up to the size of a damn pancake, and soon I'll be blinder than a bat.

Then, the Angel of Mercy saves me. The goddess, the most beautiful siren that the world has seen yet. Caroline D'Angelo. Damn woman could've gotten herself hit but she stepped in anyways. Was it somethin' for me? I doubt it. She's paler than a ghost, she probably thought he was gonna kill me, and I'll admit the thought crossed my mind one or twice. It takes her a couple minutes to calm the great beast down, but once she does, he's blubbering against her like a little kid who lost his toy. Jesus, man, grow up. I wait for a few minutes then crawl out of the room, my body aching for eternal rest. I don't wanna be alive through all this! It feels like my damn body has been torn apart. I see the door, and I know I wanna be out in the alley that's just around the corner. I stand up, quivering. s**t, I feel like a little girl. As quickly as I can -- which I can tell you ain't very quickly -- I start to drag myself in the direction of the door. I just gotta make it outside where the air is fresh -- or at least somewhat fresh -- and the people are gonna leave me damn well be.

Slouching to the alley, I finally find the peace that I need. Automobiles honk in the back, and the sound of D'Angelo's joint is loud and clear throughout the whole place. It's not like they try at all to be quiet, D'Angelo's is the rowdiest party-hard club in the whole of Chicago. Chicago, the place that I once called home and now call hell. It's nothin' good here, there's nothin' good here. I've been mixed up with the D'Angelo gang before, but never like this. Back then I was Archie Polk, drug addict and wanna be cop, but they never knew me. Now... Well now I'm Archie Polk, Gang boss murderer, Boss's Son's punching bag, and all around damn fool. I'm a fool, and there's nothin' anybody can say otherwise to me. Not as I sit here and lick my wounds, or not when I go and get a hard glass of scotch. Nobody can say a damn thing to me about not bein a fool for gettin' myself mixed up in all this. Only an idiot would do what I've done.

But the Angel makes it worth it. Somehow, some way, she makes everything worth what's been goin' on. She's gorgeous, and just starin' at her gives me a moment or two to just imagine her on my arm instead of her ape husband. She could run away with me -- oh, and that would end well for the both of us. We'd probably get hunted down and shot. I need to talk to her for more than a passing "Hello Ma'am". I wanna get to know her, wanna get to know everything inside that pretty little head of hers. I touch my head, my hat's gone. Musta' abandoned it somewhere along the line as I was tryin' to scurry away from the damn beast who was houndin' on me. Ah well. My trench looks like I been in a battle or somethin'. It's got blood coatin' it. I'm sure I've got broken ribs, at least. They're sore, more'n' sore, they hurt like a b***h. Don't think I've ever been in this much pain b'fore, and it hurts more'n' I can say. Damn ape decidin' to wail on me like that. I ain't gonna be able to walk straight for a month. ********, I could use a line right about now.

|| ooc;; ohhh my god sorry it took so lonng!!!!! ||