2014.02.18 - Penance

MTA L-Train Station: Jefferson Street

Blood and water spiraled down the old, dirt-stained porcelain into a grimy drain. These long-abandoned subway restrooms made great spots for criminal types to clean up their messes, and that's exactly what he came there to do.

He stared numbly at himself in the mirror, black skin further darkened by the splattering of thick red. There was little emotion in to be seen in brown and silver as his hands brushed together in violent rhythm, digging and digging in search of penance.

He turned aside and reached for a towel, pulling it free with an inglorious rip.

'''Bellevue Hospital Medical Center

Midtown, Metropolis'''

The beeping sound of medical monitoring equipment. The steady pumping of an oxygen feed. The sound of a police officer's walkie talkie. These are the background sounds that accompany the comatose rest of one Steve Mercer. Up until twelve hours ago, he was among the Tri-State's more feared narcotics traffickers. NYPD had been building a case on him for years.

Now, he's a barely recognizable shell.

"Well," says the doctor, shaking his head to the police officers and their accompanying investigator. "He'll live, but I'm not sure how long it'll be before he talks again. Whomever did this, they were... well. They didn't hold back. His jaw's been wired shut, we've had to set sixteen fractures, there's internal bleeding that we still need to keep an eye on..."

The camera pans out to show the victim, Steve Mercer. Little can be seen of his face and body, with most of it covered in casts and bandages, but the exposed skin doesn't look much better. Bruised, bloodied, nearly unrecognizable.

"That's assuming he wakes up at all."

62 Willoughby Ave, Brooklyn NY

How long Kwabena had stood there, he couldn't say. It hadn't taken long to learn that his old boss was still in the game, even after Michael Slean had been taken out. It hadn't taken much work to get an address; surprisingly little effort taking out the thugs keeping watch on Mercer's penthouse.

There he stood, watching as Mercer slept. Curled into his arm was a scantily clad prostitute, and the room was peppered with the signs of a hedonistic lifestyle. Half-snorted lines of cocaine, bottles of expensive champagne, cigarette butts, credit cards, empty condom wrappers, a pair of black silk stockings thrown over the bedpost, a discarded pair of slacks.

Kwabena had looked on until something woke the girl. She stirred, looked his way, then let out a terrible scream that was quickly silenced by the crowbar in his hand.

With a scrambling of hands and legs, Steve Mercer burst from his dreams of platinum and ice, pressing quickly against the headboard. He reached for a drawer on the bedside table, presumably for a cell phone or a gun, but he was too slow. The crowbar came down on his wrist, shattering it. Mercer peeled it back toward him, cradling it with a pained grimace.

"... the hell do you want?" Mercer hissed.

Kwabena looked upon the scumbag in silence. Mercer's glowering eyes were met by a merciless stare of brown and silver.

"What, you want money? You dumb son of a bitch? I got plenty. Name it. You come here for crack? Name it, how m--"

Mercer's words were choked off when the crowbar came pushing into his neck.

"Leroy Jennings."

Kwabena pulled the crowbar back just so, giving Mercer room to breathe and speak.

"Think long and hahd, Steve. Leee-rrroyyy, Jennings. Hell's Kitchen? Junkie? Ring some few bells yet?"

"Jennings." Mercer had the audacity to smirk. "Yeah, I remember him. Worthless piece a' shit, always on the rug, always crawling back to us for another fix up. If I remember correctly, too, YOU did him for me, just so YOU could score a get well."

"I did him," Kwabena acknowledged. He lifted his free hand, made it into a gun, and pressed it against his left temple. "Right dere. Quick, painless, definite."

"His son saw the whole thing too." Mercer laughed darkly. "Jesus Christ, Odame, you're one cold bastard." He hissed, pulling his broken wrist closer. "So, what is it? You want some dope? The bitch? I don't think she'll suck so good with the fucking concussion you gave her."

"No." Kwabena shook his head while a quiet fire entered his eyes. "You're going to fix it."

Mercer arched an eyebrow. He looked to the crowbar in Odame's hand, the back to his eyes. "... what?"

The crowbar fell to the ground, and Kwabena went to work with his own bare hands.

He was ruthless, breaking bone and splitting skin. He kept going and going until Steve Mercer lay in a pool of his a own blood, barely alive. Only then did he back off. Only then did he reach into a side drawer, pulling out a stack of hundreds. Only then did he pull Steve's cell phone, dialing 9-1-1.

"Steve Mercer needs an ambulance."

Kwabena set the phone down, but he'd left it connected, so that the dispatchers could hear.

"You're done, Mercer. When I walk out this door? I'm taking your future with me. If you ever sell again? I'll come back, and I'll take it all away again. And if you ever go near Jamaal Jennings?"

Kwabena raised the crowbar. He shoved it into Mercer's mouth, forcing it deeper until it dug into the flesh at the back of his throat. He ignored Mercer's desperate gagging and the tears that flew from his eyes.

"I promise you, it'll be a lot worse than this."

Then, with a ferocious uppercut, Kwabena bashed the crowbar as it protruded from Mercer's mouth. There came a horrible sound... Teeth shattering, flesh ripping...

And the lower half of Mercer's jaw fell upon the floor, next to a blood-stained crowbar.

MTA L-Train Station: Jefferson Street

Kwabena came up from the sink full of water. He dried his face with the last two towels. In the cold glow of fluorescent light, he looked himself over, trying to find any last droplets of blood.

There was nothing.

Before he could leave, however, he caught his own eyes in the old mirror. For a few moments, they remained lazily emotionless. Soon enough, however, it all started to catch up to him. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how far he ran, no matter what penance he tried to pay... It would always catch up to him.

He would always be haunted by his dirty past.

The tears spilled down his face for but a moment, before a leather-clad elbow swung forth, shattering the mirror and the reflection in it.

'''Bellevue Hospital Medical Center

Midtown, Metropolis'''

Steve Mercer wasn't without friends. There were still plenty of people who cared about him, even those who didn't know of his secret life as a narcotics pusher. His bedside table is filled with flowers, cards and photos, wishing him well.

One such card is accompanied by a bouquet of white flowers. Upon the card is written a simple message:

'Steve -- My prayers are with you for a speedy recovery.'

It is signed:

'Much love, Odame'