Mark- 
I am evil,
I am powerful,
I am cruelty,
I am human,
I am the demon,
I am the Don,
I am the sadies,
I am the rapture,
I am the savior
I am the controller,
I am sin,
I am pleasure,
I am dark,
I am here..
This is what I meant to store in that man's head, this is the obsession I mean to speak out to you about; I am. But, yet this all scratched in paper, into computer's hard drives, but not the organic mystery of his brain, no? His soul remains cleansed with his tainted deeds, as he tries to uphold type of good against me. Here I am, yes the beast of the scums, the hunter of the dirt. Should I put it any simpler?
I am Marcus Madison, I am the Don of the Mafia, and I am the sadistic of one, simple, yet unique criminal. Go ahead, search all the dirty slums of New York, or any ghetto you please, you will not find another like him. Nothing, no one. Ah, I am a ravenous writer am I not? I throw my words on paper like a desperate painter to create something that no critic could put words on. I am envision the mad fellow now. But, I am I not a desperate writer searching for that one man to awake to what I am saying?
He should have know; since he set off the bomb, since he fused the wires, since he shook my hand. He should have known he was different, he would become my eternal obsession like a blank canvas, and paint. He should have known he was mine the day he agreed to fail me miserably. Anyone who has read According to Jake will know who I speak of when I say; Jake should have know. Yes, once Jacob Taylor, to Jake Ford. People read the very brief stories of his change; his innocence swept away like the wind to loose dirt, and a man of the grim born with all his spunk and sassy attitude.
However, you should have read of me. But who had given Jake that truly first big job? (Not the casino, no not by far. However, I admire the man who put them up to such job, and it go off without a hitch. Bravo.) But the simple four story that I meant for me to see in smoke, and them with a heavy wallet of my clean money.
Well, I'll tell you that tale...
Somewhere around two years ago, when Jacob was eighteen years old, and the suppose to be college student had enough experience in his job to get some people's ears. I was in my office at the time, my little satin and velvet office known to be my work space. Well, it was Fredrick ( simple henchmen, don't bother yourself for any details.) who came to me with 'answers to all my problems'. There were two new big shots who knew a thing or two of explosions, and how to make it go off like 9/11 with a clean cut. Well, I took it.
If I need to add one thing for the late Fredrick is; he's overly dramatic.
But why take such a job? Ah, my readers want to know? Some pesky new gang was getting over their heads, if you understand that. Well, this pesky gang had decided to attack me, and I know their hive. A simple bit of fire would burn their wings. I hired my killers, and they were off. Sadly, it was not until the next day I received a phone call; the job was undone, and the gang was upset to find a smoking home and dud bombs.
A new type of furious came over me; me the hot tempered Asian Don who was famously known for popping heads off like bottle caps (picked this little line up from Fredrick a while back.) I sought out the little mess up immediately. Well, I found him living above a small tattoo parlor, owned by some kind of sleep deprived rail. I am no a tattoo person, my readers. I detest the smell of ink, and needles. Either way, let's move on. I found Jake sitting on the couch, I've never seen the man before.
It was my lackeys who talked them up a deal in the bar with my limit. There he was; startled to say the least, but there. So young, so untouched but riddled with filth unseen by normal eyes. His massive, dark violet iris in each pupil, his toned but modest built, and thick, modernly styled black hair, beautifully sharp, but American bred face. Truly something I did not expect. Never less, my anger overcame my intimacy for his just simpleness.
Yes, the fact that he was not some lone killer, or high educated bomb expert, or even the simple mad man. No, it was his sharp tongue, spunk, and youth that made him so unique and utterly simple. Even the clothes he wore were nothing but hand me downs from his brother, and partner in crime! But, yet the anger overcame me. I beat him.
I can't say how many times I brought the back of my gun against his toned, white flesh. The crack of bones, screams and his desperate will to fight back enthralled me. I came to a point of near madness, I was soon enough not beating him for his punishment, or my enjoyment, but the fact I was close to him. Close enough to smell his hair. That hair always smelled like grease, I'll tell you that, no matter how many times he'll wash it it smells like a mechanic, but this is far a repelling scent. His hard skin, and impossible youth that no matter what physical damage, it would never go away.
Let me explain, this is far from any love, no. I despised him, I wanted him to suffer, but I love my victims in a completely non-intimate way, I only love their character, and Jake was full of it. Ah, but it was over now, no? His long arms drawn above his head in the cement floor, broken. The amount of his broken bones was countless, and the hoarse whimpers that left him was the only sound that occupied the home. I examined the weapon of choice; the back of my revolver, my fingers slick with his blood.
I was to leave him now, his suppose family was coming now, and though I had the gun, I disliked being surrounded. Kneeling besides him before I left, I took my cleaner hand, grabbing his thick locks, bringing it to my face, breathing in the scent of grease, mingling with rushing blood from his head. His pathetic struggling remained harmless to me. I felt I could take his hair; rip it from the the roots, a nice trophy, yes. However, I knew carrying a handful of hair was far too suspicious, and I knew I would see him again. Well, we have not truly covered me, right? All of you wonder who may your ravenous writer may be beyond the title Marcus, or Mark Madison.
I can't truly describe who I am, my past. Unlike Jake who lined his pages with it, though my editor begs me to rail on about, to clear the mist of my 'fictional' insanity. Well, I guess I can no longer hold you away from the terrors, no?
I begins in Japan, my foggy memories leading me to my childhood. To name every detail would be unrealistic, but I remember my mother, her knife. Her madness that probably still stains me. My father, a slick business man who enchants other women without second thought, ah, but my mother; sharp as her lovely kitchen blades, how she sharpened them everyday, polished their crude curves. She found out, she knew all along of his late shifts, his unfaithfulness to her. And he paid for it. We all did.
I remember it vividly.
"I loved you, I've always loved you. Kenji loved you!" Hm? Ah, yes my old, suppose to be forgotten name; Kenji. I don't remember any other memory using that name, but lets move on.
"Kenji, run!" It was my father who screamed this to me, and I only stark still, watching that polished, sharpened knife to him, my mother's raven hair flying about in her fanatic, untrained movements of a paranoid house wife.
"No! I love all of you, you betrayed us, you betrayed Kenji, you betrayed yourself... Me." I never knew the tender, but wild voice of a killer like this again. My father, unable to fight from his bonded wrist, how she got him there, tied to the dining room chair was done before I stumbled upon the scene. The knife descended on the unfaithful husband before he said anymore. I screamed, of course I still was a normal, 'sane' child.
The knife turned to me, my father I could spy behind her, his mattered chest, the blood spilling over the once clean, crisp suit shirt.
"No, mother! Papa, he's hurt!" I cried to her, unable to move from my spot. That knife, driving into my side. I dropped, the pain filled my screams my little cries for her a broken mother. Ah, but I watched her knelt, her bruised, delicate fingers handling the knife so well to her soft, white throat, piercing without hesitation. Such a sloppy murderer, but an elegant suicide.
I was rescued by the police, dialed by the slow neighbors. I grew from this experience, slowly never feared again, I never needed anyone, I was my own version of 'happy'. But, I could not go on in my silent, unresponsive glee. I was thirteen, living with my grief stricken grandparents, when the evening came, and I was told to see my 'wife'. Ah, yes, my family so old fashioned. We were to see each other once before we were married at nineteen.
Well, she didn't fit in my plans for solitude. Yet, I remember her lovely dress coming through the door way. Ah, such a pretty dress, lovely white silk, laced collar and bottom trim, and modestly cut to his ankles. So traditional were we, but not enough to dress in kimonos, as I stood in my simple shorts, and American made tee shirt. Ah, I knew what the other's thought; What an adorable couple, how I needed a girl to open up, or how yin and yang fitted us; her bleach blond hair, tipping over to white, and my mother's dark locks. However, I would not allow it.
A wife? Yes, fear rose it's alien head in me, my boyish emotions, and views on life, only saw the white 'angel', my furious mother, and I, the cheating husband. Not that I disliked my tainted parents, no. I saw beauty in my too loving father, and my bloodied mother with her shining kitchen knives. I invited my 'wife' to the forests that traveled deep into the wilderness, and took her small hand, leading us within the veiling trees. Oh, I would remain unmarried.
Driving my pocket knife into her small neck, drawing it around the collar of her laced dress. No struggle, no screams. I dung the four foot hole, in the curious hours that passed on for the family. My boyish hands lifted her tiny figure, folding her limbs neatly, her bowed, little head of 'yin' hair, the sluggish remaining blood spilled over her white silk, and now red lace... Such a pretty dress. I covered her all in dirt, and no more will fear ever exist for me, for these pages. However, the 'missing' girl was found my adoring grandfather, who- instead of turning me into the authorities- sold me to American gangsters for the 'shame' brought onto the family.
With this new family, I lost my Japanese culture, language, and name. All were replaced with young America. It was there were I was dubbed Marcus Madison, the name came from the Leader's former son, whom he tried to replace me with. I spoke broken English till I took finer lessons than from foul mouthed, lost youths who thought they owned the world. My tradition was casted aside, and my beliefs stripped from me. Well, time eventually shaped their 'profession'.
And surely they got get up in suits, all of them beautiful in black satin, and big hand guns. I rose from the little boy which was forced to play the son of the Leader, with no respect. Suddenly, I broke from it all, I became the Don. Yes, Old Leader passed away. Too much drink for the elder? No one questioned his death, no. I was left in charge at fifteen. I took this with no regret, naturally, seeming that left me when I laid the girl down to rest. Many other murders laid forth as I took power, yes, all with no regret and unnecessary to name. Though, these men; my boys. They allowed it me to take the beloved man's place that very night.
Why? Scared that such a 'child' could poison the Leader's drink, and watch him die? Then walk up to them and let the news be reaped? Was it fear that this servant, this supposed son gave them shivers under their big, expensive guns, and well fitted suits? Or respect? I will never know the answers to these questions, nor does it matter. I am the Don, and always will be.
That is the end of my past, for three years had passed since then, and now I find my obsession. Isn't this why I write, no? I found him then, and two years past since, and I find him again, not that I've ever lost him, did he ever notice my men keeping a close eye on him? No, I doubt he ever did. Ah, but my black-haired victim is trying to rear his head to fame and glory with his gutiar and voice? Such talent... I will not allow.
One thing from this story that you may never forget: My victim, my murder, my boys.
Never give a pen to a mad man,
Marcus Madison.
 Melchrome · Fri Apr 04, 2008 @ 12:37am · 0 Comments |
