Poems for Post Modern Deacy


Trolling You For Fun & Profit
And it all came to a screeching halt.

Jack O'Hare was a lifer in the big league known, unofficially, as The

Under miners; a polished gang of heavy hitters that were well trained shake

down artists and knew a thing or two about extortion. Jack had been turned

into the gang ages ago, and this was his life. Action, real action, he hadn't

felt since his days in high school as the local bad ass bully.

Our story begins like this; small town kid with a fistful of anger problems

and enough repressed memories to give a Priest the shakes. Jack grew up in

a hellhole in The Bronx, with many of the townspeople Irish settlers. His

grandparents came straight off the boat, looking for the riches of America

and found broken dreams and crushed hopes. Jack's father, Micheal, had it

worse, however. After his mother had died to a knock on the dome too

many by "Mikey's" pop, Mike became the favorite target of his drunken

father's abuse. Mikey felt it necessary to keep violence in the family, and

passed that onto young Jack. Now, Jack's mother had fled the concrete hell

for a small country town in Nebraska years prior, when her husband began

showing signs of his father. She took her two daughters, Selena and

Michelle (both older than little Jack) and begged Jack himself to leave with

her. But Jack had ice in his heart, and he wasn't going anywhere.

It was seventh grade, and Jack had thicker skin than most middle weight

boxers on the local press. Through experience of dodging his old man's

crosses, left hooks, and hay makers, he had developed and mastered a skill

for fighting that most would be on the receiving end of. Jack picked out the

bigger guys in school, the big rich kids. One false statement, one wrong

snap of the fingers or even staring at him too long and WHAM! Jack would

be pulverizing them instantly, swearing heavily in his thick Irish-Yorker

accent. Jack was a bully, that much he didn't deny.. hell, he even boasted

it; but he never laid a hand on a kid smaller than him or a girl. Jack's father

may have been a real piece of work but his mother grilled some values into

him in the time she had with him. Mikey O'Hara cursed his son every time he

saw him enter their shack of a once decent home, saying Jack looked just

like his "whore mother" with matching lengthy fire tinged hair and emerald

eyes, a real polar opposite of Mikey, with his thinning coal locks and icy

Grey eyes. "As if I can help what I turned out to look like, you miserable old

bastard!" Jack would retort, sure to start the daily brawl. Jack liked firing up

that son of a b__tch, but he wondered how long he could keep it up before

he went too far. It didn't take too long.

Micheal Ronald O'Hare's funeral was short, the ceremony brief and the

mourners were sparse. The official report was that he died of alcohol

poising, but Jack played a heavy hand in the death too, riling the old bag

up everyday. Jack didn't even shed a tear, and left after he heard what his

father left behind.. a whopping sum to himself to pay for the funeral and his

shack of a home. Mikey may have been a waste in his late years, but he

had worked a hard life in construction prior to marriage and was greedy

enough to make sure no one inherited his earnings when he passed. Jack

cursed his father's soul to hell as he stormed out, not knowing what he was

going to do next.

It wasn't until after high school graduation that Jack knew he had nothing

to lose. He had worked part time at a pizzeria down the street to support

himself, and had absolutely refused to stay with his mother for unknown

reasons to anyone but himself. Truth was, Jack loved being miserable and it

made him a hard-bodied nobody in the great state of somebodies. He had

considered a career as a crooked cop, twisting arms to make a living. But

crime had seemed much more fun, and The Under miners had already had

their eyes on him for quite some time. One of the pit bosses of the gang

attended Jack's graduation, unnoticed by everyone and once the capping

ceremony was complete, strolled up to the young man with what seemed to

be a gold-plated business proposition. The boss was a Mr. Nicholls, a

heavy-set Puerto Rican with New York's finest suits on his bulging frame and

a cigar in his fat hands that never seemed to burn out. Nicholls told Jack

they had noticed him shaking some of the right cages up in town during his

many episodes of violence, and would've recruited him sooner but they

wanted him to get an education under his belt. After all, they had grunts in

the gang but what they needed was a skilled killer that wasn't afraid of

danger and could think his way through sticky situations.

Jack O'Hare spent the next several years crawling his way to the top of the

crime ladder, starting with his initiation of beating an elderly man to death in

an abandoned warehouse to show his ruthlessness and leading to many

many other horrible and unspeakable deeds brought on by the current leader

of the gang, Mr. Nicholls. "Uncle Nicky", as he was now known as, was a

vicious leader with no sympathy, not even for Jack.. who was like a son to

him. One bad job. One slip up. And it all came to a screeching halt.

It was a typical Tuesday night in December. The city was rustling and

bustling, with Christmas rapidly approaching. A somber shadow slid through

the mob of busy people, a shadow with one thing on his mind: Completing

the task assigned to him. Jack was dressed in a suit that even Jesus would

envy; a dark blue slack and jacket combo, black tie with his standard white

button up underneath, the shiniest dress shoes he could buy and his

signature black pork-pie hat. His silenced beretta tucked neatly away at his

side in it's holster, his eyes fierce and hair now cropped short and thinning,

just as his father's did at this age. The task at hand was a simple one at

that, a job he had accomplished too many times he would care to admit.

Slide into a seedy motel where the woman was at, get info to where the

outside competition was at, pop two in her head, take the money she had

on her, and report back to Uncle Nicky. If it had only been as easy as it was

on paper.

The knock at the door. The one Jack would regret, the one he could never

undo. He heard the creak of the wood behind the door and the ing of

the pistol the woman was apparently carrying, as well. His ears heard too

much, he had been through this before. Without grilling this rival gang

member where her connection was coming through, he had little to offer

Uncle Nicky when he came back. But money was an issue too, and he knew

the broad had quite a chunk of change in the hotel. She was waiting for the

pickup by one of her fellow members, but just as soon as she had ed

her pistol for safety measures before answering the door, Jack had fired

though the door, putting two bullets right though her chest. He knew

exactly where she was standing behind the frame, and he wasn't about to

enter to a Mexican standoff when she opened up.. he would just tell Nicky

the girl had put up too much fight and he had to do it, had to make the

executive decision. He was a train on the tracks and had to keep moving.

He entered the room by kicking down the door, and stepping right over the

body without even a passing glance. He found the bag of dough directly on

the bed in her roach infested room, and as he left he looked down at the

woman he murdered to offer a smug look of satisfaction. He dropped the

bag in horror as he watched his mother slip out of the hands of life in front

of him. Turns out Ms. O'Hare had never moved out of The Bronx, and she

had found a way to support herself and daughters not long after she left

Jack's father. A life of crime, mother and son on opposing sides and not one

even had the slightest clue, despite their numerous letters to each other.

Jack had been a train on the tracks of criminal success, and it ended with

something he couldn't bear to live with. Jack leaped from the 11 story

building of the motel, into the ice covered streets where he had lived his

whole life. Success was crucial to Jack, but killing his own mother was a sin

he couldn't bear to live with. A screeching halt.


Active member

You have successfully made me read this in a Bronx accent. Not to mention the fact that you just did one hell of a job writing someone's life story in one page. This was, amazing. Epic shouldn't even describe this work, it is simply amazing


Robot Rock
Goddam man. I really do mean goddam. This was incredible. Was not even thinking of

his mother when I was reading about the woman at the door. Great tale bro-bowski, especially loved the way the ending was detailed. How "Jack leaped from the 11 story building of the motel, into the ice covered streets where he had lived his whole life."

Also, nice choice for the title my man :cool:



Trolling You For Fun & Profit
Jesus, thanks dude :laugh:
Really man, I appreciate it. I've just been itching to write so I whipped this up. Glad you dig it, I had fun writing it.

Haha hell yeah Low, thanks broski. My work doesn't compare to your's but I'm stoked you liked it man.
And damnit :x I thought you wouldn't know where I got the title from lmfao.