TaBB3rnackle92
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.
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.