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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item.php/item_id/2016494-Hotline-Miami-Fiction
Rated: 18+ · Fiction · Fanfiction · #2016494
Because I feel there needs to be some.
There was Jacket, sitting in an era when cocaine parties were all the rage. 1989 Miami, Florida. Florida was always nuts, no doubt. And Miami sure wasn't much better. It is the origin state of the mother-daughter porn duo, too many Cubans, and wacko folks attempting to live like the wealthy of California... but for far less. Seemed reasonable enough of course. And Jacket here was no exception. He hoped once to live this way, but now was stuck in an apartment that defined the word filth. The empty pizza boxes and papers lined the counter tops and coffee table. Thirty gallon trash bags sat outside the door and had yet to be taken out, but who did he care, it is Miami, where you can do whatever you want. Even be the shit-trash slob you dreamed of. Downstairs his neighbor was making too much noise as he blew rails of cocaine naked off a house key. Jacket could hear him eventually drilling a hole into a watermelon, with intention of man-on-melon coitus because he can in Miami, nobody cares. And nobody cares for Jacket. The loner drew himself up out of the bed, not taking the noise the downstairs guy was making, he decided it was time to start the day.
He knew what he was getting into, he remembered the meetings over the phone. 50 Blessings had informed him of their goal to overthrow the Russo-American coalition, whatever that means, by killing Russian mafia. Jacket didn't know or care about what that meant. He had just been feeling the stresses of daily living and, seeing too many movies, was far detached from emotional fulfillment and lacked a good deal of empathy. He had never started off like this for sure. but with a lack of coping and stimulation; instead of drugs he felt a bit more... sadistic. Some people snap and cry themselves into a depression, some snap and develop an addictive personality, and some.... enjoy hurting other people. The mess of his favorite films of slashers and documentaries on serial killers really did him no favors either. But, with 50 Blessings, they offered him a destination in life, a purpose, to get the sweet release he needed for himself. He was pent up, now to finally have a healthy outlet for himself, not so much for the mafioso's on the receiving end, but for him he'd be happy.
The short and high tone of his voice mail rang. He must've slept through the call after a long night of Nintendo and horror films and pizza. He'd get his orders from a woman, asking to help install her appliances as the last guy had not done such a good job.
"454 West East Street is my address. And thank you for coming out," she'd say. And with that, it was time for Jacket to go to work. Most people don't get to love their job as Jacket did. He didn't need incentive to do the work, it wasn't his patriotic duty or any form of cash. Most reason behind simply: it allowed him to live out what swirled in his sick head. Rather than reclaim his brain, he'd just simply let the bad grow out from his psyche into his physical being. And with that, he arrived.
Jacket stepped out of his DeLorean and moved to the trunk. He picked up a rubber rooster mask that once belonged to a previous owner who worked for 50 Blessings, but he since failed and would not be needing it anymore. But, it was not Jacket that did the killings, it was Richard the Rooster. Richard allowed him to feel absolved of his deeds by putting on a different face. Jacket was just a man in a messy apartment, Richard however, was a homicidal animal in a letterman jacket. Next, he picked up his old baseball bat from his days of the fine sport, when he was still just another schmo.
An old Russian man sat in a lobby of a florists shop. the shop naturally, was a front for the upstairs business, which was doing and dealing cocaine, while in another room, men and women of Russian descent engaged in less than reputable acts of multiplying the human race. The wrinkled man smoked indoors, a virtue in the future that would be long gone. He had a cloud in front, hanging in the stagnant air as the HVAC was garbage in this place. Behind the counter of the florist shop, "The Roses of Sharon," sat another Russian man, also mafia and in on the business, labeling vases and pots. He too was smoking a cigarette, except he was cooked off his head in dust after coming to work early to get high and watch The A-team. Both looked unkempt, cagey, and had stains on their clothing from condiments to general filth.
A man in a letterman jacket and rooster mask sporting a bat crashed in through the door at a high speed run. He swung down over his head with his weight on top of the smoking man's head, and sent him dropping like a stone out of his chair. Not breaking his speed or stride, he vaulted the counter and beat down the "clerk" with a sickening noise once his skull gave way. Jacket turned around quickly back over the counter, and drove the round end of the fat portion of bat straight down into the no longer smoking Russian's face. Hunched, he pounded and pounded as blood escaped from the force, the man suffered a brief period of hydrostatic shock before dying away. Jacket spun back to his place once more, over the counter, and finished off the stunned and moaning florist mobster. He stepped back to examine the room. Bits of skull and tons of blood were sent in every way of the perimeter of the corpses. His bat had blood and clumps of human hair upon it so Jacket, feeling nothing, peeled it off the bat by running it down the end of the counter, leaving the bloody hair-mess stuck to the structure. Then, it was time to resume.
He opened the staff door leading upstairs, he was a tad winded. So he gathered his breath after getting a good burn off the calories from murder. In the staff room, another one of those victims was filling a cup in the sink. Adjacent to him was a small table and some more flowers and a fine rug that really tied the room together. Jacket soon got blood on it, thanks to the other man providing it as Jacket demolished his interior of the human head. The rug was ruined and would need replaced. Now that business was concluded, the rooster of destruction backed out of the area and up the stairway. He could smell the tinge of tobacco and heard music as people laughed. Reaching the top, he stood still, only breathing, with his sullied bat in his left hand as viscous human fluid ran down in a thick mess to dry on the floor. He watched the people in front of him, they did not notice him for a while. He just studied them as they broke up lines of cocaine with each other and laughed. Fine 1980's synthesizer played low in the background, as that was the only instrument available in the 80's. It felt good, this was all very fun for him and they were all having a wonderful time up until he approached them. Taking notice finally as he got too close, a highly affected Russian voice inquired in surprise at him.
"Who in the serious fuck are you? What have you done? What is this?" He spotted the baseball bat... "you, you are gonna die you sick fucker!" They stood up as their comrade recoiled in horror, and Jacket was shook out of his scene and back into a gray-scale eye sight. One got a shot off, as he was pushed back by Jacket as he sat the Russian down into the couch. Jacket then turned quickly with his bat outstretched and hit a home run into another gunman. He then stamped down onto him as he broke a third's kneecap, sending out a pained yell of agony as it hurts very much to have that particular joint broken. The man on the couch drew aim and fired again. Couch stuffing from the opposite furniture piece was sent out the back as the bullet missed from the users failure. He was struck down as Jacket then climbed onto him, and he pulverized the man's head until it opened like a water balloon. The Russian with the broken leg was soon looking at the other end of his deceased friend's gun, as Jacket commandeered it from his latest victim. The last Russian tried to claw his way from Jacket before Jacket stopped him. There they were both still. Jacket, Holding the gun. Staring down it was a rooster, and at it, a mobster. This man's terror in his final moments was satisfying. It was so painful for his mind as he knew his last moments were mere seconds away at the whim of this disgusting excuse for a living human, filled to the brim with depravity.
"My people will kill you, we will torture and kill you, you doomed piece of shit. We will have you broiling in a hell-pit soon!"
Jacket painted the floor with the man's memories when the bullet exited the back of the Russian's head. The bodies all leaked juice, as they sat there limp. There was no life in them to be detected... perhaps before one could say the same thing, and Jacket merely finished the cycle. He stared at them puzzled for a moment at what he'd done. It was interesting to see, they were once living and now they were not. They just sat there incapable of movement, muscles without tension or resistance, unfinished cocaine on the table. I'll Be watching You playing low in the air. Jacket dropped the gun, he wouldn't be needing that anymore. And rinsed his bat downstairs in the sink, then washed his hands as the blood swirled down the sink into the sewage system to be cleansed. He finally made it out the door and stripped off the rubber mask and threw it into his car along with his chosen tool of the trade. But it wasn't Jacket who did the killings, it was Richard. Jacket drove off, leaving behind the definition of a-social violence that he did not perpetrate but rather the rooster did.
A bearded man greeted him as he strolled over the threshold of the VHS Palace. The bearded man checked up on him in conversation, inquiring as to how he was doing. They maintained short and static banter as Jacket reached for a flick, all re-wound and packaged just for him. He waved off the bearded man in a friendly manner as they both shared a satisfaction in the common decency of the interaction, and Jacket headed home to once again watch too many films.
He climbed very tired. His body was depleted after a full noon of killing. He fell down onto his bed and started his television as he relaxed in front of the screen while another tape played. Soon, he'd rewind it and shut it all down and go to sleep.
As his respite was coming on, a local newspaper printed furiously with the stories of a violent and destructive path of murder that swept through the premises of "The Roses of Sharon" like a storm of wrath. The business was shut down, the owner was dead, and police were combing the area and bracing for cleanup. All the night was working away on what could have done this and the motive but in the end, it'd be just another night of cleanup. Meanwhile, the Death Angel personified rested.

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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item.php/item_id/2016494-Hotline-Miami-Fiction