The O-Man

2. Boss Black

Somewhere in the darkest bowels of the city of Jacksonville, a steel mill that was at one point foreclosed bustled with beefed up thugs. The larger of them strolled the perimeter. What was originally all grass was now a dirt trail created from their sneakers constantly treading over the same path. Day in and day out, it was the same routine.

The smaller thugs stayed inside the mill, doing the manual labor. Conspicuous crates of military-grade weaponry were lugged across the floor to be loaded onto delivery trucks. Marijuana was inspected and distributed among dealers and footsoldiers to be sold on the streets. This old building was a real center of commerce.

High above it all loomed a figure, obscured within his commandeered overseer's office by shadows cut from the steel beams that jutted across the ceiling that held the entirety of it up. His eyes were hidden by mirrored shades. Those eyes- they saw everything.

"Boss, I'm sorry to bother you but--," a low voice rang through the intercom with static interference framing his words.

"Don't be sorry. Just come out with it," the man replied through his own intercom device which was mounted on the wall.

"Right. Uh... you know that O thing you sent Eddie to deal with? We, uh..."

"He's dead, isn't he."

"No. Well... maybe. I don't know, he ain't come back yet."

"He's not coming back. Just tell me why you're buzzing me."

"Oh. Well... we got a package. It looks like a head? I mean, it came in a cardboard box and I had one of the new guys open it. Y'know, in case it was a bomb," the voice paused as another man pulled him away to say something. Nothing could be made out over the static. "It ain't a bomb. It's like a... a paper-craft head with a gasmask thing on it. I just thought you'd--"

"I'm coming down."

The boss cut the intercom feed and pushed the metal door open with a shrill squeak. Now in the ceiling light's rays, his entirety could be made out plain as day. His boots rode up to the middle of his calves, strung tightly with steel toes beneath the blackened leather. His pants were tucked into his boots to give him a more kempt appearance, and were pressed black jeans. His undershirt clung to his impressively toned chest with a collar that snuggled against his throat up to his Adam's Apple. Also black. An ebony (black) trenchcoat completed his attire, flowing behind him as he strode like the cape of a noble. The boss's hair was bound into a ponytail, and just below his lip was a tiny tuft of brown hair known only as a soul patch. A single metal ball rested below his lip- the only piercing he has.

He was known among the underworld community for his choice of clothing, namely the color. For that, he's earned the title of Boss Black. Make no mistake: his skin was fair enough to counter all that dark tenfold.

The metal steps rattled with his descent, heralding a deafening silence among the men below. They knew better than to cross him in even the smallest amount. Though he appeared mild-mannered, one didn't want to invoke the wrath of Boss Black.

"Sir, here," said a shorter man with a black bandana wrapped around his head. In his hands was an egg-shaped paper-craft head, the kind kids made in elementary school out of water, glue, and newspaper strips. Strapped over it was a faded green gasmask with corroded filters and smudged glass over the eye bits. It was the real deal.

Boss Black pushed past two of his men and snatched the object from the thug's grubby hands. Without saying a word, he tilted it about and thumbed the edges of the mask to check for wires or triggers or anything of the sort. It was clean. "...Did you open the head?," he finally said, lifting his gaze to stare at the short man through his shades.

"I-- Did I ope--"

"The head," he repeated, shaking it at the grunt and dropping it back to the table in frustration. "Open it."

The guy nodded uncertainly, taking the craft in his shaking hands. Much like one would do an egg, he tapped it on the edge of the table before bopping it good. The paper crust split in the middle, but the mask held the whole thing together. He blinked in surprise when he caught a glimpse of the corner of a Polaroid picture poking out of the crack. "...Uh, boss?," he muttered, setting the head back on the table.

Boss Black slid both hands' fingers into the crack and tugged the object open. Glued newspaper crackled and ripped as a mound of photographs spilled onto the table. A tape recorder tumbled out on top of it all. The photographs were all of the same subject: Eddie.

There had to be about fifty pictures, all detailing the hole in the side of his head with a big chunk of gray matter hanging from it by a strand. A few photos were of Orencio posing by the limp cadaver taken in selfie-fashion. A few of Boss Black's men hunched over and threw up all over the concrete floor. Boss Black himself merely snarled his lip. "The recorder. Play it," he demanded.

The short man nodded, shakily taking the recorder and clicked the "Play" button. His face was flushed from having purged all over his shirt. The recorder vibrated as it began its playback, buzzing and then clearing up. At first, the sound of a heavy metal object could be heard being dropped into the table. Then, a throat clearing.

"Hello! This is-- ah, shit. Is this on?"

There was a small rattling where Oren had fumbled with the recorder.

"Okay, yeah. I hate this thing, it like... the light doesn't come on when it records. Cheap piece of shit. I guess that's why I'm givin' it to you guys, huh? Anyway, I found your friend! He was pokin' around my merchandise, so I poked around in his head a bit. I found this big blob of shit, probably what used to be a brain before I took a tire iron to it. So, uh... what was I gonna say? Shit, hold on..."

There was the ruffling of papers, possibly a tiny notebook.

"...Oh! Here it is. I, Orencio Raptis, president of O.R.E., general of the Great Raptis Army, and current holder of the title Sexiest Drug Lord on Earth, am hereby declaring WAR. Ready yourself, Mister Black, because when I'm done with you, you'll be... shit. I forgot my joke... fuck. Hold up..."

More paper rustling.

"...Ha! You'll be BLACK AND BLUE. God, I'm clever. Anyway, see you around, fuckboy."

The recording cut off and the short grunt dropped the device. His hands were shaking hard. "B-Boss... we can't fight this guy! I heard things, man... bad things. Do you see what he did to Eddie? Oh my God--"

The tall Boss Black calmly slid his right hand under his left arm, retrieving a sleek silver pistol. Before the short man could respond, Black gripped him by the back of the head and shoved it into the pile of photographs. Fearful yelps battered against the laminated pages just before an ear-shattering crack rang throughout the mill. The others only watched as their friend was culled right before their eyes. A much more humane execution than what they saw moments before, but unnerving nonetheless.

Black silently calmed himself, inhaling and exhaling sharply as he tucked his gun back under his arm. Snapping his lapels straight and smoothing his coat, Boss Black turned away from the mess. "Let's not loiter. Clean him up and move some hardware to our men. We've got a hell of a bloody war on the horizon."