Piercing shrieks of sheer pain once again reverberated through the damp, bleak emptiness of the former Wichita Packing Co. in the far west suburbs of Chicago...
The once-thriving meatpacking facility, flourishing in the small Ukrainian Village neighborhood in the early 1960s with its freshly butchered swine goods—ribs, loins, and uniquely pickled snouts—now stood as a bare skeleton of its former glory.
Visitors once lauded the butchery for its idealized location beneath the steel, elevated train tracks of the Chicago "L" system, inherently foreshadowing the final squeals of the slaughtered.
No one minded the freshness of their meats, as long as it was done routinely, every twenty minutes, just as the train passed through the quaint, old-worldly neighborhood.
Empty and vacant for nearly sixty years due to the rise in sustainable veganism and corporate standards of slaughtering, the Wichita Packing Co is now internally repurposed for another type of meat slaughter...
Soaked within his own perspiration induced by terror, fifty-seven-year-old Mike Dowels trembled with the notion of dead silence following each cry of the three men dragged away before him.
Strictly blindfolded and bound with duct tape by his feet, hands, and back to a single wooden chair. As the moments ticked away, Mike's heart pounded in his chest, and the cold sweat on his palms betrayed the imminent threat. This was no random act; he could feel it in every fiber of his being.
He and the other men before him worked for Rikers Island, a private security firm specifically hired and handsomely contracted to protect clients who prefer to remain under the radar.
A job, which everyone already knew, was no easy task; but with greed, money talked.
Consequently, flesh squealed.
A forceful blow sent Mike and his chair backward, careening to an unknown location. Earl, a short and unexpectedly older man, released the chair, sending Mike crashing onto the red-stained cement floor.
Moaning from behind the strip of black duck tape, a bit of blood oozed from Mike's right ear as the trauma simultaneously numbed the back of his head and internally created a sensation of vertigo.
"Mike Dowels," Earl announced to the small crowd of people ahead of him, "the technical pierdolić."
Internetwork surveillance was Mike's area of expertise at Rikers Island. Phone tracking, geo-networking surveillance, cordless videotaping, automated voice recording—basically anything revolving around local satellite networks and radio signals.
His six-year doctrine separates him from other "technical fucks," but Mike knew he was currently in no position to correct anyone.
Someone removed the makeshift blindfold from his face, revealing a pair of pale blue eyes observing his reactions. The daunting six-foot, bulky-built, tan-colored senior hovering over Mike was none other than Angelo Montanari himself.
Only physically meeting the elder once during their initial security consultation—Mike understood that age was irrelevant; for Angelo kept himself in pristine shape; with a built figure, little-to-no grays, and a clean-shaven look, no one within the entire city of Chicago could have guessed his real age.
Ranked by the Tribune as the most wanted mobster since the era of Al Capone, Angelo Montanari was never afraid to dig into the ashes of hell to obtain what he needed. City onlookers spoke whispers of him sharing a drink or two and consorting his business at the Green Mill with the infamous ghosts of the past, and, on occasion, Satan himself.
Angelo's reputation echoed across the state—a man with a fiery heart and a pair of wings untainted by compromise. But today, his flame burned more than faith.
Today, Mike understood the consequences of his previous actions...
From top to bottom, Angelo's body was clad in a makeshift suit, a glossy black material hugging every contour. The same material conveniently covered his shoes and hair—only keeping exposed the grimacing look he was well known for.
As Earl lifted the hostage back upright, Angelo yanked the rough duct tape from Mike's mouth without a moment's hesitation, leaving behind a sharp sting and a metallic taste.
Although he tried not to scream, the word "Fuck" formed the abductee's mouth as the lower half of his face began to swell up and trickle with the blood droplets from pulled facial hair.
"Now Mike," Angelo asserted as he dropped the piece of tape to the ground. "That's no way to greet a client."
Six additional men stood behind Angelo, each fooling around and jokingly playing with disembodied body parts as they continued to snap and pull the bones off from the men who arrived before Mike.
Unlike Angelo who was wearing a protective suit, these men were doused in a combination of blood, guts, and pure gore. They didn't care; like children who play in the mud, they enjoyed getting down and dirty.
"Ah yes," Angelo took a glimpse of what Mike was starstruck on, "I am a big fan of their work too. I'm most particularly fond of what they accomplished with the extremities."
The terror-induced perspiration started once more as Mike forcefully begged out the word, "P-p-please, I have children."
He knew he eventually was going to die; a heart attack, high cholesterol, fuck—even cancer stroke is mind. But never this, never gruesome torture.
"What's he begging for Earl?" Angelo wondered aloud. " I didn't ask for anything yet, did you?"
"Nie." Earl knowingly replied as he turned to grab a large, sharp, and flexible, filleting knife from one of the two tables behind Mike.
The small crew in front of them burst into unison laughter as a couple of members began using flimsy, disembodied arms as swords—a quick fencing break during work.
Angelo didn't mind it, hell—he believed in a perfect work-life balance just like anyone else. A little fun every now and again was good for the creative juices.
"You wanna know what I think, Mike?" The elder, however, focused on completing the task at hand. "I think you know something."
Earl passed the knife to his boss.
"You see, my father worked at this very location. As a little boy, he gave me a good amount of insight into butchery. For example," Angelo got up close to Mike and curved the thin blade right against his cheek.
The hostage reluctantly backed his head away, but Angelo grabbed his face and forcefully pulled it in closer.
"Cheeks are best carved out when the animals are still alive. It helps the meat remain tender and relatively juicy."
He nicked the blade slightly against the lower part of Mike's cheekbone. Nothing too menacing, just a small incision to scare the prick to speak.
"I'm only going to ask you this once," the elder demanded as he slowly backed away. "Who allowed Frank Dumond to walk into my bar and threaten my son with a fucking pistol?"
"I-I," Mike nearly wanted to blurt out the words 'I don't know,' but in doing so he would insure his own gruesome death.
So instead, he quickly thought to tell Angelo a story of what occurred seven hours ago. "Y-You remember how we had a r-reservation for the VIP room?"
"Yes," how could he forget his favorite reoccurring client Stanley Malone?
The man was good at being a lousy gambler—great for business, but unfortunately insufficient in the long run. It was a shame to hear he had hands in other pools, specifically police-related ones.
"Go on."
Mike cleared his throat before speaking in hopes to remove the nervous trembles within his voice. "That night w-we all helped Marco move his s-stuff in and out of the room, there were a lo-lot of items. I-It took us a w-w-while."
"Oh..." Angelo sarcastically veered as he rolled his eyes toward Earl; both, almost knowingly, anticipated this outcome, "You don't say."
The captive gave a slight, but nervous nod in return--afraid in not doing so, Angelo would feel disrespected and volatile.
"So, let me get this right." Angelo examined as he purposely hid the knife behind his back, a tactical method to put the captive's mind at ease. "You and your team, instead of screening patrons and employees, as I hired you to do; you lot decide to haul my son's furniture?"
"Y-ye-yes..." Mike relentlessly confirmed, knowing in hindsight that was not the smartest choice.
"I appreciate your honesty, I really do, Mike," Angelo said as he kneeled down, becoming leveled with his capture. "You're a brave and bold man, I can see that."
"A lot of people fear me--too much I think. So much so, that they don't like telling me things. I mean, you see that pile over there," he pointed toward the disembodied corpses, "they didn't tell me jack shit. But you..."
Angelo stood up, walked behind Mike, and ripped the duck tape that bound his hands and ankles to the chair using the knife. "I respect the truth."
In shock, Mike rose abruptly, turning towards Angelo. "Th-th-thank you, s-sir," he stammered. "I swear it wo-won't happen again, I pr-promise to exceed your e-e-expectation."
Other than being called The Devil of the Second City, some folks know Angelo's mercy—his inconspicuous heart–for that they call him The Angel. In this particular occurrence, Mike finally understood the reference.
Angelo approached, placing a hand on Mike's shoulder. The captive, now elated by the taste of freedom, couldn't help but crack a half-witted smile.
"I know you won't," he said before smoothly slicing the knife directly above Mike's laryngeal prominence, across his entire throat.
The last breath Mike aired was a petrifying and devastating scream of a fooled man before his body collapsed onto the concrete ground.
"You should have done your fucking job," Angelo shook his head with disappointment, spitting down onto the dead corpse before him as the entire room filled with the rumbling sounds of the scheduled train.
"Sir," Earl politely interjected, avoiding the fresh blood on the floor. "I just got a text from Marco--the prosię are live, they're squealing about yous on the news."
A smile cultivated on Angelo's expression, he adored listening to the public's perception of him. "Let's hear what these assholes have to say this time."
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