(Here's a beta sample of a possible Nightcrawler saga...send us your comments!)
Over a half century ago, New York Daily News columnist Jimmy Breslin ran a series on a
mysterious Mob boss known as Il Occhio. Although Breslin attributed enormous
power and frightening bloodlust to the man, there was no proof that he was
anything but a fictitious character symbolizing the dark side of the Godfather mobs of the Seventies. It was
not until the Eighties when brutal killers like John Gotti and Nicky Scarfo
rose to power did the glamor and mystique of the Mob fade away.
Peter
Ruggiero felt as if he was going to pick up where Breslin left off with his
series on Al the Blond. It was a chilling look into the New York underworld,
only social media left little conjecture as to the personage being discussed.
After the incarceration of Angelo “The Blade” Vacirca, there was a power vacuum
in the Rossini Mob that most felt was going to be filled by Alastair Piedmont.
Al the Blond had never been arrested or charged with a crime, but his name was
on numerous State and Federal lists of racketeering suspects. He was under the
microscope, but his network was so impenetrable that no one could even
determine who his lieutenants were. Vito Scafati and Guido Rovigo were
mentioned, but even they seemed as occasional contacts at best.
Ruggiero
was a tall, attractive man who many thought of as effete. Yet he fancied
himself an intellectual and was at home among the rich and famous and gangster
types alike. His placid and sociable demeanor belied his incisive and sometimes
scathing editorial style. He made more than a few enemies among those who were
shredded by Peter after unwittingly taking him into their confidence. Some of these
were acquaintances of Al the Blond who made the grievous blunder of sharing
more than they should have.
Shortly
after the Thinker had left the office of Walt Tkaczuk, Peter Ruggiero was
powering down his PC for the night. He was feeling pretty cocksure after his
tenth installment featuring Al the Blond hit the presses. The editors of The Inquisitor were certain that sales
would begin soaring when the column pieces gave way to a feature series. His Rugg Ratt column was already the talk of
the town, and the new Ruggiero Rap
was predicted to become the newspaper series of the year.
He had just buffed his
gold-rimmed glasses and put them back on when he saw the two figures stepping
through the doorway of his office. They looked like a couple of overdressed
college teens with a strangely chilly demeanor. One of the last sights he would
ever remember was their doll-like lifeless eyes.
“This place is closed,” Peter said
sternly though he broke a cold sweat upon realizing something was terribly
wrong here. They walked in and leaned up against the wall, the black-dressed
kids waiting for him to speak. “You can check in with security at the desk in
the lobby. They can help get you where you need to be.”
“They’re not there,” the blonde girl replied. “I think
they’re kinda tied up in the ladies’ room.” “Well, we’ve got roving security,”
Peter switched on his desktop intercom. “They can come and escort you back
downstairs.”
“See, I told you,” the pale young man said
softly.
“Yeah, so?” she replied nonchalantly.
Peter watched with trepidation as the
teens gazed down the hall through the doorway. They seemed as if waiting for a
bus. Eventually they heard the elevator door in the hallway and the sound of
rapidly approaching footsteps.
“Everything okay, Mr. Ruggiero?”
“These two appear to be lost. I told
them you could escort them back to the lobby.”
“Sure
can,” the strapping Puerto Rican guard replied. “Come on, we’ll take you back
downstairs.”
“Screw
you,” the blonde said tersely.
“Excuse
me?” the hulking black guard asked.
At
once the black-leathered blonde launched a lightning front kick into the Puerto
Rican’s groin. The black man was startled but lunged for her, running right
into a high-heeled roundhouse kick that nearly broke his jaw. She charged into
them with a flurry of elbows and knees, dropping them to the carpet where she
rendered them unconscious with a vicious stomping.
“What
the hell do you want?” Peter tried to appear belligerent.
“That
column you’ve been writing,” the blonde replied. “You’ve been printing lies
that are hurting lots of good people. You need to go on vacation for a while.
Maybe take a leave of absence.”
“Look, you don’t realize how
much trouble you’re already in,” Peter flared. “You’d better get out now before
it gets any worse.”
“See, I told you he wouldn’t listen,”
the blonde murmured.
“Yeah, I was hoping he would.”
“Okay, look, I’m gonna call an
ambulance. It’ll probably take them about ten minutes to get here,” Peter
picked his cell phone off the desk.
“Don’t do that,” the raven-haired kid
entreated him.
Just
as Peter raised the phone to his lips, the young man swung across the desk and
smashed the device into his teeth. Peter dropped the phone as the kid grabbed
his lapels and pulled him over the desk. The reporter landed painfully on his
knees as his assailant grabbed his hair and slammed the back of his head
against the edge of the desk.
“You
would’ve probably lied to us anyway,” the kid produced a small vial from his
inside jacket pocket and unscrewed the cap with one hand. “You wouldn’t have
gone nowhere.”
Peter
tried to rise but the attacker gave him an excruciating kick to the groin. The
journalist was paralyzed with pain as the kid yanked his head back, pinning it
to the top of the desk.
“Sorry
about this,” the young man said before pouring the contents of the vial into
Peter’s eyes.
Peter let
loose a deafening scream as the sulfuric acid burned through his eyeballs. The
assailant pulled out a small sack into which he put the vial and the small cap.
“Wipe your fingers,” the blonde said
as Peter began losing consciousness.
“I’ll be okay,” the young man replied
as they stepped past the fallen guards and headed for the elevator.
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