-Hey Richard, could you put the volume off? I’m trying to
write here.- The man with the letterman jacket pulled out his hand reaching
towards the remote to do as his bearded roommate told. –Thanks.- -…- His
roommate wasn’t a very talkative type, and he always left his room a mess.
However, he knew deep down that his heart was in the right place. –I’m
investigating this Russian gang that emerged recently, this could be a nice
scoop. I could buy a place for us to move, better than this shithole apartment.-
His roommate looked like he didn’t listen to him, mostly concentrated on his
videogame, called Hotline Miami.
As Richard drove him to the place he specified so he could
keep on investigating, his partner reminisced to their days in the army.
Richard was much more talkative back then, he was a formidable soldier. Rumors
had it back in the day that he managed to beat several soldiers and drill
instructors on hand to hand combat in a training exercise. Something happened
back then that made him the way he is now. Cold, silent, and only focused on
the things on his mind and nothing else. –Alright, stop here.-
He went down an alley while Richard waited in the car, he
knew of a tip from an anonymous source about a money laundering operation they
had on this exact street. With his video camera in hand, he lockpicked a door
and took a peek inside to see… there was nothing. An empty room, only filled
with a chair and a radio on a table. As he was ready to make his way out, he
felt something quickly hit the back of his head.
When he woke up, he was tied to the chair in the room. –So,
you’re the motherfucker trying to pry onto things that aren’t your business?-
The man that talked to him was wearing a tacky green Hawaiian shirt. –Speak,
who sent you? The FBI? Nah, I bet those assholes are still busy with that clown
gang somewhere.- -I’m just a freelance reporter.- The man in the shirt took a
hammer from the table, it was probably brought there after he passed out. –Not willing
to talk eh? Maybe a little persuasion
will change your mind.- He put the radio on and then he proceeded to hit his
knees with the hammer, the pain he felt was excruciating, but despite telling
the truth, he couldn’t find any way for them to believe them. –I’m telling you,
I’m just freelance! I saw your rise to power and I just wanted a scoop to get
some money!- -Still not willing eh? Let’s see if this can make you speak.- He
then grabbed something else from his table, a baseball bat which he then used
to hit the torso of the man. He fell unconscious, and as he awoke again, he
found himself soaked wet, but whatever was it, it wasn’t water. –Last chance
for you to collaborate.- -I already told you the truth, piece of shit.- The Commissar,
as some of his henchmen who were there with him called him, lighted up a match
and threw it onto the man.
As his friend took some time to come back, Richard stepped
out of his DeLorean to look for him. He knew he went down an alley, he retraced
the steps his roommate took. As he entered the room, something inside of him
began to convulse, he puked his guts out in the entrance of the room, as he saw
the charred figure of his friend slowly turn into ash. –You could have avoided
this.- Something spoke into his mind. –You are responsible.- The voices in his
head would not quell, -You are responsible- time and time again, those words
repeated themselves on the back of his head. He promised to himself he would
find every single person that did this to him, and that he would make them pay.
He returned to his apartment. He went to his room and took
out his collection of cassette tapes. He was an avid collector of 80s
memorabilia, for some reason he found the collection relaxing. He was however,
going to use this collection for something else entirely. He had changed, where
there was peace now was a quiet turmoil in his head that was soon going to turn
into a storm of revenge. He also had a small collection of masks, which he had
also been collecting. A horse named Don Juan, an owl called Rasmus, a tiger
named Tony, and a rooster mask, which he named after himself. He putted it on
and grabbed his 1980s Dictaphone, playing a tape. –We should go.-
He drove his DeLorean to a lavish villa. His partner’s notes
mentioned a list of locations this mob controlled. Aside from the locations in
Miami, he also knew the mob had a few businesses in Washington D.C and other states. He dressed
up for the occasion, putting on his mask and entered the place. He was stopped by the bodyguards
before he broke both of their arms swiftly, he then proceeded to stomp the face
of one of the guards and punch to death the other one. –It has beg-zzzzzttt-un-
He grabbed one of the guns the bodyguards had, a silenced
TEC-9 and awaited at the doors, hearing steps coming by. It was someone
speaking in Russian, as he touched the door handle he sound found himself
getting slammed by the door, and killed by a bullet by the man in the letterman
jacket. He proceeded towards the place, and got up a stairway towards a door
that said “Employees only” a guard saw him and shouted, alerting all the others
in the place. He shot the guard leaving only a bloody mess. He looked for cover
as the other guards came towards him and a shoot-out took place. Some guards
got close to his location, and they soon learned this was a bad idea, as with a
quick strike of his elbow, he got behind one of the guards, using him as human
shield towards all the bullets that came his way, while he shot the few guards
that were left. Nothing stood between him and the manager of the place.
As he entered the room, the manager couldn’t be found. Until
the man in the letterman jacket looked under his desk. He then pulled him
outside. –Please! Don’t kill me! What do you want from me!?- The man took out his
Dictaphone and began to play a tape. –Retribution.-
He smashed his head in with a close-by extinguisher as his cries of “No! Don’t!”
were ignored. The man saw another Russian mobster watch him, he took out his cassette
player and played another tape. –Tell your boss the Messenger was here.- He
left quickly, almost thankful that his life was spared.
The news of a masked murderer attacking Russian establishments
spread quickly, however the voices in his head didn’t quell. He piled up
newspaper clippings that spoke of some of his doings. He found himself pulling
the Dictaphone one more time in his home, playing a random tape. –Your name is
not Richard.- As he went on, he forgot himself between all the violence and destruction,
being only recognized as “The Messenger” or even “The man of the Jacket”.
He drove towards a bar controlled by the Russians, and as he
entered, he shot the first white shirted guy he saw, while looking for cover
under the bar. He threw a bottle at one of the gangster’s head and shot another
one of them. Getting close to the last one to throw him onto the bar and smash
his head against the counter. He then got close to the owner of the place, laughing
while drinking a bottle of vodka. –The man you’re looking for went away a long
time ago. He’s in D.C. now.- He took another swig, soon after, and amidst the laughter, a bullet hole
appeared through his head.
He went back home, furious to learn the man he was looking
for escaped like a coward and slipped through his fingers. However, he found
out there was a message on his answering machine. –I’ve heard of your exploits,
and it seems you and I have mutual interests… people call me Bain. I may not be
well known in Miami, but I run a crime organization in D.C. called “Crime.net”
and I’d like for you to join us. I’ve set out for a plane to come pick you up,
and you’ll meet with one of my guys. I hope business between the two of us
blooms into a longstanding relationship.-
Jacket appeared in the airport, where a balding man with
glasses showed up. He was quiet, just like himself. He lead him towards the
airport and they got on a plane. Wolf, as he soon discovered was the man’s name
explained to him that they want to find the Commissar, but that none of their
men spoke, not even under torture. However, there is one man they fear, and it’s
“The Messenger”. Bain once thought it was some kind of myth, or a horror story.
But he soon found out he was wrong once he looked onto the many assassinations
in Miami, Florida. –We have another one of the Commissar’s grunts, and we think
you might be a good asset for him to speak.- Jacket got out his tape recorder. –This
could be the beginning of a beau-zzzzzt-tiful
relationship…-
Once his mission was fulfilled and the Commissar died, he went back to the Safe House with his newfound partnerts. He looked through a window next to the kitchen and lighted a cigarrette. He forgot how feeling alive felt after so much death surrounding him. He fealt he could never go back to be the same after all the experiences he dealt with. He got his Dictaphone out again, and he played a random tape. -Your name is not Jacket.- He left out some smoke from his cigarrette and threw the mask on the floor until the time he'd need it again, he was content with just being Richard, if only around the guys and girls he'd trust his life to.
