Can’t have sh*t in Detroit

As I was slowly drifting inside of the almost clear white space I now called the Void I reflected on my now late life. I didn't regret it, not in the slightest, I followed and lived true to myself. I was what people would call a hunter, killer, assassin, murderer all descriptors with different meanings, yet all revolved around one thing. Death.

Those who lived for the hunt, human or not, could find peace in the ever-lengthy time of preparation and waiting. Only to then feel the thrill that came within those adrenaline-fueled moments that spelled the end of the prey.

Yet those moments could also signify the escape as if you became too immersed you become nothing more than a bumbling idiot with a weapon. Barreling towards the one who you assume is defenceless, already within your grasp. Until they slip out of your hold forever holding over you your failure. The results of my failure however went further than the consequence of time wasted or mentally berating myself.

However, I did do just that. I used to be a hired assassin. Most consider such a man like myself as some sort of super soldier rushing into heavily guarded mansions rushing towards my objective systematically taking out everyone in my way like some John Wick wannabe. This was not the case in my line of work. You waited and waited and waited sometimes for days on end.

Eyes peeled every waking moment waiting for that perfect moment the point in time in which you can take your shot and claim your reward. I had done so at many points in my life. Having found myself disassociating with the mundane way of life. I longed for something different, something more. Everyone has to start somewhere, and I started my career in crime in the shit hole known as Detroit in the 70s.

As I lived in the "Murder Capital" of the world I found myself since my adolescence involved with gangs, knife fights and drug dealing. It of course didn't start this way. A friend of mine who seemed to have a similar mindset to my own, though lacking the same motives as myself, had introduced me to their "friends". Upon my inquiring of their willingness to accept me into their "group," I was put to the test.

It was simple, kill enough members of a rival gang for them to be able to overpower them and take over their turf. After learning of their location I took a trip to the nearest gas station and filled up some jars with gasoline. And then burnt down the shack of rotten wood that they called a house with them inside.

This earned me the nickname "Blaze" no doubt also picked because of my smoking habits. With my initiation came a bandana that I was instructed to wear for identification. No matter how creative that nickname was my time spent away made my deadbeat parents worried. Not for my safety or health, but that I wouldn't be there to buy alcohol or weed.

However, after I had given them 1,000$ of blood money scrounged up from the smouldering pit that used to be a hideout all their worries were set aside. This of course came with the terms that they don't talk or interact with me for the next year. To which they happily obliged.

I found out the next week my dad was in the hospital for alcohol poisoning, and my mother was high as a kite and hit by a carreening truck because she was so unaware of her surroundings. I at this moment had fully realized just how hopeless my "guardians" were. Although I held some hope on what they would spend that money on I ultimately knew where it would go.

I in my childish to then teenage wisdom tried multiple ways to get them off the drugs. But it was a way of life for them as they were unwilling to give up that festering rotten part of themselves. Eventually, I learned what times to come out of my room, how to tell their mood and when it was just best to avoid them entirely for the day. This of course came in trial and error which eroded any hope or sympathy I held left.

In the few moments that they were to come back from their inebriated status, they only seemed empty. They spent the money I gave them to not only have them leave me alone but to also allow themselves some kind of joy. They squandered it and I didn't feel like I owed them anything.

So I put myself towards the gang and with the trust built upon years of "honest" work I had gotten of getting further involved in the gang's "business". And by their standards had long ago earned the right to a firearm that wasn't loaded with blanks for intimidation and a higher position.

It was at that moment when I had been dragged to a basement and fired something that gave kickback that my initial ambitions solidified. A machine so capable of ending life in the palm of my hand, the waves of force that sent shudders through my bones. Signifying the tiny payload of aluminum that would put in perilous danger unto the receiver.

It was Glorious

I had never found myself without such an instrument since then. Unfortunately for the gang I worked with I had ambitions greater than selling drugs or shaking down the elderly for benjamins. And so I schemed and plotted trying to come up with a foolproof plan to both secure me the money the gang held while systematically taking everyone out. If there was one thing I had been taught it was no loose ends, and I planned to follow that.

And then it came to me I would bring them down in a blazing inferno. A fire so great it would liquefy their bones. There was only one problem, how to get the money the gang held. I was lucky however as in the time spent in the gang I had spent my time training my skills by my own choice, or circumstance, and gathered rather important information.

The "boss" as he liked us to call him always went to a certain warehouse Monday, Wednesday and Friday. But it seemed to be nothing more than a meeting place to make deals with other gangs and to distribute, or sell some product. The real stash seemed to be within the basement of a building that hadn't finished construction due to the city's budget cuts. And after seeing the absolute fortune contained within it I realised why they were so careful.

If the gang were to hear about this they'd go ballistic and hang their body up on a cross at the top of the small office building we called our hideout. Luckily the "boss" was so paranoid that nobody was put in place to guard it. This was the only reason I went with my plan of causing widespread destruction. And that it churned something within me to watch as the embers of destruction tore apart everything it touched.

So I got to work fulfilling my plan as I started siphoning gas from the cars that littered the streets. After successfully storing enough gas to burn down 3 houses I got to work. Storing the gas into thin sealed plastic baggies that kept cropping up now. I took out the floorboards and put the stuff in the walls. Finally, I made a trail of gasoline from the dirty carpet to the doorway while pumping the room full of scented candles to hide the smell.

When the boss came in early the next day he was furious. Accusing everyone and shaking down each of us for even a hint at who stole the gang's money. Firearms were drawn and fingers pointed. No one even got to question the weird smell when the threat of being shot was present.

Pretending to be overwhelmed, which I understandably was, I took a few steps towards the doorway. This of course was noticed, and greeted by the pointing of various weaponry. But when I pulled out a cig and lit it everyone assumed I was merely taking a step back to take the edge off as they once more themselves to the people around them.

This would be their last mistake.

I dropped the cigarette onto the carpet and dove to the side whilst pulling out my piece. I knew the questioning looks were soon replaced by fury as everyone soon realized that the floor was on fire and the embers were only growing. It was when an explosion of flames created by a payload of gasoline within the floorboards did the smart ones pulled themselves together.

Those who prioritized escaping a burning down building found themselves locked in by door wedges and a grate I fastened into the wall. As the screams inside the room lessened in number, but increased in portraying an unbelievable amount of pain. I prioritized saving myself by getting out of the burning building that was most definitely going to collapse.

Upon my exit, I checked myself for anything that may have caught on fire. Confirming that I was fine I prowled the premises looking for any survivors. The closest of which is the 2nd story window of the room being smashed out, presumably by the chair outside. The man who did it was bleeding out on the ground screaming in agony as several shards of glass were stabbed into his legs. I looted the still-conscious man of his wallet and took out a knife as I slit his throat.

Upon further investigation, I found 2 more victims who were this time unconscious. They must've barely pushed through the front doors of the dilapidated office building as they were right in front of the entrance. I of course slit their throats as I allowed them to bleed out on the pavement. I however had to cut my checks short as both police and fire department sirens sounded in the distance. Knowing that the burning building wouldn't be able to be traced to me I hastily made my escape.

Taking one last look at the ever-increasing blaze slowly covering the building I only felt joy.