The King of Chicago

This is a short story i wrote for my creative writing class. I only had a limited page count to use, so decided to do a mob noir style monologue. Hope you enjoy

            The winter wind unleashes her unforgiving fury upon the city. Battering these harsh Chicago streets, as if my night wasn’t troubled enough. The street lamp does its best to fight against the onslaught of the winter storm. The foolish efforts of one amounting to nothing, such is the world. The symphony of the night rings out, for those who care to listen. On the corner, I can hear the moans of an old bluesman crying on his six-string. The angry battle cry of cabbies fighting for fares resonates along the night air. A few blocks over I can hear a food truck peddling the best Chicago has to offer. What is bad weather against the will of men? That’s Chicago grit.

With a flick of my Zippo, I light a cigar. Its orange ember fights in the night, barely glowing in the bright lights of the city. I once had a man tell me it was better to light a cigar with a match. Something about how a match preserves the flavor. His poor attempt to educate what he perceived to be a lesser man. Needless to say, he met with an unfortunate accident. A young man is not a lesser man. I drop a couple one hundred dollar bills for the bluesman, and simply nod my head. He gives a small nod back, understanding nothing else needed to be said. A kid on a messenger bike roars past us nearly clipping the bluesman. I reach inside my coat removing my colt from its holster. Looking down the sight, I thumb back the hammer. However, fate reveals herself as she always does. The villainous temptress casting her weaves upon the hearts of men.  I’ve got no time for this, we’ll settle up later kid.

            My feet fall heavy as I ponder how I’ve come to this night. Such is the destiny of all powerful men. One day you look back, wondering if it was all worth it in the end. I wonder what it can mean to be the king of Chicago. Grown men quaking in fear at the very mention of your name, but is that all it really amounts to? Fear, in my arrogance I once thought the man who was feared was respected. At least that’s what my foolish idiotic mind thought. But such is the way; the sage of old men is only matched by the arrogance of youth.

            This city stands at a crossroads. It's time the old regimes fall, and a new empire to rise in its wake. At least that’s what the gnats say, while they’re buzzing in my ear. Men to cowardice to rise when they’re needed, only fit to whisper their treachery in the shadows. I can smell the vile stench of fates hand in all this. Weak minded fools. It’s time for old men to fall to the wayside of history. A silent rally cry they whisper in the shadows. But old men don’t become powerful simply by bending to the will of change. Why does it have to be me? Why should I desire a throne? Chicago will always be Chicago even without me. Maybe I should disappear into the night, and leave this city to fate. Is it wrong, letting this masquerade of an empire burn in the flames of time? A powerful thought, but isn’t the world shaped by such thoughts?

            My feet find their way to an old friend from days long past. McKnight’s is an old dive that’s been around for as long as I can remember. It’s like the rest of the neighborhood. Beat up, scarred, and creaking along, but it wears every imperfection with pride. No, this isn’t a painted up dive looking like some two-bit hooker. This is a place with character. Where young men come to plan the future, and old man tell tales of former glories. 

            Putting my cigar out against the wall, I walk in. The smell of stale cigarettes and beer is a welcome relief. Everything is just as I remember it. Scratched hardwood with brass railing only matched by the cheap peeling vinyl. It’s a dump by all accounts, but a legend in the hearts of men. The memories scattered along the walls hit me like a kick in the nuts. Game balls from winning touchdowns, pictures from birthday parties, and the list goes on. A picture of a father and son from days long since passed catches my eye, tearing into my gut with unforgiving fury. I do my best to soldier my way through it. Everyone grows quiet as I shake out my coat. Mathis looks like a lost old friend and waves me over. He comes around the bar, giving a welcome embrace as old men do.

“It is good to see you Saverio,” Mathis says with longing, “It has been far too long.”

Resting my hand upon his shoulder, I simply nod. Staring into the face of men, I find no true comfort. Are my friends truly my friends, or enemies without opportunity? He nods his understanding. A greater man than me would recognize such understanding for the gift that it is. But he probably resides in Lake Michigan or the concrete slab of some high rise.

I move to the bar, finding a stool to rest. Three men immediately get up, finding a pool table in the corner to occupy. Finding a tumbler, Mathis pours two fingers of Macallan single malt, setting the bottle between us. Mathis you are a true gentleman and a scholar. Picking up the glass, I let my thoughts swirl with the amber liquid. Thinking better of it, I drown such thoughts into the perilous abyss of my mind.  I reach over pouring myself two more fingers, thankful Mathis has such good taste. Staring into the glass like a reflective pond, I weigh the outcomes of this night.

A young woman comes out from the kitchen to attend to the other patrons. Mathis pulls up a stool from behind the bar and takes a seat. No words are spoken. None are needed. Silence is the loudest voice of all, which is why so many seek to drown out the power of silence with their mindless rambling. I drown the scotch, flipping the glass over. Resting my elbows on the bar, I bring my hands under my chin.

“Looks like you’ve made your decision”, I hear Mathis say before he gets up.

            He goes back to the kitchen, leaving me with my thoughts. A decision has been made, but the storm of my plight has far from subsided. In the prism of my mind, I watch the threads of causality play like a reel in a theater. If only life was as simple as a film. The heroes and villains clearly defined, never a doubt in the battle between the virtuous and the wicked. Free from the confines of fate. But life can't afford to be simple. Through complexity, we find the meaning of beauty and true horror.

            Returning from the kitchen, Mathis sets a plate of deep dish pizza in front of me. Thanking him, I set about enjoying this welcome distraction. Mcknight's is the best place in all of Chicago for a great slice of pizza. But I feel the icy hand of winter as the bell above the door chimes its irritation. The once empty bar stools are darkened by three men in heavy wool coats. Shaking off the cold, they give everyone a menacing glare. Thugs, I resist the urge to show them what it means to be truly ominous. But then the plight of my night walks up behind me. Like a perfect convergence in time, just another example of fate trying to weave her web for the fly.

“Come on son; let's go out back,” he mocks “No need to make this difficult.”

            Pushing off from the bar, I follow the men to the back. One stays behind to watch the crowd. The wind unleashes her cold fury. Few experiences are more torturous than braving the icy hand of winter after you have escaped its embrace.  I reawaken my cigar, hearing the familiar sounds of death approaching. She sings her lullaby beckoning me into the temptations of the night. But I’ve never been one to believe in such foolishness. Fate is the temptress of the weak. Poor spineless saps who don’t have the fortitude to spit in her face, and carve their own path.

“I want you to know this is nothing personal; it’s simply the way it has to be. I’ll make your death clean. A man’s death,” he says.

            Taking a puff from my cigar, I let the cold night air fill me. Looking into the night sky, I wish for the stars to shine through. Maybe it’s just the melancholy of the night. But the longing of wishes is for simpler men. I don't see the blades, nor the shadows who wield them. But I cannot deny their work, as I look upon the bodies laid at my feet. An offering to their new master, I walk over kneeling down as they pass into the night. Heavy weighs the heart of a man faced with such decisions. But he was right. This is the way it has to be. I lean down kissing his brow, doing my best to steal my heart. But one tear falls, refusing to be denied. An old man dies, a young man steps forth to take his place. May you find peace in death old man.

Turing back into the night I scream my fury, “I am the king of Chicago!”

The front page of the Chicago Tribune the following morning,

The body of notorious mob boss Demetrius Rossi, the alleged king of Chicago, was found dead behind Mcknight's pub earlier this morning. Although police are unwilling to comment as to the connection, many of Rossi’s top lieutenants have also been found murdered. In what this reporter believes to have been a mob war that started, and ended in the span of a single night. Demetrius is survived by his son Saverio Rossi.