Gang of a god

    C Pulled into his driveway and sighed, he had to put out his smoke before he went inside. His land lord couldn't stand cigarettes, they'd literally suffocate her. He took one last deep inhale, threw it on the ground and stomped the ash stick out. He shook his shoe a little to not track any aforementioned ash and went inside. There at the table was his land lord, his friend, and his partner, Delia Dark, or, "D" for short.

    She was a short woman, always in nice dresses, real good butcher, even though she didn't look it. She was a small creature, thin like a twig, short like a strawberry cake. C made jokes that he'd have to watch where he was walking on occasion given that he was really tall, about seven or eight feet, and had muscles that were unbelievably huge. She greeted him, bored, shuffling some bills.

    "Got some more meat for ya." C said, he was caked in blood from his most recent outing. D sighed. "What's wrong?" C asked, folding his arms in annoyance. It was always something of late, too much meat already, long day so she wasn't in the mood to do something C gave her double his rent for, or, in this instance, she was busy with the bills. "Fuck." C muttered as he pondered what to do with the human carcass in his back seat. Tie it to a sack of bricks maybe, dump it in a lake.

    "I don't know what you're bitching about, I don't have enough money to cover all these." D said, letting the bill in her hand drop to the floor as she opened another, she remembered the amount from the last one. When C slapped about two hundred dollars on the table, she jumped. "Where did--"

    "Don't worry about it. By they way, that guy who threatened ya? He's had a good talking too." C said as he left for his studio. He slept in a HUGE room in the house, kind of in the middle of it. It was a studio in more than one way, as C had a large drafting table at which he drew whatever he desired. Some days, something simple, a bloody fist or whatever, on others, a detailed alley or room filled with the day's kills. The beauty of art, dear reader, is that you can do whatever you want with it.

    D began the process of mailing legit cash to her service providers, writing the mailing addresses on the envelopes, cramming the money in, sticking it in the mailbox, and shutting it with her tail. Yes. Her tail. D wasn't human, dear reader. She was a Huldra, a creature of myth. Not that she'd let regular people know, who knows what would happen? She had a feeling it would be bad.Scientific experimentation and the like. C honestly didn't care. Part of the reason he's allowed to be her tenant, the last one found out, freaked out and wound up in D's garden as fertilizer. But enough about that.

    C was called back in, apparently someone was ratting him out. C had a LOVE of dealing with rats personally. D thanked him for the money just before he left. His drive was long. He lived outside of Chicago and his... "Operations" were in the heart of it's slums. He fancied himself a Robin Hood-type. Wiping out other gangs and mobs, stealing their cash and giving it to the homeless and those who dwelt in Hoovervilles. But he also murdered anyone stupid enough to fight against him. He had power beyond most people... You'll see, dear reader.

    As C pulled up to his "Blood house," (A place where snitches and people who cheated his gang were held to be dealt with by C personally), he pulled out his typewriter and walked in. As the door openned, C chuckled, about six guns were trained on the rat, whom was tied to a chair. He was thrashing about, he SAW what happened to the last rat, he WANTED out, he was gonna get out... But, as C put it before he began his "Fun." "You had a chance to come forward, I make people watch just so they leave if they ARE rats... But you stayed... and now..." C stopped talking and picked up a hammer, then, walked over. He pulled a nail from his back pocket, lined it up to the man's knee and... I think you get it.

    C walked away from his handiwork, Didn't look back, didn't even care when he still heard "Kill me." coming weakly from the lips of the poor soul who he exacted revenge on. He just clapped, closed the warehouse door and listened to the gun fire as he hopped in his car and drove off. He saw this end as mercy, after all, the rat's final request was filled.

    When C arrived home with a yawn, he went to his room. He went to bed. He was happy. That ended, however, when a book to the head woke him up. "FUCK! I'M AWAKE!" He sat up and yelled. His land lady was standing over him, angrily tapping her foot. "What did I do this time?"

    D slugged him. "You tracked blood again!" She had long since grown tired of cleaning blood, hell, after the last time he threw a party, he's barely allowed to have two friends or business partners over. "This time, you're cleaning it." She said, handing him the mop. "And if you don't, this entire handle is going up your ass." She walked out. She didn't like yelling at people, and preferred not to threaten. But those were the only ways to get C off his lazy ass. And off his lazy ass he was, he cleaned the blood before breakfast, and he cleaned his shoes too.