Post by Mario Falcone on Jun 4, 2009 5:53:45 GMT -5
The day was dark, wet, heavy and oppressive. Rain fell wet and slow from the sky, like the sweat of angels trying to save a city imploding on itself. Mario Falcone's shiny black car pulled to a stop outside one of Gotham's larger, nicer cemeteries, gliding to an easy and graceful stop. The door popped open on the passenger side, back seat, and one designer-clad leg placed itself firmly on the ground, assaulted by a few raindrops before a large black umbrella followed it out, blooming above the door. Folding himself patiently out of the car, the tall form of the new leader of the Falcone clan rose into view, stepping out from the car and closing the door comfortably behind him.
He wore a long camel-colored trench over his clothing, his hands covered in black leather gloves though the weather was unseasonably warm. He waited for two other men to exit the vehicle, the driver staying within, and then the three of them made their way from the still-running car and into the graveyard beyond.
It seemed an unlikely and eerie procession, the three men with their black umbrellas, visiting a cemetery in the rain. Those who could recognize them would go one further, that it was odd for this Falcone to visit any grave, much less a cemetery where his own family wasn't buried. Those who were very in the know wouldn't be surprised at all, only wary.
This Falcone wasn't like his father. This Falcone was never so surprising, didn't have quite the same honor among thieves, didn't follow any rules. This Falcone was an impossibly selfish creature, doing exactly what suited him at exactly what time, and dangerous because the things he longed for weren't money and power. They were something darker, sadistic. If one had to ask about his purposes, they could only be sinister. This Falcone was a madman.
The trio made their way into the cemetery, dawdling, stopping at a grave here and there, reading names, sometimes even stooping to read dates. They seemed to be heading for the same place, however, and they slowly spread out as if looking for a specific grave, a specific name. They found it and converged on the place, the tallest of them pulling something from his coat. Normally, people left gifts for the dead here. This time, it seemed to be a gift for the living.
Clicking off the safety of the semi-automatic glock, silencer attached, Mario pointed the muzzle at the comparatively new marble gravestone, pulling his other gloved hand to his lips and kissing the fingertips softly. "Rest in peace, Ryder," he told the man beyond the grave, pulling the trigger three times, twice in the middle, once at the top of the stone. Execution style.
His hands may have been clean in the original murder of this man, but they were no longer clean anymore.
Leaning down a second time, he placed a red rose with a black ribbon tied to it over the mess he made, which steamed ominously in the summer rain.
"You all done boss?" the nervous man behind him asked. He wasn't nervous about being caught, no; his wary eyes weren't trained on the streets but on Mario, who chuckled with sick amusement.
"Hardly," he replied as he handed the glock off to its real owner, the third man, and stalked back to his car. "Gentlemen," he said, holding his arms out to his side, his umbrella useless in one of those hands. "It's going to be a beautiful day."
The men behind him exchanged a look. It was never a good thing when Mario was this happy. Trouble was looming, looming big, and it was just a matter how much of it he wanted to stir up before he was done. They shook their heads softly.
They didn't call him Mad Mario for nothing.
He wore a long camel-colored trench over his clothing, his hands covered in black leather gloves though the weather was unseasonably warm. He waited for two other men to exit the vehicle, the driver staying within, and then the three of them made their way from the still-running car and into the graveyard beyond.
It seemed an unlikely and eerie procession, the three men with their black umbrellas, visiting a cemetery in the rain. Those who could recognize them would go one further, that it was odd for this Falcone to visit any grave, much less a cemetery where his own family wasn't buried. Those who were very in the know wouldn't be surprised at all, only wary.
This Falcone wasn't like his father. This Falcone was never so surprising, didn't have quite the same honor among thieves, didn't follow any rules. This Falcone was an impossibly selfish creature, doing exactly what suited him at exactly what time, and dangerous because the things he longed for weren't money and power. They were something darker, sadistic. If one had to ask about his purposes, they could only be sinister. This Falcone was a madman.
The trio made their way into the cemetery, dawdling, stopping at a grave here and there, reading names, sometimes even stooping to read dates. They seemed to be heading for the same place, however, and they slowly spread out as if looking for a specific grave, a specific name. They found it and converged on the place, the tallest of them pulling something from his coat. Normally, people left gifts for the dead here. This time, it seemed to be a gift for the living.
Clicking off the safety of the semi-automatic glock, silencer attached, Mario pointed the muzzle at the comparatively new marble gravestone, pulling his other gloved hand to his lips and kissing the fingertips softly. "Rest in peace, Ryder," he told the man beyond the grave, pulling the trigger three times, twice in the middle, once at the top of the stone. Execution style.
His hands may have been clean in the original murder of this man, but they were no longer clean anymore.
Leaning down a second time, he placed a red rose with a black ribbon tied to it over the mess he made, which steamed ominously in the summer rain.
"You all done boss?" the nervous man behind him asked. He wasn't nervous about being caught, no; his wary eyes weren't trained on the streets but on Mario, who chuckled with sick amusement.
"Hardly," he replied as he handed the glock off to its real owner, the third man, and stalked back to his car. "Gentlemen," he said, holding his arms out to his side, his umbrella useless in one of those hands. "It's going to be a beautiful day."
The men behind him exchanged a look. It was never a good thing when Mario was this happy. Trouble was looming, looming big, and it was just a matter how much of it he wanted to stir up before he was done. They shook their heads softly.
They didn't call him Mad Mario for nothing.
