One rule.

Hi! Trying something different for this one, try to ignore the pictures if it ruins the reading for you.

One rule.

If one thing was known in this community of thieves and frauds, it was that you did not fuck with him. But they had. And the broken fingers, broken ribs and broken screams that lined the halls to his office, along with the blood splattered across the walls, the pieces of skull that littered the stairs and the slimy puddles of brain that decorated the main entrance were a testament to that.

But his story doesn’t start with such horror. his story starts with a little song called Fortunate son.

“Some folks are born, made to wave the flag. Oo they’re red white and blue!”

“Shut the fuck up Pinky.” Sarge spat with venom.

“Sorry Sarge: it’s a damn good song.”

“You’ll be singing something fierce in a minute, if you so much as let a single note out.”

“Alright, alright.”

The quiet one in the back shook his head, quietly staring out of the helicopter of the beautiful nightmare that stretched out before him, a flowing stream that lead unknowing souls into green hell, sunshine that burned the sky in the early morning, and smoke that billowed out into the air, carrying the stench of death along with it.

Those were the days. Killing with a licence, walking through hell without a care in the world, with brothers at his side. War changes a man, and given enough torture, a man may walk out of the shadow of the valley of death carrying the devil upon his shoulders. That’s what happened to Craig Philips, he carried the devil and an army of demons with him.

The mob never came again, not after the first incident with his wife. No, when he eviscerated every last one of them to ever be involved in that slaughter, the rest of the crime underworld got the idea. It wasn’t worth the two thousand dollars lost in that debt.

“We don’t fuck with Mr. Philips eh? Ya’ got that ya fuckin’ mutt?”

“Sir, he killed my Grandfather, the only reason I’m still here is because he didn’t know about me! Don’tcha think I deserve some revenge?”

“Sure son, if I thought there was a chance in hell you could get it.”

Kids are dumb, the words of their guardians often go in one ear and out of the other.

Of course that’s what happened with little Vinnie. And though the grief of his son’s untimely death, and the stress of losing tens of men in less than a week outraged him, he knew the one rule. You did not fuck with him.

Craig stands outside the door to his office building, looking nonchalantly at the army of police offices pointing various weaponry at him, as he lights a cigarette, take a single puff, then throws it toward them.

“Bang.” He says, as he lifts the gun toward them, and is showered in led.

“Bang, Bang, Bang.” Reply the police’s weapons.

Craig Philips died on the 29^th of May 1978 with a smile on his face, knowing the mob could ever touch him, and that his legend would spark fear into the heart of criminals across the globe.