Sin

Owen Tyler, I’m 32 years old but I feel 40. I have just one thing on my mind: survival. Parents were never around, killed as a result of a brutal home invasion. House burnt to the ground, all records lost and standing amongst the smoke, ash and rubble is me, just nine years young with nowhere to go, no one to turn to and no idea of what to do. The streets of Rivet City is no place for a kid of nine; you’ll either get hit by a car, mugged for the small amount of coin in your pocket or abducted and sold to some creep who’s looking for kids to put to work. Luckily that wasn’t me. I could defend myself. My father was a Green Beret – he taught me everything I knew. Some guy approached me my third night on the streets – asking me if I wanted a good time. He leads me into an alley and drops his pants – not the kind of good time I want. I pulled a concealed blade, a switchblade my father gave me before he died, and I swipe it at the guy. I take what money he has on him and leave the alley feeling alive and proud – that guy won’t be able to have a good time ever again. Not if he can’t get the bleeding to stop.

The years pass and I grow and learn. No schooling for me, but I pick it all up easy enough. The Rivet City library has the worst kind of books, pages falling from the spine, others torn out and used to start fires to keep warm that night. I read what I could, learning everything I needed to survive on the streets. And on these streets you need to know everything you can. I even made friends here and there – Nick Rasputin, a fellow street rat like me, one year my senior. He got thrown out of home when he killed his deadbeat of a father with a hatchet. The guy used to beat up on his wife whenever he hit the bottle – Nick stopped that but his mother was ungrateful. It took everything Nick could do not to bury the hatchet into her ungrateful skull, so he left.

We grew up on the streets together, shared stories, helped each other out. Food was easy to come by – dumpsters are always filled with fine dishes from restaurants where the rich, the corrupt and the downright greedy eat. A whole chicken found its way into our hands one night, the Mayor of Rivet City claiming it was too stringy. Nick and I ate our fair share that night and gave the remains to another group of street rats – if we don’t eat, we die. Fact.

More years pass and me and Nick finally catch a break. This guy, Wallace Mercer is looking for guys to do some work of questionable legality. The pay is good and work is hard to find in a shithole town like Rivet City. But making good money always raises questions – what’s the work? Why worth so much? We talk to Mercer and ask what he needs done. Mercer’s been having trouble with the local gangs in the area, mainly one full of tough white guys who are confused about the pigmentation of their skin. Mercer wants them off his turf. Permanently.

Mercer introduces us to this fat-ass gun runner, Hamilton. Hamilton also runs the local bar, the Drunk Skunk, a breeding ground for lowlifes, drug dealers and anything else that’ll land you in a jail cell before the sun goes down. Hamilton gives us each a gun – Glock 7’s as far as I can tell, but I haven’t handled a weapon since my dad taught me to shoot in our backyard. We head out and find the group that Mercer wants off his territory. Their leader, a bulky-armed guy who calls himself the Buck is twirling a knife in his hand, tossing it from hand to hand. He wants people to know he means business, but Nick and I can tell he’s just a poser.

At the sight of these two guys holding guns, the Buck orders his guys into action – all six of them brandishing their own piece-of-shit blades – toys if you ask me. The Buck tries to talk himself up. He asks us if we know who we are. I cock my gun and point it right at his forehead, aiming between his eyes. The Buck laughs and taunts me, telling me I don’t have the guts. I beg to differ. I squeeze the trigger and watch as the Buck’s brains go flying out the back of his head. The brick wall behind him is painted red, globs of brain matter trickling down to the alley floor. His gang scatter. There’s no need to kill ‘em; they won’t be coming back here for a long time, if ever.

Nick and I  return to Mercer and he couldn’t be happier. With the Buck dead and the gang cleared out, Mercer can conduct his business in that area again. I don’t care what Mercer wants to do, I just wanna get paid. Mercer tosses us a briefcase – black leather, clean and crisp silver buckles. The briefcase is probably worth more than my old house. We open it up and reap the reward of our work – five thousand big ones.

We head out into the night, wanting to spend our hard-earned cash. At the Drunk Skunk we look around for any kind of tail that would be willing to spend a few hours losing sleep with us. Nick finds a taker in the form of a nineteen year old bird named Andrea Parkes. Her skin is like olives and she smells like sweet wine. Her breasts put Helen of Troy to shame and her eyes are crystal-like. I can tell Nick is weak at the knees already – he should be, the blood’s all rushing to somewhere else. They head off on their own and I sit at the bar, scanning the room for anyone that catches my eye. I order a drink from the barman, Hamilton, who says I can keep the Glock he gave me. I thank him and drain my drink in one gulp – I’ve just spotted an angel.

She’s sitting in the corner, surrounded by guys, all with money in their hands, their eyes filled with lust and their pants bulging against what really commands their wills. The angel ignores most of them. She talks to a select few – a tall guy in a nice suit, another in a blue and black uniform – a cop. The Glock in my jacket pocket suddenly feels heavier, like a brick weighing me down. I stop moving towards the angel before me, I didn’t even realise I’d started walking – she’s so enticing but I know I can’t have her – I have to ditch the gun else I be brought down by that cop.

Before I reach the door a soft, heavenly hand taps me on the shoulder. I tense up. It can’t be the cop – cops handle guns, drive all day long and push pencils at a desk in some run-down precinct somewhere in the city; their hands would be rough, coarse, covered in calluses. This hand is soft, like silk and smells of honey. I turn around, remembering the Glock in my jacket pocket a lot less as I lay my eyes upon the angel standing before me. Her hair is dyed a violent shade of purple, the fringe goes down to her eyes. A button nose and perfect red, luscious lips makes me forget about my gun and the cop completely.

“Have a drink,” she breathes softly, her scent drifting up my nostrils.

My eyes widen and my pulse quickens. She is ecstasy and I’m an addict. I have no say in the matter as my legs follow her towards the bar. I’m her prisoner, but I’m not complaining. Hell, who would? She orders a drink from Hamilton, who obliges straight away, ignoring the complaints of the drunkards and sleazebags leaning over the bar, hoping it will get them one more drink that little bit quicker. Our drinks arrive and Hamilton winks at me. I know what he’s thinking – his grin congratulates me on snagging the stunning creature before me, but his eyes are wishing my painful death. His eyes tell me that he is willing to trade anything, probably even his left nut, to be in my position.

I drain my second drink in another gulp and look down at the angel. Her red lips sip the drink in her hand slowly. As she pulls away a crimson mark is left on the rim of the glass. She finishes the drink and hands the glass back to Hamilton, who eyes the red lipstick mark hungrily, like a wolf looking at fresh meat after a long, cold winter. The angel leads me from the bar; the man in the suit looks at me scornfully. I notice a very distinct gun-outline in his jacket pocket. We lock eyes and he knows that I mean business. He backs down. The cop is not so easily defeated. He follows the angel and I from the bar and into the street.

As we walk the angel tells me not to worry about the cop – he’s a regular who is never quite satisfied. He’s just jealous he won’t get a ride tonight. I ask if she’d like me to take care of him, but she declines. She turns and talks to the cop, named Bull Edinburgh. Bull sounds about right – the man looks like he could kill one with his bare hands. He’d make short work of me if weapons were thrown out of the mix. The angel returns to my side and Bull slumps off, heading back towards the Drunk Skunk, hoping he can find another bird to spend time with.

My angel leads me to a rundown apartment building. The door would probably fall of its hinges if I kicked it hard enough, but the angel has a key and leads me inside. She walks up the steps slowly, I follow, and my knees feeling weak but a kind of giddiness finds itself into my steps. She leads me into her apartment. A lone fridge, a single couch and a large bed is all I find. What does she spend her money on, I wonder? She leads me to the bed and motions for me to sit. I obey.

Her red dress is clinging to her frame perfectly, the outline of her breasts make my heart skip a beat. She tells me to take off my jacket, and to leave the gun on the floor. Once again, I obey. She slips off the straps of her crimson dress down her shoulders. Her angelic hands slide the dress down off her breasts. My mouth goes dry and I feel myself harden at the beautiful, sinful sight. Before long we are on the bed, enjoying all kinds of pure ecstasy and bliss. As we finish, we lay together, her hand clasped tightly in mine. I look over at her; her eyes are glistening and look satisfied. I know she is, too, no one screams that loud, even in death. I ask her name; in the short time we’ve been together I neglected to ask.

She smiles at my question and whispers soft and sweetly in my ear, “Holly…”

I now know the angel lying on the bed before me. Holly. Her name sounds so sweet on my lips, like my tongue is coated in sugar and then dragged through honey. Her name is bliss. The night wears on, and I enter slumber with a goddess next to me. Holly.



The days go on. Nick and I continue our work for Mercer and the money begins to mount. More gangs flee Rivet City, but where one leaves, another tries to claim the momentarily free province. It’s hard work. It involves killing, which I have no problem with. As I see it, it’s them or me. The bodies mount up, but so does the cash. Soon I’m actually living in my own place – but I don’t delve into the luxuries. One bed, one couch, a crappy TV and a fridge with bad food is all I need. My nights are divided into two acts – killing punks for Mercer and spending time with my angel, Holly.

The days turn into months, and the months into years. Pretty soon, I’m 32 years old, sitting on a pile of cash as big as a bed and enjoying the body of my angel every night. Holly stopped her usual work. Her regulars, including Bull Edinburgh, said she was no longer in her prime – she was too old now. But not for me. Never for me. I loved her nothing else. She was mine, and I was hers. She moved in with me and we lived happily.

Things were good at work. Mercer’s power in the city was growing. He brought in more people to help me and Nick out with the more troublesome jobs. Mercer wasn’t the only big thinker in the city. Edoardo Finch, some guy from Haiti was in Rivet City, too – and he had his own plans. Half of the Rivet City Police Force was already in his pocket and he took a slice of the action from almost everything – drugs, prostitution and even protection money from a lot of clubs and pubs. Hamilton stayed loyal to Mercer – Edoardo didn’t like that so he sent a group around to burn down the Drunk Skunk. Mercer sent me and Nick, along with the new guy, a burly dumbass named Vinnie Cage to stop ‘em.

The guys Finch sent were amateurs – dumb kids too stupid to know what they were doing and who they were messing with. We stopped the bastards before they could strike a match. Hamilton blew one of them in half with a shotgun – the others tried to run but we caught ‘em. Vinnie, a crazy psycho son-of-a-bitch, doused them in the petrol the punks had brought to burn down Hamilton’s place. Vinnie lit ‘em up with his lighter and laughed as he watched them burn. I never did like Vinnie. He was too empty…he’d kill a mother in front of her child just to make a quick buck. He didn’t feel anything, not even when he was watching those kids burn to nothing but ashes.

That’s why I felt uneasy when Mercer sent me with Nick and Vinnie to do a somewhat simple job. The job was easy – meet up with a drug courier, Silas Weevil and pay him for the drugs, bring them back to Mercer – job done. I knew something was wrong as soon as we’d paid the taxi for the ride. Vinnie was too excited. He was like a kid a Christmas eyeing his brand new bike. There was no killin’ to be done tonight – so why so giddy?

We meet up with Weevil down at the docks near the Red River. It was called that because nearly every night some cop had to drag some poor bastard who’d gotten half his head blown off after looking at the wrong girl, or screwing over the wrong guy in cards. Weevil seemed like he’d be the kind to be doing the shooting on one of those poor guys. The green-haired drug runner was wearing sunglasses at night – first sign of an addict. He showed us the stuff – four crates of cocaine, street value around one million. Nick grabbed the first crate and began to move it. He got three feet before his chest erupted in a fountain of red blood. Vinnie was standing behind him, grinning as he held his still-smoking revolver. A second and third shot into Nick’s chest seemed to do the job. Nick staggered and fell into the Red River, never to be seen again.

Vinnie came after me next, he clipped me twice, once in the shoulder and once in the leg – nothing fatal, but painful as hell. I dived into the Red River; the foul water crept up my nostrils and made me want to puke. There was no sign of Nick’s body – the current probably dragged it towards the ocean. I swam as fast as I could. Shots echoed from above me, Vinnie and Weevil firing wildly into the river. I came up and let the fresh air into my lungs. I crawled onto dry land and let the strength go back into my legs, which now felt like jelly. It pained me to think that Nick Rasputin, the guy I’d grown up with most of my life was now dead.

But I couldn’t dwell on that now – I had to get home. I had to get Holly and get out of Rivet City. If Vinnie had planned to tie up all loose ends he would be sure to look for me. I got home and passed a seedy looking guy in the hallway. I felt uneasy as I passed him – he stunk of sweat…and blood. A deep cold entered my stomach as my paces towards the apartment quickened. It couldn’t be. My worst fears were realised when I opened the door. The apartment where my angel had been had turned into hell. Blood soaked the floor, the walls and even the ceiling.

There was no sign of my Holly. I ventured inside, my boots squelching through the blood stained floor. I moved towards the bedroom where the world before me ending. Everything had gone to hell as my eyes went upon the sight before me. On the bed, my angel, my Holly lay. Naked, bloodied and beaten. Her face was swollen. Blood drenched the sheets. I knew she was dead but that did not stop myself from calling her name, hoping in vain she would reply. She did not.

How had Holly been killed so quickly. It was less than a half hour before Vinnie had turned on me and Nick – how did he set it up so quickly? I spotted something on the floor at the foot of the bed. It was a card, I thought it was a business card at first but upon looking at it I saw it was unlike anything I’d ever seen. A single name was printed onto the card in silver, graceful font. The Hunter.

Who was the Hunter? Was he hired by Vinnie Cage? Questions buzzed through my mind which was racing a mile a minute. My arm moved on its own to my jacket pocket and brought out my Glock 7, the same one that Hamilton had given me all those years ago. My weapon of choice. I held the gun tightly and pushed back the hammer. Ready to fire, ready to kill. The barrel tasted metallic in my mouth. I fingered the trigger lightly, ready to squeeze and put myself out of my misery. But I couldn’t. Not when the calling card of the Hunter was lying before me, taunting me about Holly’s gruesome death. The gun came out of my mouth and back into my jacket pocket. I knew what I had to do. How I was going to do it I was not sure. How long it was going to take, I did not know.

My name is Owen Tyler, I’m 32 years old but I feel 40. I have just one thing, one thing on my mind: Revenge.