It was cum dripping down the dope sick girls leg at midnight. This two-bit hussie, her lips stuck to each leg like the wings of a bat. It was a common sight. The condom had broken, the pill didn’t work for she never took it, and other contraceptives seemed as if they were to bothersome. This gushing load that was running down the inside thigh of this low-blowing whore was nothing more than the soon to be waste of this sure to be aborted fetus.  The women walked to the bathroom away from the sedated man, that smelt like a zoo at the end of the day, to wash away the grit and grime of the aftermath.
    As the low-blowing whore was washing up the front door crashed open. It was a vigilante  named Maverick. A sharp shooting son of a gun who’s intelligence marked that of a royal cat. A fat cat at that. One of the cats down on wall street pushing stocks around for fun. He busted open the door with a shotgun  and began ransacking the place. The whore started locked herself in the bathroom and began yelling “Help. Get out of my place. Get out. Help.” but Maverick ignored her cries and went straight for the semi-sedated man that now lay quivering behind the single layer bed.
    “Mr. VonScott get up. Get up and put some pants on.” Maverick shouted blasting one shell through the bathroom door to show he was serious. “Hurry.”
    Mr. VonScott pulled himself together after the shotgun blast and pulled his pants up and over his flaccid dong. Then Maverick got behind Mr. VonScott and forced him out of the apartment with the whore still screaming for help. Maverick held Mr. Scott at gun point as he escorted him into the passenger seat of a four door black Suburu. Maverick proceded to pull out a pistol and kept it aimed at Mr. Scott’s head.
    “Where are you taking me? What did I do? Wait. Who the hell are you?” Mr. scott Inquired to the masked vigilante.
    The only remark Maverick ever had though was a gun butt to the forehead and temple with a “Shut the fuck up.” attached to them. Maverick drove and drove until they reached the docks. He pulled up to the fog covered scene slowly until he arrived at three other vehicles on dock number nine. The vehicles were surrounded by two men each. All with the same tattoo “Elite 66” on them, a tattoo that Maverick shared with them. The crew took hold of Mr. Scott and began to punch and elbow across his chest, kidneys, liver, leaving his face alone.
    Mr. Scott was gasping for air.  He tried to let out for help but was caught chocking on blood he was spitting up. The Elite 66 wanted nothing more but a slow painful death for Mr. Scott and that’s what was delivered. The Elite 66 continued to work over the body of Mr. Scott until he finally couldn’t gasp for air because the blood began pouring down his throat.
    “Good work.” Said the leanest man. The leanest man was a Russian and a sneaky one at that. He always was supplied with dangerous daggers that could carve a cheek from the face. A finally cooked specimen if one was so inclined. “Where’d you get this one to add to the stock pile?”
    Maverick replied with a heavy groan “Down in the slums.”
    Next another Russian, this one a bit on the heavier side weighing in at three-hundred bounds and usually dealing with people by the means of uzi‘s, stated “let’s slice the extremities off.”   
    “Right and ship them off to the senator.” inclined the Italian, anger ridden, sleaze. This man always carried two forty-fives with him for protection and when that didn’t work he wasn’t afraid to bite down and take a chunk out your ear for a warning. He was a real firecracker always ready to explode. 
    “Right” replied Maverick. They all began chopping up Mr. Scotts body and proceeded the next day to ship parts to senators across the Union for pleasures sake.