The Rules Of Revenge

Step One: Plan, Plan, Plan [Prologue]

THE SHARP METALLIC smell of uncapped black Sharpies tickled my nose as I hovered over my masterpiece. A string of beads trailed down my forehead as the stale air of the basement combined with a lack of ventilation made my hair slicker by the second. I coughed, not bothering to cover my mouth, and then watched as a puff of dust blew off of the long wooden table I was working on. Somewhere behind me my freestanding punching bag recoiled with agony.

My muscles ached when I bent at an awkward angle, my left arm carrying most of my weight, as I constructed the largest family tree of all times—of gangsters, drug dealers, and criminals. It was a chain of commands from the Overlords down to the petty thieves and hooligans who loitered around in alleyways. I winced as my recently bruised knee came into contact with the edge of the table, but I didn't let the pain prevent me in any way. I took it like a man, some would say, but to them I would say, don't underestimate a woman...ever.

I rolled a Sharpie around a name, once, twice, thrice, until I had made my point. I pulled out a folded paper from the back pocket of my ripped blue jeans and placed it onto my canvas. My eyes glanced back and forth as I made sure every name listed on that piece of paper was mirrored on my holy grail—a bible in the making. Once my heart was content, I took a step back from the table and examined my work of art from afar. It was almost complete. Only a few blank spaces were left. That was of little concern to me, however, because, unbeknownst to the names on my list, I was already ten steps ahead of my adversaries.

All I had to do now was pick my first target. I placed my forefinger and thumb on my chin—just like the sharp-minded detectives I often saw on my uncle's television—and scanned the list of names for the perfect starting point. I wasn't prejudice in my choosing for they would all get a turn, but I was looking for, however, something to stick out. Like a sore thumb. A few moments later, I zoned into a particular name, hanging off by a thin thread at the bottom edge corner of my canvas, which rubbed me the wrong way. Klein Brothers—I would start with them.

I flipped open my phone and dialed the magic number. It only rang twice.

"Hello," a distant voice reached out to me from the void.

I answered back, "Is this Arturo?"

"No. Who's asking?"

I turned my back to my masterpiece and walked toward a small, twelve by twelve, mirror hanging by a loose nail in a corner of the basement. I peeled my hair from my face as I left the ignorant man on the phone hanging.

"Hello?"

I let him repeat himself a couple of times until he was moments away from losing his cool.

"Anybody there? ... Look if this is some child tryna fuck with me, you best be –"

Then, I reeled him in like a gasping little fish.