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    One Day Gangster: The Three Cities
    One Day Gangster: The Three Cities
    One Day Gangster: The Three Cities
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    One Day Gangster: The Three Cities

    By Kenneth Guthrie

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    About this ebook

    Three stories from the One Day Gangster Series. Stevie's borderline sane and likes violence more than he's willing to admit. In three cities - Portland, New York and Washington DC - he searches for the man that killed his brother. Many will fall who get in his way; many will learn that Stevie is not to be messed with. The hunt is begins.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLunatic Ink Publishing
    Release dateJan 10, 2014
    ISBN9781310138034
    One Day Gangster: The Three Cities
    Author

    Kenneth Guthrie

    Kenneth Guthrie is a writer of sci-fi, fantasy and crime novels.Profile image credit: Vincent Gerbouin at Pexels.com

    Read more from Kenneth Guthrie

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      Book preview

      One Day Gangster - Kenneth Guthrie

      ONE DAY GANGSTER: THE THREE CITIES

      Kenneth Guthrie

      Copyright 2014 Lunatic Ink Publishing

      Find more at Kenneth Guthrie’s Book List

      Note: This book contains all of the story created so far.

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Portland

      Washington

      New York

      PORTLAND

      Portland: A Place I hate

      LIFE ISN'T DARK. IT'S A VARIETY OF SHADES OF GRAY. Sometimes, it's pitch black; sometimes, it's near white. The trick is if you believe it’s dark then it is; if you don't then it isn't; however, today - damn me if it isn't - is pushing the LIMITS of my belief system.

      Trudging through this dump isn't doing much for my mood. A dirty concrete slum filled with hopeless people trying to make life worse for each other - story of human existence, eh? - anyway that they can. Yeah, wonderful. Just what the doctor ordered for my only time in country in the last 5 plus years.

      I keep trudging on. The truth is simple: Portland sucks. I've never been here before; never wanted to be here; but, damn it, here I am. Some things are unavoidable - you know, like death, well aimed bullets and the taxman.

      My hand comes up slowly and slides over my military barber buzz cut. At least, this dump isn't as cold as it was back on base. The clouds above promise a cold winter night to those caught out in the weather for the evening. The dark shadows of the clouds, the way they are wrapping - heck, warping - around one another makes me think that tonight is going to be a night to stay inside.

      Under my combat boots the pavement is rough, broken and sorta in bad shape for a city that is supposed to be the heartland of America or whatever garbage society is promoting these days. To me it seems like a barren dump, but I've never been anything less than a cynical guy on the best of days.

      Damn, I hate Portland, I mutter again as a cold wind whistles over my gritty unshaven cheeks.

      I reach deep down into the left pocket of my trench coat pocket and pull out my worn hip flask. Inside is coffee mixed with some illegal and legal stimulants plus a generous helping of whiskey to make the meds hit me just enough to take the edge of my hate for having to come out here off.

      The apartment block that I am looking for comes into sight. It's about half a kilometer off where the map that I memorized back in the barracks said it would be. The picture that Luke - my loser younger brother - is dead on. The place is a dump by anyone's standards and it shows. I mean it looks worse than some of those photos I've seen of Eastern Europe during the worst of World War II. Broken concrete, dirty washing hanging off balconies, tempting the wind to take it away - just like people's lives to a good sniper's finger - and trash heaping up around the edges, which I can actually see at this distance, which means there's probably a ton of it stinking up the place.

      Over the road, as I trudge mercilessly on in the cold air, I note some big black dudes staring me down. My hand instinctively slips around my back. I have a six back there. This isn't the ghetto or anything, but you never know how these wannabes will react. Better to come packing than be packed into a coffin. 5 years in Iraq rounding up punks showed me that. I'm not taking anything from anyone - especially not from some punks like these oversized kids.

      The front man shifts off the broken down building that he and his boys are chilling outside of. He strides up. I check him. Short, black, has a little limp and a piece on the right in his rear pocket, easy access and likely loaded.

      I stop as he slides in front of me. This guy is seriously short. I'm 6 foot in my boots and he must be 5'3 tops. The gang tattoos on his shoulders tell me all that I need to know about him. Crips. Looks like he isn't scared. Too bad for him.

      Yooo, brother, you looking to get high?

      Rule number one: I don't talk to pussies. This guy doesn't even know what he's dealing with. Silence ensues.

      Hey, brother, you stupid or something?

      Rule number two: I don't get mad. Call me whatever you want, punk. It doesn't matter. I know what I got going on; this guy doesn't know me.

      The leader gets closer. His friends come over. They aren't much taller. One of them is big but he's slow looking. No fast twitch muscles on that guy - all power. Just another steroid pussy. My drill instructor would kill this guy in seconds. He has no right to be looking at me as if he knows something about me.

      He ain't talking, boys. Maybe he doesn't like what we are selling?

      Looks like a punk to me, the big guy slurs out.

      Drunk too. Not looking good for him.

      I say we just rob this dude. Easier to just take his stack and leave him bloody, the other gang member says, clearly also a little drunk.

      Sounds like a good idea. This guy's eyes are pissing me off.

      I crack my shoulders one after the other. Damn, if they are offering. I needed a workout after the long ride on the bus here and the plane ride from the base. I'm feeling like beating these guys down.

      Come.

      It's all I've said to them and I consider it ample encouragement for worms like this.

      Biggy comes in with a hard straight right. I slap it away lazily with my palm and boot the other guy in the groin so hard that his pecker returns to its flesh home. He is now officially a lady.

      A smile kicks out at the edges of my mouth. The usual sharp surge of pleasure flows through me as I see him go down hard, screaming like a little girl as he realizes that he's going to HAVE babies not CREATE babies from now on. It's nothing with him in that state to spin around him to put a low elbow into the back of his head. Finishing move complete. One down. Next, please.

      The leader pulls a short bladed flick knife and leaps in on me as the big black guy tries to grab me by the front of my green military issue PE t-shirt. I almost want to grin at their weak attempt to take a guy like me down. I don't, though. No need to let them know the hurt that is coming.

      His knife comes around on a low arch for my stomach. I let him get close before stepping aside and throwing my left fist out in a short sharp jab to his flat face. My other hand comes down on the man's hand as the knife slips by and I give it just enough force to pass me. A knee to the stomach, side on loaded, takes the leader down.

      Rrrrrr! the big guy cries as he grabs me by the coat. You gonna pay for dat!

      His spittle patterns my cheek. He's wrong about me paying for whatever. I'm going to make him pay for spit fountaining me.

      Letting him get a good grip, I twist around his arm, leaving my shoulder in

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