As low as he goes, he never quite goes this low.
As much as I love the cuteness between Frank & Gerard, I don’t think much can beat badass gangster Gerard.
The next two chapters after this will be flashback/memory kinda things, from both Frank and Gerard’s past. I know, I know, flashbacks do suck sometimes but I guarantee both of them will be readable and stuff.
Title from Morrissey and refers to kinda self-shame and depressingness, that both men here are evil.
Oh and this is much shorter than what I normally write, I’m very sorry. I have the biggest fucking migraine right now...
First of the Gang to Die
Satan Rejected My Soul
Gerard Way pushed open the doors to the main hall of the mansion of Benito Mussolini, regarded the audience within the vicinity with an odd air of intimidation, and smiled. That was the thing everyone talked about; the strange man with the smile, the man with one eye-that eye; glinting and green and ghostly. No one dared stare straight at him-apart from his physical appearance and lack of left visionary, he was the most respected and feared gangster in the whole of the United States. He was a murderer and a cold-blooded one at that...but yet, he always smiled that lop-sided smirk that warped into your mind. It wasn’t so much a grin as he was pulling his lips back to show his teeth-it was like a shark.
So when the Blackshirts, and, indeed, Il Duce himself, were graced by Way’s presence every person in the room stiffened. This was the man they had to impress-the man that, if one mistake was made, or he was insulted in some way, they were beyond fucked.
“Gentlemen,” the twenty nine year old purred, pulling out one chair at the massive thing of a table and placing himself gingerly at it, Raymond also taking a seat on his right. “Good evening.”
Mussolini was struck by how he was not saluted, not even hand shaken or addressed in a formal fashion-‘gentlemen’; who did this fucker think he was, waltzing in here, ten minutes late, and then displaying the most crude gestures of disrespect. Fucking manners these days...
“Greetings, Don Way,” he said evenly in a clipped tone, standing at the other end of the table, chest puffed out. “I take it you did not get the message I sent you concerning our meeting tonight.”
The gangster raised his eyebrows as he sipped from a glass of wine.
“I received the message.”
The fatter man frowned a little.
“And so you must be aware of which names I am referenced by,” Il Duce sniffed, sucking at his cheek. Any other being who offended would be begging for forgiveness by now; Gerard was sitting back in his chair, drumming his left fingers-minus the ring-on the wooden table, the action echoing through the huge room. “And the lack of which you addressed me. I will forgive you, Don Way; we all make our mistakes.” His smile-if Gerard’s was bad this was ten times worse. It was a snake’s simper, absent of all warmth or authenticity. It was horribly empty and artificial and hollow-like the inside of Way’s prosthetic. “But in future-“
A sunny, deeply amused laugh rang out that had exited Gerard’s mouth. Mussolini raised a hand, palm up, not exactly angry, no; just slightly perplexed.
“Do you find something funny?”
“Well, yes,” the black haired chuckled, then composing himself to suitable decorum and self-respect. “For a moment there I was under the impression you were telling me what to do.” Another delightful chortle. “Very amusing altogether.”
A deep shift of unease sliced through the conversation. When no one else seemed to find fun in the ask, Gerard glowered and cracked his knuckles. Yes; the bastard had been telling him what to do.
“I must be mistaken,” he murmured, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. “You are asking me to be submissive to you. To serve you. To be your...unequal.”
The last syllable was spat with venom and nastiness. The dictator gulped as his guest became riled and ruffled. His current mistress, Margherita, dabbed at her chest with a handkerchief.
“Don Way, I assure you-“
“How dare you,” he seethed, gripping the arms of his chair with ferocious strength, and some teenage Blackshirts squeaked. Three words of malice and reserved indignation- everyone (including Raymond Toro and Louis Soprano, the underbosses in the de la Via syndicate) flinched when they were flung into the open. “You. Do not. Tell me. What to do. Is that fucking understood?” Fuckfuckfuck we made the Mafia leader angry-not just angry but furious beyond belief. No one ever treated Gerard molfucking Way like that. “You refer to me as Don Way and I will tin turn refer to you as Mister Mussolini. I do not see you as my political or indeed anything leader-therefore I am not going to call you Il Duce or something ridiculous like that.” Others gaped as he powered on. “As well as that, there is the fact that I am Gerard...fucking...Way. I ain’t gonna kiss your ass just because all these other shits are too scared to face up to you.” He shrugged and swilled a glass of wine in his hand. “I’m in the Mafia. You can’t scare me with your little marches and your uniforms and your Il Duce crap. It’s time you learned that I can be a lot more influential than you ever will.” He leaned across the table and whispered:
Four men fell out of their seats; three others shrieked. Way smirked and relaxed back.
“Oh,” Mussolini said in his throaty accent, shaking as he sat down again. Usually he would grind this man into the ground, how dare he talk to the Leader in such a way, so utterly disrespectful-but for some reason Way had a certain air about him...an air which made Benito Mussolini tremble in his boots and long to get out of the meeting. Nonetheless, he shrugged it off. “Of course, Don Way. I trust your stay so far has been satisfactory.”
Gerard jerked his head in reference to the living standards.
“It is fine, thank you.”
“If you acquire any services,” the politician said slyly, gesturing toward a tanned woman in a tight black dress who made her way to the Italian-American and placed her hand, trailing her fake, manicured nails, on Gerard’s thigh. “I’m sure Clara will be able to assist you in any way possible-“
There was a sharp and refined crack as Gerard shot the woman touching him dead-he’d done it with such precision and experience that he’d caught her right in the bulb of her throat, and her death had been imminent so that she didn’t even scream. The prostitute’s body simply fell to the ground, her cranium shattering on the stone and brain shutting down, reaching into nothingness. All eyes travelled toward the mobster, picking at his nails with an unimpressed look.
“I am not a man you want to irritate, Mister Mussolini,” he said, slow and solemn. The sparkling sage eye swivelled to Benito Mussolini and he cowered in fear. “That is something you do not want to do. I regret to inform you that you have begun to succeed in this task.” The black, dead eye rolled in his socket, strains of red running through the muscle as it did. He blinked harshly and it snapped back into place. “You must appreciate that I am a lot more powerful than you.”
That was enough, this was getting bloody ridiculous. Time to set the delusional fucker straight.
“I assure you, Don Way,” he declared, with a pompous turn of the hand, a la royal wave, “that my men are the most experienced and exclusive fighters in the whole of Italy. They are prepared for anything and everything that comes their way.”
“Precisely!” One particularly good foot-soldier, Russo, agreed. “Always expect the unexpected!”
Gerard shot him in the stomach five times in the space of about eight seconds.
“There,” he said, blowing the steam from the barrel. “Didn’t expect that, did you?” He turned to stick his gun into his belt, sighing. “I am hopelessly happy with my marital status, Mister Mussolini. I am quite a different man from the one you claim to be. I am ecstatic with my husband and I would never be unfaithful to him, not with any of your prostitutes nor with anyone else.” The spoken was quiet and subdued-he missed Frank so terribly; the dull, cold pain resided in the pit of his stomach never quite left. He longed for the boy, ached for him-he had cried sullenly for fifteen minutes straight after their telephone call. The fact that some whore had just touched him in lieu of his rabbit made him raging beyond belief. “I love that boy more than you love power and greed; I’d trade everything I have for him, I’d put myself through the most strenuous of torture for him. The fact that you made me leave him makes me hate you more than anything else on this planet, Mister Mussolini.”
Mussolini realized his mistake and bowed his head. The gangster wasn’t particularly angry anymore, just saddened, morose.
“I’m very sorry for disrespecting you, Don Way,” Il Duce apologized in a hushed, tender tone. “Please forgive me on many accounts.”
Way said nothing but placed a hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples, then pulling something from underneath his shirt and pressing the mysterious emblem on a chain to his lips. Some Blackshirts would later recant to their leader that it was a religious symbol of sorts; others said it looked like a wedding band hooked onto gold.
“May I ask your travelling arrangements?”
There was some moment’s silence-the boss was still consoling himself. One jewelled hand was placed on his shoulder on loan from Soprano.
“I shall depart from here early tomorrow morning and leave for Syracuse,” he relayed sullenly in a thick drawl. “I may stay there for three days or not to deal with members of the Famiglia and associates there. Or I may return to America within the morning. I am not yet sure.”
The leader nodded at the undecided fate.
“I see.” He shuffled the papers in front of him. “You have a very impressive record, Don Way. You have killed more men than entire armies.”
The flattery had no effect; Gerard did not answer. It wasn’t that he felt bad-fuck no, he never felt any sense of moral or regret or self-shame. He was proud, he was arrogant, and determined; he couldn’t help it, it was the way he grew up. Stereotypical values, such as social acceptance and intelligence and general happiness had never mattered in his family. Friends and high IQ’s didn’t get you a fucking thing in the Mafia; Way made it up in the ranks, fought tooth and nail, proved he was the best fighter in the Cosa Nostra and in so became the best. He knew he was cold-blooded, disgusting and vengeful. He didn’t need to be told that his record of killing and crimes was phenomenal-he knew that already.
“Ah yes-the Esposito family,” he said, shaking his head in a tutting manner. “Communists, you know?” He grinned gleefully and greasily at the horrid file of the dead man, along with his wife and two teenage sons, all shot in the head (execution style) and the old man had been hacked into pieces neatly. “I am glad your father advised you to rid of them.”
“He did not ‘advise’ me of anything,” Gerard spat finally, looking the fat man up and down across the table. “He never ‘advises’ me, he sits at a goddamn desk all day receiving lap dances and getting drunk. I serve neither you nor him. I serve myself and I killed that man, I killed his wife and his sons.” The snarl was vehement and deadly, harsh and strong to the ear. “I did not kill him because of his political views or because you and he are not the best of friends. I did it because I wanted to and when I want to do kill someone-“ he flicked a knife from his cuff-“that fucker dies.”
“I see. It says you also killed James Romano, whom I am aware due to your father’s input-“ his slimy smirk appeared back on his fat lips once more. “That he is the man you are in course to destroy, yes? Himself and his company?”
“My husband actually made rid of that piece of utter scum,” he informed him. “That is a mistake.”
“Your husband?” This was peculiar-so far the five foot ten had never named the other. “May I ask his name?”
“Frank Way,” he breathed back, and the name alone nearly sent him into convulsions, making his eyes fly shut and a rotten taste burned in his mouth. “Frank Anthony Iero-Way,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “My gorgeous boy, my pretty little rabbit, my perfect husband...”
“Il mio Coro?” Ray asked tentatively, gingerly shuffling his arm. “Are you alright, sir?”
“Mmm,” the gangster muttered, and then flicked back into life.
“You said you do not currently see me as your leader,” Mussolini mused, walking around the large table, making his way to the gangster, who was glaring at him warily. The body of the dead girl was dragged to the side. “Do you think that could...perhaps...ever change?”
The breathing of the Leader was shallow and jagged now as he approached the killer.
“What are you insinuating?”
“I am insinuating nothing, Don Way,” he purred in a mock imitation. “I am simply saying that while the Mafia is certainly comfortable for you now, it is not like my police force. It will not be around forever. It is illegal, frowned upon, and most of all, immoral. Would you not rather prefer to be in such an exclusive, reclusive area of an army or expertise? Power, wealth, and glory, Don Way; they could all be yours. If you agree to be within my organization-“
Gerard grimaced, reached back, and grabbed the hair of Benito Mussolini, bringing his head down upon the table and banging him on the wood several times, until blood trickled from his temples. When he was done, Gerard dropped him and let the Leader slump to the floor.
“What?” He asked innocently, shrugging his shoulders. “Some people never learn.”