When Frank witnesses a Mafia crime and is told he has 48 hours left, his entire life turns upside down. Soon enough, he isn't able to tell right from wrong anymore, and becomes one of 1950s America...
I've been in the mood to start something new lately, and here it is! Basically, this is going to be based off of Misery by Green Day. It's set in the 1940s and 1950s, so my descriptions of some things may be a little off because I'm a shot researcher. Other than that, I hope you like this!
. . .
Hell hounds on your trail now once again boy
It's groping on your leg until it sleeps
The emptiness will fill your soul with sorrow
'Cause it's not what you make it's what you leave
Don't Fear The Reaper
. . .
Newark, New Jersey 1938
The man and his wife both trembled in fear under the harsh gaze of the monster in front of them.
Well, a monster in the eyes of most, that is.
He stared down the couple from his standing position above them, as they knelt on the floor, sneering at the fear he could so easily smell from them.
"Stop shaking, you pussy," he spat.
The man stared up at him, his amber eyes pleading. "Please, Don Way! We're sorry!"
Don Way raised a dark eyebrow, pushing his long ebony hair out of his eyes. "Sorry for what?" He reached behind him, grasping the cool metal of the revolver he was so accustomed to. "Sorry you didn't pay me back?" He brought the gun up to eye level, taking a bullet out of his pocket and dropping it into the chamber. Of course it was already loaded. He was a killer, not an idiot. He just wanted to add some more suspense to the situation, scare the couple at his feet a little bit.
He raised his voice, irritated how the man had interrupted him. "Sorry that even after three fucking warnings, I didn't get my money? Huh? Is that what you're sorry for?" He pointed the gun at the man, earning a gasp from the woman. "Well, you know what they say." He squeezed the trigger, a loud bang echoing throughout the tiny room, accompanied by a woman's scream.
The most beautiful melody there could be in this business of misery.
The man's wide, dead eyes shimmered against the light as he fell to the floor with a final thud. He blew the smoke from the tip of his gun, smirking. "Three strikes and you're out."
The woman's eyes locked with the Don's. "Please, sir. Please. I'll get you your money! Please, I'll get you it!" she begged, the tears flowing down her cheeks, creating black trails as they mixed with her mascara. "Just please, don't kill me, too. I don't want to die. I'm afraid to die, and I have a little boy to take care of! Please, show some mercy!"
The Don simply flicked his hair out of his eyes again, his eyes glinting maliciously. His pale skin looked translucent in the dim light, and his eyes were barely visible, just adding to the horror movie-like feeling that had settled in the tiny room.
He really was a monster.
He pointed the gun at the woman's forehead, right between her eyes. "Don't fear the reaper," he whispered, pulling the trigger and watching the bullet pierce through the woman's skull, silencing her screams once and for all. She was dead before she even joined her husband on the floor.
The Don simply looked upon the bodies, now laying in a pool of blood, with distaste. If only they'd payed him back...
He nodded to the other two men stationed near either wall in the room, signaling that they were finished there and to dispose of the bodies, when a small shadow caught his eye. Curious, he looked up, and standing in the light of the now open doorway was a young boy, probably not even a day over ten. His eyes were wide in terror, switching between staring at the bodies on the floor and the still smoking revolver in the Don's hand. His mouth slowly fell open, and he cringed back as the Don took several long strides toward him. The boy stood with his back pressed against the wall, frozen in horror. Was he next? Would this man kill him, too? Surely he wouldn't. He was only a little boy, and grown-ups weren't supposed to hurt kids.
The Don stopped right in front of the boy and kneeled down so that he was eye level with him. Those eyes- he would never forget those eyes. They were the same deep amber color as his father's, except this boy's were...brighter. They were still young, still innocent. They were so filled with fear that Gerard wanted nothing more than to take the boy into his arms and let him cry.
But he couldn't. He had a reputation to uphold, of course.
He smiled gently and brought a hand up to cup the boy's cheek, wiping away his tiny tears with his thumb. He plucked the red rose that signified his position in the ranks from his jacket pocket, sticking the flower in the pocket of the boy's pajama shirt.
. . .
8 Years Later
Frank Iero was late, and he knew it. His grandmother wanted him home by eight o'clock, and it was nearing eleven. He'd be dead when he got home.
He hated the fact that just because he wasn't eighteen yet (he would be in a month) he still had to be home at a specific time. Sure he lived in a dangerous part of New Jersey that was controlled by a feared Mafia family, and he shouldn't be out late no matter how old he was, but he wished to have the freedom to be where he wanted when he wanted. He wished he could run away.
Be careful what you wish for.
He pulled the sleeves of his white dress shirt down over his hands, bringing them up to his mouth and breathing on them. Eventually, he just settled on shoving them in his pockets, sighing at the warmth there. It was awfully cold for September. He should've listened to his grandmother and brought a jacket. Oh, well. He was almost home anyway.
The moonlight filtered through the trees planted along the sidewalk Frank was walking on, providing just enough light for him to see. The wind blew the leaves, a rustling noise filling the dead silence. He stared down at the ground as he walked, kicking stones when he would see them and watching them bounce against the sides of the brick buildings. He went to kick another stone when something on the sidewalk caught his attention.
He knelt down, furrowing his eyebrows. The was a small puddle on the ground, and from the looks of it, it hadn't been there long. He dipped his finger into it, coming back with a bright red substance on the tip of his finger. Blood? Why would there be blood on the sidewalk? His thoughts were cut short when he heard a distant shout come from the alleyway a few hundred feet in front of him.
Now, Frank was a curious person, and if heard noises and saw blood, he was going to inspect what the cause was. He slowly crept towards the alley, cringing at each crack his shoes made when they hit a rock. He peeked around the corner of the building and into the alley, seeing that it went back pretty far. He stuck to the shadows as he made his way to a group of garbage cans some way in, listening to the hushed voices coming from the darkness.
"The boss ain't gonna like this. Y'know what he's gonna say? He's gonna say, 'Why'd you go and leave blood all over? Huh?' He's gonna ask us that and then he's gonna beat us down." The man's words were rushed and sounded panicked. His New Jersey accent was thick.
Another man's voice, this time more calm, replied, "No he's not. Wanna know why? First, I'm his brother and you're his closest friend. He won't touch us. Second, we'll clean it up. Don't worry, Ray."
A third voice groaned in pain and there was the sound of someone smacking someone else, and more groans.
"I told you to shut up, did I not? When I tell you to do something, I expect you do it," the calm man scolded smoothly, his voice menacing and cold. The groaning man spoke up, his voice hardly a whisper.
"Please, I'm sorry. I'll make sure the cargo comes in safe an' sound and that no one takes it this time."
The calm man spoke again. "No. You had your chance, and now we are no longer in need of you."
"Please, sir!" Smack. "Please-" Smack. The voice grew quieter and raspier. "I'm sorry..."
"Being sorry doesn't make money," said the nervous man.
There was the sound of metal clinking and then three piercing gunshots, each louder than the last. There was a squeak of pain and then silence. Frank gasped, but quickly covered his mouth with his hands.
"Hey," the nervous man began. "Hey, d'ya hear that?"
"Yeah. Let's go check it out."
I'm dead,' Frank thought. He squeezed his eyes shut and groped for the wall, pulling himself up and backing away from the garbage cans as quietly as he could. He was just about to believe he'd escape with his life from these men when he bumped into something big and solid.
He screamed at the top of his lungs, only to have a hand that was not his own come and cover his mouth. He bit down, but it didn't move. He looked up at the person who now had their arms wrapped tightly around him. It was a man, and he had sandy blonde hair and a beard to match. His icy blue eyes stared Frank down coldly, daring him to try something. Yet there was something playful in them, like he knew that Frank couldn't move and wanted to toy with him.
The two men stepped into the light now, and Frank got a good look at them. The first one was tall and skinny, with dark brown hair he had slicked back. His expression was stony and his eyes were grim.
The second man was taller than the first and had a large brown afro that bounced around his head. His eye twitched along with his fingers, and his lips held something between a smirk and a grimace. Frank guessed he was the nervous man.
Both men were very well dressed in full suits, and Frank instantly knew that they were in the Mafia. He was screwed.
The shorter man spoke first.
"Well, well, well. It appears we have a spy?" He smirked, walking towards Frank, who in turn cringed back into the big man holding him. His eyes flashed playfully, just as the eyes of the man holding him did. "Well? Are you going to answer me?"
Frank shook his head, still frozen in terror. He struggled to make his lips form words, to get sound to emit from his mouth, but it failed him.
The man stepped closer to him so that he was now inches away from Frank. He cupped his cheek with a cold, silky palm, trailing his long fingers over Frank's skin. "Do you have a name?"
"F-Frank," he stuttered, fear gripping him so tightly that even though the big man let go, he couldn't run. The man raised his eyebrows, expecting him to continue. Not wanting to upset him, he continued, "Frank Iero."
The man lost his smirk and raised his eyebrows. "Iero?" Frank nodded. The man hummed, the confident grin returning. "So, Frank, how old are you?"
Frank hesitated, unsure whether or not to tell the truth. Maybe if they knew he was young, they wouldn't hurt him. "Seventeen."
The man let out a low whistle. "You're a little young to be out this late, aren't you? Maybe a little too pretty to be out this late, too. You know how many bad people roam these streets at night."
Frank frowned, growing a bit more confident. "I was on my way home."
The man hummed, looking back at the nervous man. "Hey, Ray, what do you think we should do?" He jerked his head in Frank's direction.
"He's just a kid. I dunno. I guess we just do what we normally do."
Frank's eyes widened. He didn't like the sound of that.
The man turned towards the big man behind Frank. "Bob?"
"I agree with Ray," he said, his voice deep. "We don't need any kids runnin' around tellin' stories 'bout us."
The man turned back to Frank, cracking his knuckles. "Very well. Frank, you have forty-eight hours before we come for you. Make any necessary arrangements."
Frank shook his head, unconsciously grabbing the man's arm. The other two men drew their guns. "What? You can't do that! Please! You can't kill me!"
The man chuckled and took Frank's face in his hands, staring into his eyes. "You're lucky you ran into me, Frankie. If it were my brother, you'd be long dead by now. Consider yourself lucky. And if you were wondering, we'll know if you say anything to the police. If you do, it'll just make everything about a million times worse."
He kissed Frank lightly on the lips, smirking and walking away with the rest of the men. Frank simply stood there.
Forty-seven hours, fifty-eight minutes, and forty-seven seconds.
. . .
Frank was in a frenzy. What was he going to do? He was screwed! He had a grandmother who needed him just as much as he needed her. How was he supposed to tell her that he was going to be killed by the Mafia?
Frank couldn't even fathom the thought. Killed by the Mafia. Just the very thought of it made chills run up his spine and his stomach churn with anxiety. Would they come early? Would they come late? Would they even come at all?
He made his way over to his bedroom window, staring out at the darkened streets. He knew he was being watched. He felt the eyes on him from outside. It was just a matter of where they were at. He wondered that if he picked up a shoe and threw it into the tree outside his window, he would hear a quiet curse.
Frank let his head fall against the cool glass. How could he have been so stupid? After seventeen years of living in Newark, you'd think he'd know better than to investigate a blood puddle and a dark alley. He'd watched his parents be killed by the Mafia, and now he'd share the same fate.
He could still remember that night. He was only ten years old, and he had been dressed in a matching set of pale blue pajamas. He'd heard crying coming from his parents room and left to investigate the source. He'd cracked open the door, just in time to see a man with long, dark hair put a bullet through his father's head. He'd watched his mother plead with the man, tell him she had a son to take care of. He still remembered seeing the bullet fly through his mother's skull, painting the walls red with her brains.
The man had then looked up, and his eyes met Frank's. Frank could still remember the absolute horror he felt as the man made his way towards him. He was certain he was going to die that night. But instead of pumping Frank's head full of lead, the man had simply wiped away Frank's tears and gave him one simple task.
Frank flew through the hallways and down the stairs, out the door and onto the street. He was barefoot and clad only in pajamas, and the ground was covered in a thick blanket of snow. Yet, he ran. He ran as hard and as fast as he could, pushing himself to get as far away from the murder scene as he could. It wasn't until about a half and hour later that he made it to his grandmother's house, telling her everything that had happened.
Now Frank was running again. He'd packed his clothes and written his grandmother a note, deciding he didn't have a choice. He was running away. He knew the Mafia would still find him, as they always found anyone they desired to find, but at least this would buy him some time. He ran through the dark streets, his pillowcase filled with clothes thumping against his back.
He was running away, not only from the Mafia, but from his past.
. . .
I'm sorry to say this, but I'm leaving. I wish I could've told you in person, but I know if I did, you wouldn't have let me go. It's not that I want to leave, but I have to. I did something stupid, grandma, and now the bad people are after me.
I hope you don't worry about me. If you do, please don't. I have everything I'll need, and I won't be needing it much longer anyway. This is the last time you'll ever hear from me, so let me leave it on a good note. I love you more than anything in the world, including Pansy. You took me in when I had nowhere to go. You kept me safe when Mommy and Daddy died. You're the best grandmother I could've ever asked for, and I'll miss you more than anything.
Gravity don't mean too much to me
I'm who I've got to be
These pigs are after me, after you
Run away, like it was yesterday
And we could run away
If we could run away, run away from here