He wrenches the hand sideways. The arm breaks at the elbow. Sickening crunch. Bone out of skin. White bone. Red blood. Skinny Jack howls as the chain pulls tighter around his neck. The razor clatters.

One down, three to go.

Mookie tilts his body at the waist, lurching forward and down. The Jack with the chain goes launching up over him and down on top of his compound-fracture buddy – he scrambles to get up, trying to find the chain, the razor, something–

But it’s too late. Mookie drop-kicks his head. Hears the jaw give way.

Mookie spins.

Gun in his face. Big fucking gun, too. Some kind of Dirty Harry revolver. Makes it all the easier to grab, which is what Mookie does – he snatches it with a twist, bashes the paper bag pumpkin mask hard enough to tear it down the center. Brown bag stained with red.

The fourth Jack – a dumpy, pudgy dipshit in baggy pants – just runs.

Mookie throws the gun.

It’s heavy. It clocks the fat shit in the back of the head. He drops, face forward, into a scum-slurry puddle. Mookie stomps over. Bends down and growls in the kid’s ear:

“I got my own message to send out. The Boss is alive. The Organization is strong. And Persephone better watch her back.”

Then he kicks the kid in the ass as he scrambles forward on all fours.

Mookie picks up the gun, chucks it in a dumpster.

He hopes they heed his warning.

But this is a warning for Mookie, too. They know. They fucking know about the Boss and his cancer. If these piss-ant pumpkin-heads know, that means the other gangs know, too. And it won’t be long before those big gangs outside the city like the Latin Kings and the Triads find out. The Boss is right: they’re gonna smell the blood in the water like so much frothy chum. Blood begets blood. A little now. A lot later.

Shit. He can feel the edges of his world start to give in a little – it’s suddenly claustrophobic here in the alley, like the walls are going to topple and crush. Mookie’s world is the Organization. If that falls, what does he have?

The thought makes him feel small and weak like a starving dog. A starving old dog.

Then he realizes: part of it is the Cerulean. The Blazes suddenly gutter and spark and go dark – it feels like something’s taken from him. Breath from his lungs. Bones from his legs. He steadies himself. Shudders like it’s suddenly cold.

He hoped to have eyes on when he went to see Mr Smiley.

So – now what? Go in Blind? Or dose up and keep push-push-pushing?

Inside, the chattering voice: Go blue! Go deep! Blaze, motherfucker, blaze! Can’t hurt. Feels good! Makes you strong like ox. You’re already stupid, why be stupider? Open your eyes!

A reiterative chant: Blue! Blue! Blue! Blaze! Blaze! Blaze!

Without even realizing it, he’s got the tin of powder already in his palm and open.