The Mob Without a Face

The city is a lady. A very . . . slender lady. Not as slender as me, though; they never are. Now, what if I told you that I had no face? That I was eldritch beyond any man’s understanding? Would you believe me? No? They never do. ‘Tis true, though; I live up to my given name well – tall, pale, and faceless, but I digress. They call me the slender man, though if anything I’m more of a Slender Capone than a mere slender man – mob boss extraordinaire, that’s me. West side of Atlanta’s my turf, see? No one here would dare cross me, lest they feel the heat on the street – I’m quite the fan of Phil Collins, see – and everyone knows what happens to those who are unfortunate enough to earn my ire. I’m not going to tell you, though; maybe you’ll get to see for yourself.

We run drugs around here. Some call us the worst plague to ravage Atlanta’s youth; others, the saviours of downtrodden men. It makes no difference to me. Drugs pay well, and when I am well-paid, everyone else is happy. If I’m not, someone is thrown into The Box. No one wants to go in The Box. Last person to go in The Box thought it would be fun to try and steal the key to my new Porsche – as an aside, yes, it’s illegal to drive without a face, something about impaired vision – and they stayed in the box for – was it five days or eight? – though this one never once screamed for help nor food nor water nor anything else, which was, in its own bleak way, admirable of him. But yes, no one wants to go in The Box.

I came into the mob scene very shortly after I arrived in Atlanta. Never told Father why I was leaving or where I was going, but he was still as supportive as he could be.

“Go and make me proud, son,” he said, a single tear silently slid down his general face-area.

“I will, Father,” was my reply.

Father was an honest man. Took on two jobs to be able to care for Mother and me. He hated his job at McDonalds – it’s hard to get customers when the store has a reputation for having a faceless man working the register – but he loved his job as an assistant to our local private eye, known only as Mister Charles, though I’ve no idea why. He, too, was faceless, and so his having a name which did not include the word ‘slender’ proved helpful in distinguishing him from me and Malone. Anyway, Father was never quite the same after Mother passed – murdered as collateral damage in a bank robbery; he grew distant and cold, quit the job at McDonalds not two hours after he heard the news. Police were useless, as usual, but luckily, since he worked for the man, Mister Charles took the case for free. Turned out the killer was none other than Slender Malone, the local mob boss up in the south side of Chicago, where we’re from. Once Mother had died, I knew that I had to do something to honour her memory and also avenge her death.

I had no idea how I was going to get at Malone by leaving for Atlanta, but I couldn’t stay in Father’s home; he had connections to the detective who learned of the killer’s identity, and so could become a target at any time. And he agreed that I should leave for that reason. As soon as I arrived in town, though, a police officer tried to arrest me for the aforementioned driving-while-faceless crime, and I had no choice but to apply a chokehold to him when he had his back turned, whereupon I snagged the key to undo my cuffs, and drove generally to the other side of town.

Once I was safe, I arrived at a bar to have a celebratory pint. As I finished my, say, fifth glass, though, I noticed a shady figure in the back-right corner, standing by the men’s bathroom, a cloud of smoke obscuring his face. He motioned his way at me, beckoning me to step forward, and I did, because I had lost my inhibitions by that point. I promptly passed out just as I made it to him, but just before I lost my consciousness entirely, I heard a voice complaining that they didn’t get to hit me with his blackjack.

I awoke about an hour later tied to a chair in a dark room. There was a single light above me, and a voice spoke from the darkness at me.

“We saw your encounter with the police. That was some fine work,” said he, before stepping into the light and revealing himself. He was of average height, brown hair, brown eyes, a scar across his left cheek and barely touching his top lip, wore a business suit to rival my own, and had a worn-down cigar in his mouth.

“We’d like to offer you a job,” he continued.

“But why blackjack me and tie me up?” I countered, now fully aware of myself and my surroundings.

“It’s a mob thing, you wouldn’t understand. For now, anyway.”

At this point my memory of Malone had returned, and I knew that getting in with the mob would be a suitable foundation for my revenge-fuelled desires, and readily accepted Head Honcho’s offer.

I started as a street dealer. Nothing fancy, but it helped me familiarise myself with my new surroundings. I learned the ins-and-outs pretty quickly, and my clientele were some of the most consistent customers I had ever seen; I guess that Chicagoans are distrustful of we faceless men because of Malone. Very soon after, I found myself with a solid reputation around town, becoming one of the most successful dealers around. In my off-hours I would hang around at the local Starbucks, drinking slenderccino’s (unfortunately not a real thing, but I call all cappuccino’s this for my amusement), attempting to get a jukebox installed to fill (or phill, as it were) with Phil Collins CDs, and chatting up the local ladies. No one seemed to care that I was faceless around here – except for the cops wherever my driving was involved. The cops never bothered me while I was working, though, because the big boss had planted a corrupt sheriff in our local police department, or so I was told. They still tried to arrest me for my driving, though, because it was a test, “to keep you on your toes.”

Then one day I did the unthinkable. I made great use of my free training in the ways of fedoras and tommy guns and challenged Head Honcho to a one-on-one duel of honourable combat. It was quite the thrill – he landed an impressive shot in my right shoulder, before falling to a bullet of my own through the base of his neck, and before I knew it, everyone present cheered and hailed me as the new Head Honcho. My first act, of course, was to have a message sent to Malone back in Chicago, telling him that I wished to meet him in a one-on-one duel of honourable combat “at his first convenience.” I then went to Starbucks for a slenderccino, and bought my Porsche shortly thereafter.

After maybe a week, I learned of another faceless figure arriving in town, wanting to meet with me at a bar of my choice. An hour later I was there at the same bar where I was recruited by this mob, waiting patiently for the newcomer. It was not Malone, or one of his representatives, as I hoped, but one Mister Charles.

“You there, slender man,” he said with no slight hint of gravity in his voice.

“Ah, my old friend. How’s Father?”

“Malone got him,” he said solemnly, “which is why I came. Word got around rather fast about your invitation to Malone, and I wanted to warn you about him. He is not honourable; he would have his men draw down the moon onto your head if he were slain in your duel. Also murder is illegal, and I would have to have you arrested if you went through with it and survived.”

“Then why warn me, if you would just arrest me anyway?”

“Because I know that I can’t stop you from doing this. You literally told him your entire plan; there’s no convincing you if you’re that set on it.”

“’Tis true, yes,” I agreed, sipping a pint, “but that is not actually my plan, my dear fellow.”

He tried to inquire about my true plan, but I told him that I had said too much, turned, and walked out of the bar, leaving him to pay for our drinks.

Once I arrived back at Headquarters, I gathered six of my best men in my office.

“Here’s the plan, gentlemen: I’ve had made six fake Chicago police officer uniforms. You’re to wear them and, when I meet Malone on the field of honour, drive up to the scene and five of you are to attempt to arrest him and his men. The sixth is to ‘arrest’ me. While they’re distracted, the man coming to me is to ‘accidentally’ drop his gun, whereupon I will take it and strike at Malone.”

It was a solid plan, I thought. The six of them drove up to Chicago two days ahead of me, to scout out the area and prepare for the upcoming brawl. Before I began the journey, I wrote out a new message to Malone:

You and me, six on the clock at the grave of my father.

Come alone, ready to defend your honour.

Then I rang up ol’ Mister Charles, asking where Father’s grave actually was. He told me where, and I informed my crew. I had a seventh man – who really should have just gone up with the other six – leave six hours before me to deliver the message to Malone. After the six hours had passed, I, too, left for Chicago.

The drive was uneventful, much like the drive of my exodus to Atlanta. When I arrived I promptly went to the cemetery where Father was buried, for it was nearing of 5:30, and rang up my men, telling them to get ready.

The clock struck six, and I saw Malone’s car arrive on the scene. After it stopped, he got out of the right side of the car, an obvious indicator that he was not alone, and approached me slowly, trying to look intimidating. I could feel his heavy footfall, and noticed, given his larger build, that his own business suit appeared to be three sizes too small for him, almost splitting at the seams.

“What a disgrace to our faceless visage,” I muttered grimly to myself.

He stopped five feet away from me, muttered something under his breath, drew a pistol from the inside of his jacket, and pointed it at me. We stared each other down for about a minute. It was pretty intense at the start, but then it got awkward really fast. After that terrible minute has passed, the shrill cry of a police siren rang out behind me, followed by car doors opening and closing. Malone lowered his sidearm, for he was taken off guard by the rapid footfall of six Chicago police officers. All according to plan. The leading one stopped by my side, brandishing his handcuffs in one hand and his pistol in the other, while two of the others approached Malone, and the final three kept on to Malone’s vehicle. Malone turned his gun onto one of the blue-clad men and pulled the trigger, causing my goon nearest me to relax his grip on his gun completely, letting it fall into my left hand. Malone barely had time to look up at me before my gun uttered its grim rapport, nailing Malone right between the eyes – I don’t talk ‘round corners, after all – signalling for all of my men to pursue Malone’s vehicle; no loose ends, and whatnot.

I withdrew to my own vehicle, turned my Phil Collins CDs to full volume, and hurried along back to Atlanta. All according to plan. Several hours later I arrived back at Headquarters to find a large, empty crate in the main lobby and one of Malone’s men surrounded by my own. I hit him in the face and locked him in the box. I then came up with the name The Box, because it was simple and intimidating. The Box is in the main parlour now, where spectators can observe and mock anyone held within.

With my nemesis gone, I found myself reinvigorated, ready to get back to the day-to-day of being Head Honcho, knowing that my parents could rest easier now that their killer was six-feet-under, too. Mister Charles rang me after a few days, to check up on me, reassure me that he would not, in fact, be pressing charges or in any way trying to pin the shooting on me. He considers me a friend, he told me during that conversation. I thanked him. We are the only two faceless men left – or at least, the only two that I know of. We said our good-byes, and I hung up the phone, lit a cigar, and turned my energy back to leading this mob without a face.