Mavrick

Traffic in New York City is notoriously heavy, it's honestly faster to ride a bike or even walk. But you can also ride dangerously. And that is what Martin Wesker was doing, but not to get somewhere. If you wanted to know what he was up to, you only had to look at the rather scared man strapped to his hood. "Please, stop this insanity," the man yelled in terror. "Not till I get what I want Reg," yelled back Martin. He zig zagged through alleys and free spaces in traffic, inches from a deadly collison. But Martin wasn't afraid, he had lost his fear long ago.

He was a native born New Yorker, and had lived there until he joined the Marines three years ago. He remembered so long ago, living in the heart of the Bronx. His father was a dedicated, but underpaid, policeman for the NYPD. He didn't care about the pay, only about catching the bad guys. Martin's mother had been a practicing lawyer for many years, but had been fired for refusing to work for clients she thought guilty. Martin's early childhood was rough, as he had been one of the few white people in the neighborhood. Not a whole lot of the black kids had picked on him or treated him badly for being white, but those who did played hard. But they soon found he was no easy target. A friend of his taught him to street brawl, and he soon became one of the toughest kids on the block. One day however, something happened. His father became a homicide detective, and the job came with a big raise. With the money from his new job and the money from his mother's independant practice, they moved to a fairly nice neighborhood.

Martin shook his head. This was no time for nostalgia. He stared Reg in the eye through the windsheild and said, "You ready to talk yet!" "No! You can eat shi.." Martin breaked the car hard, stopping the man from speaking. He untied Reg, dragged him into the alley, and drew a pistol from his jacket. He pointed it at him and said, "You tell me, or this alley is getting a nice little brain colored paint job." "Screw you man. I may work for the Mafia, but I know they know how to do a Columbian Necktie. I ain't tellin you sh.." Martin hit him in the face with the butt of his pistol. "You shouldn't use such foul language. Now, you think I'm kidding." He leaned in close and screamed in Reg's ear, "You think I'm joking around here!? Cause I'm going to count to three, and if you don't spill on three, your skull will have a skylight!" Reg started to wimper as he made the countdown. "One," yelled Martin. Reg lowered his head. "Two," yelled Martin, and Reg started to sob. "Thre.." started Martin but Reg interrupted yelling, "Okay, Okay! I'll spill." Martin lowered his gun and smiled. "You see," he said, "Now isn't that much better? Now tell me, where can I find Don Risolute?" "I don't know," said Reg flatly. "Don't screw around with me," yelled Martin, "Because I might screw around with my trigger." "I'm not kidding," he said pleadingly, "The Don's location is not revealed to street scum like me. Only his liutenants are told his location." "Who are his liutenants," asked Martin. "I only know one. His name is Claude, Claude Giamotti. He runs the chop shop by the illegal race track, just inside Saunton Island." Martin smiled and said, "Thanks." Then he shot him in the neck. He whimpered slightly as the tranquilizer took effect. Martin took out his cell phone and called the police. "Hello? Yes I just saw a mugging on in the alley on the corner of," he looked out into the street and said, "Lincoln Avenue and Goodwright Drive. Get here quick, it might be a rape." He hung up the phone and hopped into his muscle car. It paid off to have a fast car in this city.

He walked into his apartment and shrugged off his jacket and shirt. He looked at the nurmerous scars from his marine days and night time prowls. He looked at the blonde, fair hair and his tired brown eyes. But mostly, he looked at his tired, drawn face. Ever since that day, he had looked like this. And since that day, he had been doing this. Martin would continue to do this, until he kill the Don. On the street they had dubbed him a nickname. He liked it. When the Don was killed, it wouldn't be Martin Wesker who would do it. It would be Maverick.