"Kayfabe, Tim," the big man said to himself in the cracked motel mirror. His thick fingers struggled clumsily with the cheap tie. "Gotta stay in character. The quiet heel." He nodded to himself as he finally managed to make some semblance of a Windsor not, pulled his collar back down. He stepped back out into the room- it was a poor one, but it was a quiet and anonymous part of Staten Island. He definitely wanted to keep things hush-hush. 

As he pulled on the tent-like blazer, he reflected on the whirlwind of the previous few days. First a note given to him at his apartment in Boston. He had assumed it had been Mr. Regan at first, the head of the city's Irish Mob had a touch of the theatrical to him. 

But this hadn't been Regan. This was something different. Something bigger.

And now McThing found himself in New York City. He wasn't sure why. 

And so the big man checked out of the motel, walked out into the street, hailed a taxi. The car sank down on its suspension as he climbed in. McThing didn't notice. He was used to it. Instead, he kept focused on the task at hand as he gave the driver an address a block away from the meetup.

This could easily be a trap. Get him to come to a strange city, away from friends and connections. But who? The FBI? Was Regan getting called up on RICO charges? Was McThing about to be leaned on for testimony? Didn't make any sense, though. He was way too low in the food chain. All McThing did was beat people up and lift heavy objects. He did it damn well, but the feds wouldn't waste their time on him.

So maybe this job or whatever was for real. In which case a whole new world was about to open up. 

At any rate, there wasn't much McThing could do from the inside of this taxi, so he just sat back and enjoyed the long ride into Manhattan. On reaching his destination, he carelessly overtipped the driver and walked the remaining distance to where he had been told the rendezvous would be made. It was a nice enough day. Might as well walk.

The address proved to be yet another dilapidated warehouse, probably unused for years. The man waiting for him inside was either the fellow who had come to Boston or his identical twin. McThing was met with a small nod and a clearly rehearsed invitation to follow. Fully in character now, McThing did little more than arch an eyebrow on being led down an underground stairway- clearly newer and better maintained than the building above it. He wondered exactly how this construction had been carried out as he was shown into some kind of conference room.

There was a handful of people already there, as well as a place setting marked McMurphy- he wished his professional name had been used instead. He said nothing to the others, merely sat down in the chair and hearing it creak and sag beneath his huge weight. McThing stared wordlessly at each other person in the room in turn. An open challenge.