"EEAAHHHHHHHH!!!"

One more scream broke out as a knife was buried into the poor bastard's neck, blood spraying out in long, misty streams as he fell to the ground in a line next to nearly a dozen of his gangster friends.

"Sorry, but that was the wrong answer." A pair of silver eyes stared into the face of a dying man, his last breath seeping away before them. One last pitiful, pained sigh and the man went limp, sprawled over the bloodied floors of the warehouse next to so many others.

The silver eyes belonged to none other than a certain Anderson Jistudan, heir to both the Suimantra Yakuza Family and the Silverblood Syndicate. Shipped off to Academy City some odd days ago, the rising youth was already busy at work. Even if he had inheritance on his side, its always nice to have something to brag about to his parents. Of whom would undoubtedly be proud of his efforts and seeing their support for their child was coming along nicely.

"So, you're the next Red Hand gang member in line," Anderson casually strolled a short distance to the next person in line, he was trying to get them to join him under his own banner, but they were not cooperating as much as he would have liked. He opened his mouth and out came a question he had spoke 25 times today, with only 10 suitable answers coming back to him, "Will you join me?"

"Y-y-yes, pl-pl-please just doon't k-kill me-" the man's panicked and rushed voice was cut short by a loud [i]crack[/i] of Anderson's pistol.

Kicking him over and shooting Mr. Please-have-mercy-on-me a few more time just for fun, Anderson threateningly loaded new bullets into his gun and smiled as he met the next person in line. The gangster opened his mouth, only for it to be filled with a bullet.

"Didn't like his hair style, too punk." Anderson explained to one of his henchmen who was part of a squad of big, muscled men with guns his parents sent him as body guards. To be fair though, who the hell would put their hair in long, spiky mohawks and dye the whole thing red? Anderson had seen blind hairstylists do a better job even if he was the one who gauged out their eyes.

"Botchan," one of the other henchmen lightly tapped Anderson on the shoulder as if he was scared of his young master turning his gun on him, "You must depart now or you will be late for school."

"Ahh, what a shame." Anderson sighed as all the other hostages in the line breathed a sigh of relief with him, "How long until Willhelm is here?"

"He is already awaiting you."

"Very well then, looks like you sheepies are spared today." Anderson turned and smiled to the poor bastards who tentatively smiled back before their captor turned to his henchmen, "Kill them all."

A collective gasp of confusion and shock gave birth from the open mouths of his victims, only to be instantly silenced by the roar of assault rifles and SMGs. Once again, Anderson grinned, now with a much darker, killer intent on his handsome face. 

Two henchmen detached from the group and escorted him to the expensive foreign-built luxury car his mother bought him as a gift a year back, it was his favorite, built somewhere in Europe, probably Germany if he had to guess.

"Greetings, botchan." Willhelm bowed and opened the back door to the car. 

The man himself was a fine specimen of European lineage who could traced his lineage from everywhere from Sweden to Italy and from Russia to Spain. Only the skills the butler posed were sharper than his features.

"Hello Willhelm," Anderson sat on the leather seats of the car, watching it be closed by a henchman as Willhelm elegantly took to the diver's seat and started the car. It was a tiny luxury room in it, complete with an ice box, a satellite phone, one of Anderson's many laptops and a small cache of weapons.

The young master rested his head back before he heard the pounding of foot steps. Looking out the window, it was the people who he had convinced to join him, their faces mixed with equal parts fear and equal parts obedience.

"Umm.. s-sir..." one of the taller ones tapped on the car window before it was rolled down, "What should we d-do?"

"What will you gents do?" Anderson began to chuckle, "You all are going to [b]die for me[/b]."

In one quick blur, Anderson pulled out a classic sawn-off shotgun from a hidden compartment and shot at the first man. His head peeled back like a banana as his upper torso was peppered with holes. A few quick steps back and he collapsed on the ground in a bloody mess, his comrades horrified in shock.

"Now then, if any of you fine lads try something funny," Anderson sadistically grinned and pointed his gun to the mess of what was once a person on the ground next to them, "You'll also become tropical fruit'd."

With that, some of his henchmen pulled the gangsters away from the car before throwing them into the warehouse, shutting the heavy doors and barring it with a heavy lump of iron. Shouting and banging could be heard from the other side, something like "You promised us we'd live!". But all the screaming was silenced by Anderson's laugh as he got out of the car.

"As if you pitiful rats are worth my time." A henchman handed Anderson a molotov, which Anderson himself ceremoniously lit with a silver lighter. Within seconds it was in the air, followed by a swarm of others who all made their way to the building. The screams of burning men filled the air, thick as the smoke, but Anderson paid no heed as he turned around back to his car, his men piling onto armored SUVs, quickly leaving the site.

"My my, aren't you the scourge of god?" Willhelm chuckled as his master returned to his seat, storing away the shotgun and producing a school bag in its place.

"Of course Willhelm, for all who have sinned fall short of God." Anderson brought out a laptop to play around with some stocks, grinning as the roof of the warehouse collapsed. From now on, the path would be fruitful, it was showtime.