[center][sub][color=lightsteelblue][h1]Caged No More[/h1][/color][/sub][/center]
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New York State Penitentiary
December 1st, 2020
3:30 a.m.

Whispers about who was behind the death of Don Carmine “The Snake” Persico, boss of the Colombo Crime Family, spread rapid. Whispers turned to audible words: it was The Tiger--or so everyone thought--Marvin never killed anyone, and never would. He had been framed by that hunter. A Cheytach M200, .405 caliber, perhaps the most powerful sniper rifle known to man. This was no discovery of Marvin’s, rather one of forensics officer Martinez--a man who Marvin had grown closer to given Marvin’s recent decline in available resources. Only the finest hunters used such a rifle, and typically only for hunting big game: the M2 00 line of Cheytach rifles had less bullet drop, virtually little drift. That explained why it tore through the M5 Aramid mesh plating like butter.

Marvin was so close to death, and he would never have seen it coming. Whoever shot him was sparing him, there was no reason for an enemy of his to refuse killing the man who had been a thorn in the underworld’s side for what seemed an eternity. To a degree, Marvin respected the mysterious hunter’s poise--it took a skilled man to watch the watcher. What Marvin didn’t respect was being toyed with, it was one of the few things which angered him; Marvin never played with his victims, he respected their skill, and he respected his own mortality. He was always aware that he could be bested--whoever was hunting Marvin clearly thought themselves invincible. Marvin would show him otherwise.

It was a cold December night, Marvin was waiting to be let out on bail; he had recently been arraigned and was being held until bail could be posted. What was left of his fortune was tied up in litigations and lawyer fees. When and if bail was posted before his trial, he was unsure whether he would even have a place to lay his head, let alone continue his training and his tenure as The Tiger. His musings were interrupted by the flash of a guard’s light, it was bed time. Marvin’s cellmate, a fellow African American was already sleep, he was around Marvin’s height and twenty pounds heavier. Marvin would sleep light; if the Colombo’s thought he was behind the murder of their boss, their greenbacks would know no color.

Marvin slept light intentionally. As expected, in the depth of night he heard his cell door open. Marvin awoke solemn: one hispanic man, 5'7, 210--a Southsider foot soldier named “Joker.”, a Nazi Lowrider footsoldier, “Bear” 6’2, 210; and one of their own, an Italian, “Pittsburgh” Pete, 6’1, 230. At least this time they had sent some guys who were in good athletic condition. On top of not getting much sleep, and the compounding stress from all these worrisome foes, Marvin would certainly let some steam off on these three. Oh, yes, and there was the other African American who happened to be his cellmate. Marvin stared at the bunk above him and watched as it creaked; he calmly removed his hands from behind his head. Marvin asked them only once after he stood up,

“Who wants to leave?”

Marvin got his answer when Pittsburgh Pete charged him with a crudely designed shank; Marvin secured Pete’s weapon arm and twisted it sideways, forcing him to drop the shank, then Marvin swung Pittsburgh Pete’s face into the concrete wall immediately beside. Pete’s skull bashed against the wall before Pete himself slumped to the cold concrete floor.

Next, the Nazi Lowrider, Bear, nearly as big and well built as Marvin, this one would take some time. Luckily for Marvin, the cell was 6x8, small enough to funnel one man at a time. Something told Marvin these men were too clumsy to know how to maneuver such a small space--he wasn’t. Bear charged forward, his gargantuan arms managed to get hold of Marvin! Bear landed two hard hooks, one to Marvin’s ribs, another to his jaw. Marvin stumbled back, dazed by the onslaught; that muscle memory he had to use against the Kinderfresser kicked in again, as Bear went to throw another punch, Marvin evaded. Marvin contorted his body between the narrow space of the bunkbed and the toppling body of Bear as the large, tattooed man with a well combed beard stumbled forward from the poorly executed attempt at a punch. A well aimed sidekick to the kidneys aided by Marvin’s superhuman strength propelled Bear’s body into northern wall with a hard thud.

As Marvin turned to deal with the last of the readied attackers, he had all but forgotten about the his equal-sized African American cellmate who referred to himself as ‘Boobie’. Boobie had pulled a homemade shank of his own from his slides and was merely waiting for the right time to strike. Meanwhile, Marvin was dealing with the Southsider, who was considerably smaller than the other men but much quicker. With his shank, he had managed to catch Marvin once in the arm and another time  in the side, blood leaked down Marvin’s arm and his side, staining his orange jumpsuit trackpants. The shock of being stabbed and the realization of the pain were not far apart, Marvin let out a howl! What was just another encounter had just become a fight for his life--and it only made him fight harder!

When Joker went to stab Marvin again, Marvin latched a hand around his wrist and pulled Joker forward into Marvin himself before at the last second he let go and hammered a bone-shattering fist directly into Joker’solar plexus which sent Joker off his feet and flying backward toward the rails of the second tier railing where Joker almost toppled over but was saved by a quick lapse in momentum. Joker’s entire chest had been shattered, but cleanly. It was here that the night shift guards had realized their mistake, when they heard the clash of flesh against steel and realized it was not Marvin, whose death they were paid to look the other way for.

Just as Boobie was about to attack Marvin, the guards intervened. Marvin was taken to the infirmary for his injuries but the wounds healed within fourty eight hours. It was as though he had never been stabbed at all, there was no chance for infection, no sign of rupture at all. No matter how fast he healed, it didn’t cease the incessant desire to amass the rest of his resources and take down the Mob for good. His desire was, of course, not practical--and he had bigger things to worry about.

December 10th, 2020
Calogero’s resturaunt
Brooklyn, New York
6:00 p.m.

Bail had been posted, though he was still awaiting trial. The problem? He was virtually broke. The small portion of money he did have was relocated into the stock market, namely a major television corporation and some virtual currency. Tonight, he was dining by himself, intentionally, at the local Italian restaurant. The gesture was a subtle reminder that the mob had failed to kill him [i]again[/i]. He could feel the pernicious eyes fixed on him by the wiseguy restaurant owners. The only reason they didn't throw him out was because he was a paying customer and the restaurant was packed tonight.

It was when he got outside that he got the greeting he was seeking. A trademark black limousine was trailing him as he walked. Marvin knew they were following him, and Marvin knew that the henchmen knew that Marvin knew he was following them. Marvin moved down an alleyway, he could hear the tires cease and the then the silence. The newest revolution of gunmen the dysfunctional Colombo’s had sent were second guessing the onis of their mission. The two gunmen, Michael “Mikey” Provenzano and Jimmy “Fish” Palmese, knew the fate they would suffer if they failed like the other eight people who had failed to kill Marvin Hayes.

They couldn’t get the image of Alessandro’s--the man who attempted to kill Marvin in the hospital--severed head out of their mind. No one ever knew what happened to the first two gunmen who were sent to kill Marvin in October, either. In turn, Michael and Jimmy knew what would happen if they failed their mission as well. Then again, the Colombo family, already the most disorganized of the Five Families thanks to their infighting and constant changes in leadership--not to mention the death of their boss presumably at the hands of Hayes--had become the laughing stock of the New York mafia.

The Colombo name no longer struck fear in the hearts of New York’s denizens after it had failed to kill one man, what power did they really have over Brooklyn as a whole? Word was that Gambino was moving in on their turf already and that Colombo’s seat on the New York Commission was in doubt as well. Colombo was reduced from being the most influential family in Brooklyn, and the third most influential in New York to a tattered family with about as much influence as the present day Detroit or Milwaukee mobs. It didn’t pay to be a made man of the Family of the “The Snake” Persico.

But they still had power, and they still had the backing of the Commission--at least until the next sit down--and so these two foot soldiers were obliged to do their job. They exited the car, Marvin kept moving down the alleyway until he was swallowed by the darkness. Shiny black shoes clapped against cobblestone as they chased him down the alley; a shred of light illumined the grey of his hoodie as Michael and Jimmy raised their desert eagles and fired three shots a piece; there was a splash of blood: Marvin caught a bullet through the shoulder, one through the tricep, one through the left glute, one through the hand, and another through the ankle. The gunfire ceased momentarily; perched birds flew from their resting places and took to the skies.

Blood streamed down the alleyway toward the two gunmen and stained their shined shoes. They, like the first set of assassins, aimed to finish the job. As they neared the spot where they last saw the grey hoodie, they fired at the ground--presuming Marvin was gunned down--and it was only when the respective flame from their weapons shone on a… slab of concrete.

“Woah, woah, woah, Jimmy wait!” Michael said, “where the fuck is he?! Didn’t you hit the damn moolie, Mike?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Jimmy! I thought you had ‘im!”

“Well if I ain’t hit the fuck and you’s ain’t hit the fuck--where the fuck is. . .”

And lit through the gleam of a small hanging light attached to brick apartment backdoors there were a set of deep brown eyes offering color against the obscured dark of the alley.

“Oh shit. . .” Jimmy “Fish” Palmese and Mikey Provenzano muttered in unison, their bodies frozen with full and realized dread. Then there were screams.

Some hours later, police found the bloodied and half naked bodies of Jimmy Palmese and Mikey Provenzano strung upside down to a streetlight. They were barely alive. There were three claw marks--whose wounds were still opened and bleeding--sprawled from the chest to the lower torso of both men. It was the mark of the Tiger: Marvin was sending any would-be hunters, amateur or professional, a message--there would be no more mercy.