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[b]”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Prelude[/b]
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[indent][b]New York City, New York --- The Offices of Ramon J. Solomano[/b][/indent]
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The Solomano Building was a wicked skyscraper, jutting out of the maw of a cluster of otherwise unimpressive and derelict constructions. Its only access was a side alley, carved out after a short but ferocious legal battle to wrest control of the few feet of land it took to construct from their previous owners. It didn’t so much as tower into the sky as it reached for the stars and petered, the top content to curl back into itself and slump. If you could make your way past the gangbangers that prowled out front you’d find a wholly unremarkable collection of bored office workers slurping stale coffee. That is, until you reach the top three floors: The Offices of Roman J. Solomano.

George “Big Caesar” Vincenzo shouldered open a carved wooden door three times his size. The mobster straightened his suit coat as he went in, brushing flecks of dusts away and swearing to himself. He flinched as his shoe squeaked off the last bit of linoleum entering the office. The door creaked closed behind him.

It was the only room in the building to have a barrel vaulted ceiling. Long slabs of polished tile led to an oaken desk that seemed rooted to the floor. At the far end of the room, Roman J Solomano stood, staring out the picture window that dominated the office with a vicegrip on his tumbler glass.

“You got good news for me, Vincenzo?” Solomano said.

“Well, uh,” Big Caesar gulped, “Word just got in that the, uh, cops rolled out on The Punisher. But he, uh, got away…”

“God [i]fucking[/i] dammit!” Solomano’s tumbler exploded across the tile and his gloved fist cracked into the windowpane. Caesar could see Solomano’s scowl reflecting in the spiderwebbed glass.

Big Caesar put his hands up, palms out, “Least he’s got more of Silvermane’s guys to go through, right?”

Solomano massaged his temples and turned around, plodding to his desk. The desk was crafted out of gnarled and knotted wood, as if grown out the ground itself. He sank into his swivel. He straightened the pens on his desk, and for just a moment, he stopped. His eyes snapped to Big Caesar’s.

Solomano’s eyes were piggy little things, hiding in the deep holes of his skull. He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. His gaze burned holes out through the back of Big Caesar’s skull. Caesar looked away.

“You must have forgotten why they named me The Hand, Vincenzo.” Solomano’s voice came out small. He pulled a black, leathery glove off of one hand. The back of his hand had a rune crudely carved into the stretched, white flesh. The scar was raised from the skin, healed over in the years since it was etched, but it still boiled an angry red.

“They gave me [i]this[/i],” he stabbed his left hand into the scar, “because it means [i]fucking [b]power.[/b][/i]” He slammed his hands into the table and swiped everything off of the desk, sending cups of pens shattering against the floor.

“Because of that murder-fetishist jackoff, and everybody like him, this doesn’t mean shit anymore.” Solomano threw himself back in his chair. He put his elbows on the desk and slumped into his open hands.

“We got that Spider-bitch right on our doorstep, and less than three hours away we have a goddamn god that can knock anything we throw at him out of the sky. Next thing we know, Captain America is gonna leap out of the comic books and kick my teeth in.” Solomano said. Big Caesar nodded slowly, his chin was tucked into his chest and he stared at the ground. He dropped to his knees and started to collect the scattered pens.

“Maybe… Maybe we could try running more guns to our guys? Better hardware might shut ‘em down?” Big Caesar looked up at Solomano, starting to raise his arm to shield his face. Solomano pulled away from his hands, into the middle distance.

“The Spider stopped an armored car. At full speed. It’d take a goddamn tank to stop her. We need more. We need powered enforcers. We’d need a god on [i]our[/i] side.” He said. His eyes were red rimmed, the lids drooped low.

Big Caesar nodded. “Or a demon.”

Solomano looked Big Caesar up and down. His eyes flitted to the fragments of ceramic and glass littering the ground. Then to the ceiling.

“God forgive me. Get me my books from the thirteenth floor, Vincenzo. We need to make a [i]deal[/i].” The scar on Solomano’s hand began to pulse a dark blue.