The famous Chinese philosopher Confucius once noted "Before embarking on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." Turns out my journey involved a lot more digging. Metaphorically speaking.

I hit the brakes on the truck, causing my backseat passengers to pitch forward. There's roughly six miles of desert between us and civilization. I grab my two bound captives from the vehicle and throw them to the hard-packed dirt. I tuck my piece, a shiny 1911 Colt .45 ACP, into my waistband. Then I reach into the truck bed and withdraw a stiff-flex steel pitching wedge. The men, brothers Gianni and Rocco Marchesi, immediately begin pleading.

Gianni begs, "Mickey, please! I'm the one you want. I gave the order. Just let Rocco go!"

Rocco counters, "He's just protecting me. You know me, Mickey. I'm always watching out for him. I went behind his back. Gave the order so the Don could save face. You know it's the lieutenants that go to war."

I look at the men in mock confusion. "Now I just don't know who to believe. Why would anyone wanna own up to such a vile act of aggression?" I hold my arms out in a casual shrug, the club absurdly extending my expression. "I could see you callin' shots from the shadows, Rocco. Ya got big ol' brass cojones. Problem is, Gianni's the don, and when you assume a position of power, you assume responsibility for the actions of your organization. Heavy is the head, right?"

I cock my elbows back and swing the golf club. It connects right at Rocco's jawline. He slumps forward, so I use my foot to roll him on his side and keep swinging. The club tags his chin with every blow, bludgeoning then slicing. I keep hacking until skin and mandible pull away from the left side of his face. Bright red arcs paint the gory trajectory of my follow-through.

Gianni's screaming next to him. "No! No! Rocco! Mickey, please stop! Stop! Rocco..." His shouts soften to pathetic sobs. Tears, sweat, and snot create a slick film over his dirty dago face. He falls over, trying to crawl to his mangled brother. The wedge whips into the back of Gianni's knee and he curls up into the fetal position.

I'm breathing hard now from the exertion. I lift an arm to my brow, wiping away the sweat. "Get up. On your knees, Gianni. Get up and lemme tell you a story."

Gianni slowly positions himself to a kneeling stance, sucking air through his teeth as he tries to alleviate the pressure on his swollen joint. His eyes are still on Rocco as he repeats "Mickey, please..." over and over.

"Listen up Gianni. Once upon a time, there was a middle-of-the-pack don. He had plenty of wealth and power. But this don, see, that wasn't enough for him. He wanted more power. More money. He wanted the whole city.

"Now he can't make any moves too big, cuz these other gangsters, they got bigger armies than him. He can't afford attracting too much attention. So this don, what's he do? He hires a mercenary. Makes sure he's Irish, so the whole thing can't be traced back to the I-talians. And the Irishman, he's a real professional, does the job exactly how it was supposed to go down. He's relentless. Some might call him a monster. But to the don, he's a weapon. And now that the don has used his secret weapon monster, he's no longer just a don. He's a king."

I make my way over to the truck, placing the club into the extended cab. Gianni's still mewling, but the time for making examples is almost over. I wait until I'm back in front of the Marchesis before I start again.

"This monster though, he's not always monster. He has the magical ability to transform into a man. A man with a real life and a son, who he loves very much. The monster had been careful, all his life, not to let the son know about his evil deeds. And the son loves him back. The monster takes his son to ball games. They have family dinners. The monster helps him with his homework.

"Over time, the son has grown up to be a man. He's old enough to get his driver's license. The monster is so proud of his son. He tosses the keys to his favorite car to the son and says, 'Have fun, but stay safe'. The son says he will. He thinks he's off to the cinema, or maybe he's just going to visit his mates. But the second he turns his father's car on, a bomb goes off. A bomb that was meant for the monster."

I pause and exhale, gathering myself to continue. "The blast is enough to shatter the windows of every house on the block. It blows doors off of hinges. Later on, they'll find the car's hood next to half of a dog. The monster, he runs out of the house to find his son, but there's nothing left. No body to hold. No body to tell that he loves one last time. No body to tell he's sorry. Just a car frame on fire, that's all."

Gianni sniffles and interrupts. "Mickey, I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'd never do anything to your family. We have a code. No women, no children. You know that, please. Rocco, he's hurt real bad. Christ, look at him Mickey! Please! Please! Do what you gotta do to me, but don't make him suffer. You're not a monster. You're not! I'm so sorry, Mickey!"

I take a deep breath and look over at Rocco Marchesi. The pulpy flesh hangs from his jaw as his long tongue beats the sand. A bloody slug, visible to the root. His eyes are glassy. A sign that his mind is no longer here in the present, with us, but far away. Somewhere the pain doesn't exist. I pull the Colt from my waist and pump two rounds into his stomach.

The thing about gut shots is, they don't kill right away. But a shot from a .45 will make the bleed-out quicker. Those last moments... they'll be a living hell. Kidneys, gall bladder, anything I clipped in there, it's gone. Vaporized, like my son. The distant eyes fire back to life and roll wildly in his head. Rocco chokes out the gurgles of a dying animal. Gianni cries even harder.

"Now, where was I?" I crouch down, eye-level with the gangster. "Right. So this monster, he can never be normal again. There's no reason for him to be anything but a full-time monster. He's not the most clever, but he is a very resourceful monster. He starts with the families that he has robbed of control. With every family he lays low, the new king's power grows. But every family talks. They feed the monster a little trail of breadcrumbs that lead back to the king. Now that he got what he wanted, the king had no more use for monsters. Or witnesses.

The monster, he wants revenge on the king. But the king has so much money. So much power and protection. So the monster goes on the internet and buys a drone, no more than a toy for grown-ups. He takes this drone and attaches a shape charge to it. Then he flies this toy over the king's wall, right into the king's castle, and... phhwww." I hold up a fist and spread my fingers out as I mimic the explosion.

"The monster pays back the king's bomb with a bomb of his own. Then he walks right into the king's smoking castle and executes anybody with enough breath left to beg for their lives. For his one son, the monster takes fifty of the king's men. He even takes the king's brother. Now the king finds himself all alone, and here we are. The monster... the very monster who gave the king a country? He's come to take back EVERYTHING!" Mad spittle flies from my lips and spatters the mobster's face.

The don doesn't even notice. He's staring at his brother's unmoving body. The rasps and gurgles, the labored chest movements, they've stopped. Gianni's gone to that far away mind-place, so I bring him back. I aim the pistol at his right kneecap and pull the trigger. The shot echoes across the wasteland and Gianni loses his balance, screaming in agony. The lower half of his leg remains attached by loose strings of muscle and tendon. Blood and bits soak into the thirsty soil, painting a small patch of desert pink that quickly dries brown.

I dig into my pocket and pull out a small Swiss-Army knife. I gently toss it over to Gianni. It bounces and clatters across the arid clay. He doesn't even reach for it. Just lays there, screaming. I press the gun point blank at his temple and tap the barrel lightly against his head.

"Gianni." He doesn't respond. He just keeps mewling, so I pull the Colt's hammer back. The unmistakable click silences the whimpers.

"Gianni. Shut the fuck up. You'll wanna listen to this next part. Right now, you're less than ten miles East from the nearest highway. Gianni? Look at me Gianni." He turns his face up and looks in the direction I'm pointing. "That way is East. Alright? I don't have anyone I can give advice to anymore, Gianni. You saw to that."

He weakly starts to protest, but I shush him quiet. "Let me give you this piece of advice. Let go of your brother. Lose the leg. Leave them for the vultures, as an offering. Gives you a better chance. And if by some luck you make your way back to the living, well... you've got my card. You come find me, Gianni. You hop on over, and we'll make amends. Eh?"

I turn and walk back to the truck. After starting it up, I look out the window to check on Marchesi. He's gathered himself enough to reach out and grab the pitiful blade.

Atta boy, Gianni.

I put the truck in drive and head back to the highway.

The famous Chinese philosopher Confucius, the patron saint of fortune cookies, once said "Before embarking on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." Metaphorically speaking, I've lost count of how many graves I've filled. Literally though, the thing about revenge is, when you do it right, y'know... the cops and coyotes will do the digging for you.