The city’s veins were congested, clotted by corruption that ran all the way from the crime-riddled suburbs to the gilded doors of city hall. In the old days there were still some good cops to keep the festering disease at bay but now they too had given into greed and complacency.
Johnny had never known it any other way. He’d grown up in a rough neighbourhood, where each Saturday gangsters made the rounds of the local storekeepers to collect half of the takings. And half of that take went towards bribing the police. Johnny’s father never said a thing when the hoodlums rummaged through the till. Maybe that’s why he died a bitter man, aged 44. Felled by stroke. On a Saturday.
Johnny, barely 15 at the time, took over the store. He too kept his mouth shut when the gangsters demanded their cut. But at the end of every month he set aside a bit of money. Just enough so he could buy a gun by the time he turned 18.
The city’s veins might be congested, but Johnny intended to blow them open. One gangster at a time.
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