The Emo Mafia

•It's just business•

"Gabe, hand me my slugger."

Ah, the baseball bat, Pete's weapon of choice. Guns are so impersonal, you can't feel people break beneath it, only the weight of heavy, cold metal against your palms and fingertips. Worst of all, they're traceable. The wrong person finds your bullets, they find you. But this bat, Pete can pull answers from throats just like yanking out teeth, one by one they come tumbling out with every heavy hit. The impact can always be felt as it rattles all the way down to Pete's elbows, a satisfactory hit. A fucking home run. There's so much more power behind swinging a bat than pulling a trigger, at least that's how Pete sees it.

Gabe steps in, holding the wooden masterpiece by the narrow end wrapped in white tape. He hands it over and reaches into his back pocket to grab the fingerless gloves Pete always wore whenever he carried his weapon, black and beautiful.

"I never understood why you have to wear these things." Gabe says, putting the gloves in Pete's hands.

"Helps to keep my grip," Pete explains briefly. "And they look fuckin' cool."

He slides the gloves on until he can see his knuckles through the little holes and doesn't even bother with the adjustable wrist band. He grips his bat by the handle and rests the wider end on his shoulder.

"I'm gonna need you for this job today, the Ways owe me a shitload of money and they're a couple of stubborn bastards. Get Joe and Travie, I'm gonna need them too."

"You got it, Pete." Gabe leaves the room to fetch the others as Pete throws on a black hoodie. This is the third time he's had to pay the Way brothers a visit, receiving nothing but broken promises of getting his money back. This is their final strike and that means things are going to have to be broken, most likely fingers and maybe even noses.

There are so many bad baseball puns running through Pete's mind right now.

***

Pete and his gang step into the little coffee shop he visited the other day when he ran into Patrick. The Ways own it and Pete was checking up on them that day, but was convinced they'd pay him back by week's end. That obviously didn't happen or else he wouldn't be standing here with his slugger right now.

There's a few people in the place sitting and conversing, this shop is going to have to be cleared out before anyone can do anything.

"Trav, clear this place out." Travie nods and stays behind in the dining area while Pete and the other two head into the back.

Mikey is the first to be found, in the kitchen pouring coffee into oversized mugs unaware of Pete's arrival. He glances over and gets a glimpse of three guys he truly doesn't want to see, jumping about ten feet in the air and dropping the coffee pot on the tiled floor. It shatters by his feet.

"Oh, h-hey Pete." He stutters. "W-what, uh, what brings you by?"

"Where's my fuckin' money?"

Mikey begins to slowly back himself into the counter. "I, um, we-"

"I gave you more than enough time to pay your dues." Pete reaches his other hand up to grip the handle of his slugger, getting into position. "Either I get my money right now, or I start swingin'"

"I d-don't- just, please, a little more time and we'll have it! Please, just-"

"Joe, Gabe, go find Gerard." The two run off just as Travie appears after successfully emptying the store. He stands beside Pete, gripping the gun in the waist of his pants.

The crime boss redirects his attention to Mikey. "Your shop makes more than enough cash, Mikes. What exactly are you doin' with it?" He takes a step closer, backing Mikey further against the counter.