To the End

The man sniffed nervously. Blood was running freely from the wound on his hand; Stark had severed all of his fingers. All except the thumb. The pain had gone away for the most part, fear was the best numbing agent. Stark stood shaking his head as one would to a naughty child. Blood spattered his pale face and matted his short blonde hair, giving his normally friendly face a slightly insane look.

"Jack." He said it like he was speaking to a long lost friend. "Look, we both know that I'm the only one who's going to walk out of here alive. So let's make this easy." Jack blinked. Suddenly Stark stood barely an inch away from him. He could smell the man's breath.

"Where is the bastard?" Stark growled. "You might die but think about your wife, your son."

Jack had gone very pale, not just from blood loss. "He's been hiding out in the old abandoned boat house," Jack said his voice a dry croak. Stark laughed. "Now was that so hard?" Jack began to sob. Stark looked at him with something close to astonishment. "Jack! Whats wrong? have you forgotten?" Stark leaned in closer and whispered, "Life is meaningless, isn't that what you told me?" He unconsciously began to rub the scar on his throat. Jack broke down completely now, "You're dead!" he moaned "God damn it YOU'RE DEAD!" He sobbed.

Stark shook his head sadly. "Sadly, for you at least, I'm not." As the last word left his mouth, Stark whipped out his switchblade and stabbed downward with one swift movement, leaving the blade buried in his chest. Jack choked once, blood coming up, and died. "I'm coming for you, Black, sick bastard," he said through clenched teeth. "And no pit in hell will hide you."

Later that night.

Stark walked into the bar around midnight. The crew sat around the table, none of them paying him much heed, until one saw his face that is.

"Jesus chri-" he started.

"BOYS," Stark bellowed.

"S-Stark? is that you?" croaked Jim, the eldest of the crew.

Stark's face twisted into a grimace. "None of you ungrateful pricks seem happy to see me."

All of them noticed the dried blood on Stark's shirt, he had been busy tonight. Kyle, the youngest of the crew, who was more than a bit drunk, hadn't known Stark long enough to see the explosive rage behind that friendly smile.

"You're dead Stark. Go lay back down. Devil's calling curfew". Stark's face spasmed, all of the others slowly backed away from the table. Kyle sat alone, coming slowly to a stand, but before he could rise fully Stark lunged across the room and tackled him. Stark was not a big man, he only stood five foot seven, but he was strong. He wrapped his hands around Kyle's throat. The man tried futilely to pry Stark's hand open, but his grip was like steel.

"Dead?" Stark asked, shaking with rage. "DO I LOOK FUCKING DEAD TO YOU?" he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. Kyle's face was turning purple, he bit down on Stark's hand. Stark slammed his head into the floor, cracking his skull. His body went limp. Stark stood slowly and turned to face his crew. "Well," he said smiling widely, "not as dead as him."

Stark took the dead man's chair. "Gentlemen," he said, drawing it out "We have much to discuss"

"About?" asked Jim.

"I found Black. I plan on killing him," he said. "I need you fou- sorry three," he said, trying not to look at the body on his left, "to kill anyone who gets in my way."

"How many are there?" Jim asked.

"Twenty," declared Stark. "Shouldn't be a problem for you three."