Happiness Is a Warm Gun // Lennison

One

Blood.

John Lennon seemed to have a thing for it. He was never very squeamish even as a kid, in fact, he almost tried to fall over and graze his knee just for the gore of it. He found something so profoundly exciting about it.

But this......this wasn't exciting - it was frightening. Unnerving. Unsettling. Disturbing and lots of other colourful words. For the first time in John's life, he wanted to gag at the sight of blood. He even felt uncomfortable and icky.

Eight people, including a chef and waitress, had had their heads bashed in by a hammer this morning. There were no other indications of violence or anger, nothing in the Italian cafe where it happened had been disturbed. The damage to the victims though was so bad that they hadn't been able to identify a single one of the carcasses, their bloody, featureless faces telling us nothing but of their agony.

John's eyes blinked slow and calmly behind his circular lenses as they attempted to survey and devour the horrific scene in front of him but his heart rate was anything but that. He cleared his throat and uncomfortably shifted his weight as the Chief Commander came up beside him and retracted the fat cigar from his chapped lips. He grunted, doing the same as the Chief Inspector, trying to solidify in his mind what the fuck exactly had happened.

Not being able to though, he puts his cigar back between his lips and mumbles behind it in his usual gruff voice. "Your thoughts?" He asks and John's eyes narrow, looking over the crime scene once more before answering.

"The lad who did this was after someone. Maybe one person, maybe two, but he was after someone in this cafe and the others were just witnesses who happened to get caught in the mix." He explains cautiously, crossing his hands over his chest in a tight knot. "Eyewitnesses said he was tall bloke, red hair, white, came in about...eight-thirty? He left only fifteen minutes later, so I'm guessing he got pissed off real quick."

The Chief Commander nods slowly in consideration, his eyes fogging over as he took in all possibilities and contemplated Mr Lennon's words. After a short moment, he blew out smoke from his mouth and turned to the Chief Inspector with a stern eye and a hand on his shoulder. "I want you to take the case." He orders more than suggests and John nods despite his bitter inner thoughts.

The next day, a couple of blocks away, George Harrison was in quite a similar situation. He held his hands on his waist and nodded at everything his father had to say even though every instinct inside his scrawny frame was yelling for him to disobey him. He sunk his sharp teeth into his tongue gently though and didn't utter a word.

"I need money from him, okay? You're gonna get it. If he doesn't have it, strip him and sell what you can." He demands from behind his thick cigarette before dismissing his son with the firm wave of his hand. George, lighting his own cigarette, was already out of the apartment complex and bounding down the stairs when his father turned back. Harold Harrison goes to the window of their apartment and shoves it open, waiting for George to exit the building. "Oi!" He yells once his son is back in view. "Get me some sweets!" He commands, throwing down a wad of money and George catches it. The brunette looks over it, running the paper through his fingers before turning back to his Dad.

"This isn't enough!" He calls and his father simply scoffs.

"I fucking know that." He spits and ducks his head back in the window, shutting it loudly. George curses under his breath angrily and clenches his hands in tight fists, thrusting his foot into a piece of litter and kicking it miles. By 'sweets' his father meant his daily fix of heroin and cocaine. He called it 'cake' when he wanted marijuana and LSD. George had learned all this and much more from being the heir to one of the most dangerous syndicates in England.

"Fuck!" He whisper-yells and shoves his hands in his pockets before walking in the direction of his task.

After walking seven blokes to be exact, he came across the right address and looked over his shoulder cautiously before entering. He didn't bother knocking or calling out to the owner because his business there was passed that. Instead, he kicked open the door and drew out a knife. Immediately, his eyes met that of his victim's and the taller man slunk back away from him.

"Please," the red-head whispered, putting up his hands to show his intentions. His pale lip quivered as George slowly slithered closer to him. "I can't give it up! I need it for food, for my family-"

George was quick to interrupt him, lurching forward and pressing the knife to his neck. He didn't draw blood but his gaze could do that alone as he glared the taller man down. "You don't have a family. The gang is your family and you knew that the second you became part of it." He growls like a threatening beast despite being thinner and shorter than the man he was threatening. George didn't feel threatening though, he felt ashamed. As he made a man twice his size shiver in fear, the only thing crossing his mind was absolute mortification.

This didn't make his powerful facade quaver though, he stuck to his fearless mask and pressed his blade even further into the man's throat. "Where is it?" He whispers calmly, and he can feel the man swallow beneath his knife. The younger grabs a tuft of the taller's ginger hair and pulls him so they were level and he could look directly into his eyes after he doesn't give an answer.

"Please, George! Please." He whimpers. "I have it, just don't hurt me!" He cries, begging almost and George decides that enough is enough. He releases the man's hair and retracts his knife, sympathy and pity making his eyes soften.

"I'm sorry." He breathes and pats down the man's collar which he had disturbed in the scruff.

Still incredibly anxious but not nearly as frightened, the man leads George to his kitchen and opens the fridge. Kneeling down he reaches into the back of it and carefully takes off the back wall to reveal a compartment. The man's fingers quake as he hesitantly grabs the wads of money and hands them over to George with a longing glint in his eye. The younger man's keen eyes scanned over what was in his hands before staring back at the kneeling man in front of him.

"There isn't enough." He whispers, raising an eyebrow as a way of questioning him for an answer.

He doesn't seem to have one though as his mouth opens and shuts like a fish out of water and his voice is too taut to be audible. George points his knife again as a little reminder to help jog his memory as to where the rest of the money may be. The red-headed laded swallowed heavily and, with his oceanic eyes, tried to plead some mercy out of George.

"I went to get it, I did! But...but...something happened." He hesitantly chokes out the last sentence and George eyes narrow in response.

"What?" He spits venomously. "What happened?"