The power given to humans from fire was something indescribable. We could do something as simplistic as light one Cuban cigar; or you could ignite utter destruction. To warm a home or destroy a village; the opposing sides of the spectrum, yet so near to the fence… In Frank Moreno’s line of work, anyhow. If bringing home the bacon for himself meant slaughtering a few pigs; spraying a hint of blood on the cows around the crime scene, he’d gladly do this. He’d choose his own wellbeing each time- never looking back to see which animal he’d put down in the process. He’d always held a simple enough belief system: if you’re not the one slitting people’s throats, you’d eventually come face to face with a man one day- who held the dagger in hand at your jugular. If you’re loyal to the people watching your back, and do whatever it takes to keep yourself breathing, you’re doing alright- morals and transgressions were always fucking up the day. As a man who sees few decisions he’s made as malevolent, and more along the lines of what a guy had to do- it was easy to sleep at night; aside from the ones where he was neck deep in the bottle, of course.

This was an evening where Frank Moreno’s belief system was put into action- where fire was being used to warm more than just a home. Violence, betrayal, and the smell of cooked vermin seeped from the walls- coinciding harmoniously with the bone chilling screams that filled the air. It was a night that was supposed to be spent at the table, discussing club matters like the ever civilized men should be. Yet here they stood, the brotherhood acting together as one; the reflection of the flames dancing in each set of eyes. The club stood for loyalty, protection, and most of all- living the outlaw ways of life. The man all vision was glued to had betrayed that; stomping on it, his very own piss drenching the integrity they held as a family. Some stared on with horror glazing over their eyes, while others soaked in their own whiskey and his betrayal- cloaking this with the typically present dead pan expression. With the shop doors rolled down tight, and chains draped from the ceilings hang two arms- forced above his head as the man’s legs gave way long ago.

Dom Reagan had committed the worst possible act- being a snitch. Rat. Squealer. He was a reason one of their most honorable members was behind bars- awaiting the hardening and inner decaying only the penitentiary could bring about. –And for that, he deserved to die; or at least come damn close to it. The amber liquid swished in the bottle as Frank brought it to his chapped lips- whiskey really being the only thing to satiate him as of late; not that he’d complain about that. Half drunk and his thoughts pouring out like his alcohol did he muttered “Goddamn rats.” The rounded edge hit the center of his lips; the weary arm that held it tilting back just enough to give him the good chug he needed. Reagan pleaded- his screams echoing throughout the room; begging for mercy. The thing about this king- he wasn’t merciful, and he sure as hell didn’t listen to a man’s pathetic cries. Whimpering was the act of pussies, of men with a dick that lacked girth, and the currently present: whistle-blowers. There was no point in postponing this, the scent of charred skin would snake its way into their nostrils tonight anyways. His posture as solid as oak, his eyes flicked towards the vice president. “Tony- get the torch.”

Their former brother stood slack; the weight of his regrets weakening him at the knees- his arms shackled above him like a painting you’d see of the good Lord himself; nailed to the cross. Head hung low, the tears continued to shed from his eyes- knowing just what agony he was going to endure within mere seconds. His left hand man was readying the torch- the final steps of retribution coming alive at last. His steps were slow as he approached him; needing one last show of dishonor before this night was complete. Shoulders squared, a gentle touch clashing with the coldness in his eyes; he lifted Dom’s chin to face his own- his eyes boring into the detestable gaze of his former brother. “I want you to look into my eyes when those flames hit your back- you hear me, boy?” Disgust tainted every fiber of the president as he held the very face of Judas in his calloused fingers. If this club wasn’t based on the democratic beliefs, Frank would have already taken matters into his own hands- taking much deadlier measures to handle someone of this caliber. Yet the club voted he continue to breathe- to live with the guilt of what heresy he’d committed. Regretting your actions wasn’t a notion he’d ever conceived- if you believed in a cause enough to stick to your convictions, you damn well better not hold an ounce of guilt. It made you weak- had you questioning every move you’ve ever made; even if it was the very action that kept you breathing for another year.

Bottle still in his hand, he leaned forward ever so slightly, bringing Dom’s face up to his lips- planting them on the traitors cheek. As their skin remained adjoined, Frank could feel the dampness from the man’s tears- disgracing what little dignity he had left. Pulling away slowly, he lifted his whiskey and poured it on the bare back that hung before him. He stood erect once more, giving the go-ahead nod to Tony; the torch igniting with a brightness that could only warm the heart of a man as cold as a Moreno. As his vice inched closer, he looked towards his fellow members as he solemnly spoke “Let this be a lesson- on how we fry up the rats we find in gutters.” Not a sound escaped the lips of his soldiers- mere nods escaping the few who dared. His eyes shot back to the disgrace in hand, and with that- it began. The fire licked, bit- gnawed on his raw flesh. The skin sizzled, burning away what last piece he held of the club; smoke snaking up in the air; the spirit of the black mamba leaving his very core. His screams were ear piercing, agonizing to some. Yet there Frank stay, holding his face as the tortured body writhed, kicked, instinctually fought the force that ate away through him.