Sanction(ed)

Prologue

Speed kills coming down the mountain
Speed kills coming down the street
Speed kills with presence of mind and
Speed kills if you know what I mean
 

-         Bush, The People That We Love (Speed Kills)

Sebastiano Fucilla had booty on his mind, and his mind on booty. Not just any booty, mind, but full, onion-shaped, caramel-colored booty, young, ripe booty, gyrating and flexing, red, lacey, barely-there material preserving the modesty of said booty.

It was booty that made men glad to be men, it was booty that made ass-men drop to their knees and beg for mercy and more. It was booty… that was just fine.

Sebastiano Fucilla swore that by the end of the week, that booty would be in his hands.

It wasn’t like Sebastiano Fucilla was particularly an ass-man – his ex had back, legs, and nothing in between – but there was just something about that booty that made him want to bite it just to be sure it was real.

Then, bite it again just to watch her squirm.

Sebastiano Fucilla was married.

Sebastiano Fucilla didn’t care.

It wouldn’t be the first time that Sebastiano had cheated on his wife, and it wouldn’t be the last time if he could help it. The passion was gone from their marriage. After ten scant years, and three children, she’d lost her figure, lost her patience, and it seemed these days, lost her damn mind.

As for her, the novelty, the appeal of marrying a true, old-school soldier of La Cosa Nostra, a charming, smooth-talking gentleman nicknamed “Paperback” – he always had a book, they said, always reading something – had begun to wore off when she soon realized she had to wash the track-stains from his drawers.

So, Sebastiano Fucilla rarely had an attack of conscience when it came to the meat and bones of his infidelities. He was always, always careful when it came to protection, a rubber in his worn, leather wallet at all times. He was discreet – even if the missus knew that he was cheating on her, there was no need to rub it in her face.

No, what was beginning to disturb Sebastiano Fucilla, were his preferences.

He liked them young, the slim, trim, stupid giggly-girls fresh out of high school, looking to play grownup among the big boys, the high-rollers, looking for that Older Man who threw money at them when they pushed up their cleavage anywhere in their direction.

Sebastiano didn’t have to spend money on them, usually. He had charm, he had class, he knew how to treat a lady, and he had an impressive tab at the joints he frequented.

It wasn’t so much their ages, though, that disturbed him – he’d been dating slim, trim, stupid giggly-girls fresh out of high school since he was in high school.  But, as he looked in the mirror these days, as looked at the graying temples, at the crow’s feet stamped at the corner’s of his eyes, the deep furrow of his brow, the silver-chest hairs that had replaced the dark, rich black ones practically overnight, he was wondering if he was clinging to the younger girls just to prove he was still strong, still virile, still not… not…

Old.

Sebastiano Fucilla was walking down a quiet Brooklyn street lined with damn near identical, three story homes, thinking that maybe fucking all these young girls as this point in his life was his cheaper version of buying a Harley and changing his occupation. The night was just a few degrees above freezing, spring creeping up behind winter, the pavement still wet from the rainstorm that swept away the last of the snow. The night air smelled of cold, of dryness, the closest to clean, fresh air you could get in New York City. Streetlamps illuminated the gray, lined sidewalk in bright orange luminescence in big ovals, several feet of relative darkness in between them.

Sebastiano Fucilla, as the flat soles of his expensive, spit-shined leather shoes ate up the pavement, his stride brisk, confident and no-nonsense, began thinking about his own little girls, his three daughters who he adored, who he loved more than life itself, and prayed that they grew up to be nothing like those slim, trim, stupid giggly-girls he fucked.

Sebastiano Fucilla, as dark blue eyes glanced at the closed door of the quiet house at the end of the dead-end street, began to think that those young, slim, trim stupid giggly-girls were father’s daughters, too.  As he pushed the metal fence open, as he jogged up the stairs briskly to ring the doorbell, as he waited for a reply, Sebastiano Fucilla hoped his daughters just never left the house again.

There was silence from the house, not a light went on anywhere. Sebastiano took a step back to look up at the windows to make sure, then… reached for the doorbell again.

It was then that he heard a faint whistle, like hot steam beginning to be pushed out through the nozzle of a kettle. He frowned, then leaned in to the door to place his ear against it. The sound was getting louder, quickly, but… there was something not right about it.

It wasn’t coming from inside the house.

What hit the top story of that house, what caved in the roof, what caused tile and wood and dust and sheetrock to explode into the night sky was soon followed up by a thunderclap that shattered the glass of the remaining floors.

Sebastiano Fucilla’s life had been saved by the sturdy wooden door he was still standing directly behind, shards of glass tearing up everything in it’s path. With a yell, he ducked down into a crouch, covering his head with his arms, as dogs began to bark, as the rest of the homes in the neighborhood came to life in light and movement, parents telling kids to stay, kids running up to peek out of windows.

Sebastiano slowly looked up as the last of the glass shards shattered against a parked car outside. Very carefully with thick, shaking limbs, he began to crawl away from the door, his heart pounding in his ears as the sharp tang of ozone began to fill the air through the dust spilling from the shattered window. People began to slowly spill out of their homes, some armed with various pieces of sporting equipment, approaching the house, and then him.

Sebastiano stumbled as he cleared the gate, trembling as he looked up at the night sky.

“Oh Sweet Christ,” he said, before falling backwards, still looking at what should’ve been gray, thick haze. As a few of the neighbors began to rush forward… the house began to tremble again.

The oak door was shattered outwards as another dark, smoking streak punched through it, smacking into a car. Metal groaned and shrieked in protest as it warped around its attacker, rubber smoking as it skidded several feet, rocking on its side and flipping over.

Then, the night was calm and silent, save for the hiss and rattle of the engine of that car as it swayed gently.

Sebastiano Fucilla’s dark eyes rolled in their sockets, his mouth hanging open as he breathed, just breathed, not caring in the slightest that he was sitting, sprawl-legged on the pavement. The world was going completely nuts and all he cared about at the moment was just calming the triple-hammer beat of his heart.

            Sebastian Fucilla began to look over his shoulder at the wreckage of the car. It swayed gently on it’s bent and almost sundered axis, the dark streak buried deep in the middle, an end sticking out. Somewhere in Sebastiano’s mind, he had a very, very funny thought:

            That part of… whatever had struck the car that was now wrapped in its steel embrace looked suspiciously like a foot.

            A foot clad in a dark, split-toed boot.

            But, a foot nonetheless.

            There was a sharp crack from inside the interior of the house that whipped his attention back to it, a sharp crack that was soon followed by that distinct, sharp tang of ozone that seemed to fill the air, overpowering the scent of the singed wood and powdered cement.

            Something burst from the roof of the house, surrounded in a hazy nimbus of energy, energy that sizzled and crackled the air around it. It paused for a moment, only one moment, hovering several hundred feet in perfect stillness.

            In that moment, Sebastiano Fucilla saw what it was. It was a man.

            A man dressed in all black with a large, visored helmet.

            But, a man nonetheless.

            The helmeted man raised his head to the sky, then took off.

            Sebastiano Fucilla passed out.