The Gang Wars of Mercy.. an open Villain RP

Impresario, picked up the phone to make another cold call. But, he wasn't the Impresario yet, he was plain old Joe Green. Joe was named for his grandfather Josef Gruenwald, but that name was too big a mouthful for the the immigrations officials at Ellis Island, the family name hadn't changed since.

Joe was tired. While slightly tired of bilking old ladies out of their life savings, mainly he was tired of giving most of the profits of his sales to his boss, Al "Fat Al" Goldberg. He was dreading asking Al for a meager raise. When would things change? Joe's silver tongue was the bringing in 98% of the cash at the Boiler Room, "Goldberg and Associates". God knows where Joe dug up his the other losers and slackers who worked there.

At least this beat running razzle shows at the Carnie. He shuddered to think of how things had ended at the last one. He patted his shoulder, as if smoothing away the memory of the smouldering and ashes that accompanied his swift exit.

He knew he was destined for bigger things. He had created all of the grifts and cons they were running at the moment. Yet Fat Al didn't seem to see it.

He was on a roll today however, and had a sense that things might change as he strolled into Fat Al's office, and gently nudged the door shut.

"Hello Al, if I might have a word?"

"Yeah!" Al snarled looking over a greasy pastrami sandwich, whiping the fat with a filthy sleave, Oh, it's you, what can I do for ya?" Al mellowed slightly; heseemed positively relaxed, for Al, which wasn't saying much.

"Al, I have produced a report of our last months figures. I thought it might be a good idea if we could see how well we did over the last month."

"Yeah? Sounds good, lemme see it."

"Yes you see there, how everyone's performed." Joe flipped thru charts, spreadhsheets and graphs.

"Wow you did good! 50 thousand last month, impressive!"

"Yes Al, and I hate to remind you put my commission was barely $500 dollars, for the entire month. Why Eddie the Shill, brought in far less than I did and he received only slightly less. How do you plan to motivate the staff when the compensation is so.. so inequitable! I can barely pay my rent."

"Huh?" Al squinted like a large toad, with a flashlight in it's face, clearly uncomprehending.

"Let's try this again. We all got paid the same but I brought in most of the business. It's not fair." Joe could feel his temper starting to flare, something was happening. He fought to control it.

Fat Al glowered threateningly, "Look I have expenses, I have to meet. If you don't like it you can lump it. See here pal, I own you."

"Frankly, then I will tender my resignation, at the end of the week. If you cannot compensate me, I am sure I can bring in money somewhere else."

Al chewed on the last words but then stopped and seemed to reconsider. "Look meet me at Rosie's Clam Bar at 6pm and we can discuss your raise. Meet me in the alley around back, OK?" , Fat Al smiled wanly.

Joe blinked, "OK, 6 pm it is." He took in the information and left.

Fat Al wasn't that hard to read. Joe sensed Al was planning either going to have Joe beaten, perhaps even killed. Same old damn Carnie show all over again. Joe patted his shoulder again this time a puff of smoke appeared. "I'll be there."

As he left the office Eddie the Shill, looked up from his weather beaten desk, stoop shouldered, "sumthin' burin'?"

Joe flashed a lit cigarette out of thin air. "Just heading out for a smoke."

Eddie glared at him through grimy glasses and coughed, "My lungs, can't take that sh...." but the door was banging shut, and Joe paced quickly down the hall.

Joe was in the back alley behind Rosie's early. The place had a bad reputaton for mob business. Fat Al had never discussed having mob associates before. Joe has changed his suit for a black clothing and concealed himself behind a dumpster.

"Hey Joe, who do you want us to do anyway?" came a loud voice as the back door opened, and light steamed into the dark alley.

"Just some lame punk," snarled Al, "I just want to teach him a lesson, nobody leaves my place on their own feet, or gets uppity. Teach him not to take my money! I don't CARE!!"

"His money! His Money!" was the last thought that flashed through Joe's mind as the Fury overcame him.

"Hey Boss, look the dumpsters on fire!"

"I WILL TEACH YOU MANNERS, YOU FOOLS!"

In a berserk fury, Joe and his minions were tossed around the alley like so many billiard balls. More of them poured out of Rosie's Clam Bar, apparently a number of bosses and capos met their to conduct their shady dealings. All of them were attracted by the noise. Joe dealt with them all soundly, knocking most of them silly. He gave them all a choice, swear allegiance, or meet a certain end in a fiery doom.

Strangely it seemed, they bowed to his will and complied. All except Fat Al, who apparently had lost his wits entirely. Gibbering piteously, he was collected by the whitecoats from Mercy Asylum, where his skeltal form still remains. Joe, now Impresarion, made sure Doctor Noh and his whitecoats remained very well paid.

Thus began the great gang wars of Mercy Island. The police did not seem to mind. The mob gangs were out of control anyway. Who cared if they fought each other. Impresario, as Joe now called himself, was always three steps ahead of them and began to organize his own Show, the Flying Circus.

(OOC: I'm going to assume the actual successive stories take place sometime after yours)
Setsuna, also known as The Cobalt Claw, stepped into a non-descript bar in a non-descript neighborhood full of non-descript, average Joe Sixpacks...except for one group in the back. They were dressed like circus folk: a clown, a pair of acrobat twins, and a strongman.
Clad in a large trench coat, Setsuna approached the table.
"Ah, how tragic. Your boss isn't here," she cooed.
"Eh? Who're you!?" the strongman, apparently very enebreated, stammered.
"Why, my dear boy," she took off her coat, revealing smooth, grafted metal plates in various designs all over her body (conveniently protecting vulnerable spots while still looking physically appealing) as well as gloves and boots covered in menacing spikes. She drew her hands into fists, and a series of three large metal spikes and several smaller ones burst from her hands. She licked them tenderly, "I'm the one who killed you."
"HEH! Ye can't kill me!" the strongman said. He swung his heavy fist towards her, but connected with air. She appeared behind him, her left hand's claws buried in his neck.
After she felt the life leave him, she turned to face the others. Slowly she stepped over the dead giant and, licking the blood from her blades, took in the screams and horrified stares of everyone in the bar.
"Now I wonder," she half-said to herself, "how many people does it take to deliver a message?"
Instinctively, the clown picked up his large spiked hammer, and the twins pulled out a series of sharp throwing knives.
"Ah, that's right...ONE!" she charged the three remaining gang members, and shortly dispatched them by slicing their necks.
"H-hey! I-I thought you said it only takes one to deliver a message! You killed them all!" a man who had gathered his courage said to her.
"You say that assuming I meant only them. Congratulations, you're the new messenger."
The massacre began. In five short minutes every single person in the bar except that man was dead by her hand. Drenched in blood, she turned to the man.
"Go tell the Impresario...a pawn has been Knighted," she said cryptically before she turned and left through the front door, removing her locking mechanism as she went.