Dropping to his knees, the goon groveled, his voice a desperate, whimpering plea, all of John's stern instructions forgotten in the face of death. "Please, Mr. Guzman! I'm begging you! Spare me!" His words were pathetic, his pride shattered, but Guzman's face remained a mask of cold indifference, his dark eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
With no other options, the goon played his last card, his voice trembling but defiant. "You better think twice! I'm with the Joker Organization, representing Jason fucking Walter! He's a goddamn superhuman—feds, military, none of them can touch him! You kill me, and he'll burn your whole fucking cartel to the ground!"
Guzman's lips twitched, a mocking sneer curling his mouth. "The Guzman family's been through hell for decades, kid. We don't scare easily—not even from Jason. You really think he'd start a war over a nobody like you?" His voice was smooth, taunting, cutting deeper than any blade.
The goon opened his mouth, desperate to lie, to say 'yes, he would', but the words stuck in his throat, too absurd to utter. He was just a pawn, and he knew it. Guzman waved a dismissive hand, his tone bored. "Take him away. Don't let my dogs go hungry."
At the boss's command, his enforcers grabbed the goon, their grip bruising as they dragged him to the next room. The door swung open, unleashing a deafening cacophony of snarling barks. 'Woof! Woof! Woof!' The room was a barren concrete box, empty except for a gaping circular pit in the center, its edges stained with dark, crusty smears.
The goon peered over the edge, his stomach lurching. Below, in a sealed chamber, the floor was a nightmare of congealed blood, buzzing with flies that swarmed over scattered bones. Four massive dogs prowled the pit, their fur matted with crimson-black gore, their eyes glowing an eerie green with starvation. These weren't normal dogs—each was a hulking, mutated beast, bigger than any known breed, their jaws dripping with saliva as they snapped and lunged upward, claws scraping futilely against the high walls.
The goon's legs buckled, a warm trickle of piss soaking his jeans as terror overwhelmed him. The enforcers grinned, their faces twisted with sadistic glee. One flipped open the iron grate covering the pit. "Your predecessor lasted less than five minutes, pendejo," He sneered. "Let's see if you can beat his record."
The goon thrashed, screaming, but they shoved him forward. His body plummeted six meters, hitting the concrete below with a sickening crack. Pain exploded through his knees and palms, but adrenaline surged, and he scrambled to his feet, survival instinct kicking in. The dogs charged, their roars deafening, and he lashed out, his boot connecting with one beast's skull in a desperate, full-force kick. The dog yelped, flying back and slamming into the wall with a thud.
But the others were on him in an instant. Jaws clamped onto his legs, teeth sinking deep into muscle and tendon. He screamed, pounding at their heads, but the dogs didn't flinch, their grip like iron. Rip! A chunk of flesh, denim and all, tore free, blood spraying as the dogs devoured it. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot fire searing through his nerves as he collapsed, his legs giving out.
Before he could catch his breath, the dogs were back, tearing into him with renewed fury. One ripped a strip from his thigh, another gnawed at his arm, the sound of ripping flesh and crunching bone filling the air. He flailed, his fists useless against their relentless assault. Blood poured from his wounds, his vision blurring as the dogs feasted, not aiming for a quick kill but savoring every bite. They avoided his throat—no meat there, not worth the effort. The thighs, the arms, the chest—those were the prime cuts, juicy and satisfying.
Above, the enforcers watched, timing the spectacle with stopwatches, laughing like kids at a fucked-up carnival. "Come on, tough guy!" One jeered. "You're almost at five minutes!"
Three minutes in, the goon's strength was gone. His blows weakened, his screams faded to whimpers. He slumped against the blood-slick floor, his eyes hollow, praying for death. The dogs didn't oblige, methodically stripping flesh from his limbs, their growls mixing with the wet sounds of tearing meat. When his last breath rattled out, the enforcers stopped their timers.
"Fuck, so close!" One groaned, checking the time.
"Four minutes, thirty-eight seconds," Another read, spitting on the floor. "Useless piece of shit."
They cursed his failure, oblivious to the tiny listening device hidden on the goon's body, transmitting every scream, every crunch, every sadistic laugh to John's earpiece miles away.
John's face darkened, his jaw tight as he dialed Jason. He relayed the gruesome details, his voice steady but laced with suppressed rage. To his surprise, Jason didn't explode with anger. Instead, a cold, calculating chuckle crackled through the line. The Guzman family's reckless brutality had handed him a golden opportunity—a perfect excuse to make an example of them and send a message to every other gang in New York.
Jason's voice was calm, almost amused. "Those dumb fucks just painted a target on their backs. The other gangs are saying they'll show up to the dinner, but you know how it is—they'll scheme, they'll plot, they'll try to fuck me over. Guzman's little stunt gives me the chance to cut one down early, show the rest what happens when you cross me."
John nodded, his mind already shifting to logistics. "Understood. When's the hit?"
"Tonight," Jason replied. "Guzman's done. Get back here, but… you got something else on your mind?"
John hesitated, then admitted, "Yeah. I wanna pick up a dog first."
The barking from the listening device had stirred memories of a dog he'd once loved, a loyal companion long gone. The urge to replace that loss hit him hard.
Jason laughed, a rare moment of levity. "A fucking dog? You're killing me, John. Franklin and Billy are off getting their dicks wet at a strip club, and you're out shopping for a puppy? Fine, go get your mutt. Just be ready for tonight."
John smirked, shaking his head. "Thanks, boss."
---
Meanwhile, across New York, the city's top gang lords gathered in a secure video conference, their faces flickering on screens in dimly lit rooms. The air was thick with curses, each boss unloading their fear and hatred for Jason in a torrent of profanity.
"Fucking psycho!" One spat. "He's gonna carve us up like Thanksgiving turkeys!"
"Cowardly bastard," Another growled. "I'd love to put a bullet in his skull, but he's untouchable."
They didn't dare say it to his face, hiding behind the anonymity of their encrypted call, venting their rage like a pack of scared dogs barking from a safe distance. Guzman, the brash newcomer from Mexico, scoffed at their cowardice. "You're all pussies," He sneered, his accent thick. "You think Jason's some kind of god? I showed him what happens when you fuck with the Guzman family."
He leaned into the camera, his eyes gleaming with pride as he described the goon's fate in graphic detail. "We tossed his sorry ass into the dog pit. My beasts tore him apart—legs, arms, guts, the works. It took less than five minutes. Sent a message to that prick Walter."
The call fell silent, the other bosses stunned into speechlessness. Finally, one broke the tension, his voice trembling with disbelief. "You fucking idiot. You fed Jason's messenger to dogs? You're a dead man."
"The kingpin crossed him and got crushed," Another added. "Tony Stark couldn't touch him. You think you can?"
"I'm already planning your funeral," A third said, half-joking, half-serious.
"Book a flight back to Mexico, dumbass," another taunted. "You might make it out alive if you leave now."
Guzman's face reddened, his fists clenching. At over fifty, he wasn't used to being mocked, especially not by these spineless pricks. "You fucking cowards," He roared. "If you're so scared, hand over your turf to me. Save Jason the trouble of taking it."
The bosses bristled, their goodwill evaporating. They'd tried to warn him, and he'd thrown it back in their faces. "Alright, tough guy," One snapped. "When Jason comes knocking tonight, what's your genius plan to stop him?"
Guzman grinned, his confidence unshaken. "I'll call the cops."
.
.
.
.
You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
500 power stones.
Top 50. All time.