Down by the docks of Miami’s port. There is rain beating on their backs as if god was taking a piss on them, with having the decency of calling it rain.

Mucky Puddles, with a scent of gasoline that illuminated the water in the potholes, a sound of a pack of rats scurrying around in a lot of forgotten cargo from Thaipan, or some other C***k kind of place.

Its just Frank, that thick eye browed knows it all from south central, New York.

Some could have said he was a hard guy but we all know Frankie was a chicken s**t.

A young rusty red head also accompanied him, with all the characteristics a Ginger could have. His name happened to be Charlie a.k.a the “Kid”.

“ Yo! This place mite be aight, at least 10x betta then back at home. Huh?! Frankie”.

“Well you, already know but keep it down man.”

“Why? We know nobody in a bumf**k radius of here is around. Keep your panties out of a twist, you fanny.”

“ I said shut up! We can get busted anytime, any where out here, the fuzz could catch on in a snap.”

It’s all in God’s hands now; all that is needed to do is to get those twenty keys of coke out of the port and onto the beach. Where selling and pushing is a breeze from there on.

Who are Frank and Charlie? From an observation you could tell from a couple of high school dropouts that dropped under some peer pressure, they are dope heads tying to make a quick buck by dealing to some prostitutes and pimps. They had an idea that maybe Miami would be a better place to start pushing then in the big apple.

Driving slowly to the caution taped bar that lead them to the gateway of they’re striving fortune. There is at least two guards one with a flashlight and one at the button raising the bar and lowering it at his will.

Frank as stiff as a pole at the wheel he could barely draw his attention to the guards and Charlie he looked like as if he was jacked up on something, by the way he was squirming around his seat, clicking the buckle every damn minute.

They got away Scott-free, after a ten-minute interview of clicking belts and silent straight answers. Those guys got away with no much as a boo or search of what’s in the car.

How could guards not ask or search some guys how look as sketchy as sin in a rustic 1993 Road Runner that looks like a dealers car in the first place. But they did it. They got away.

Passing by the Omni, the streetlights cast a new silhouette creating a show of shadows each passing, each block. A new conversation that was carried on before the stop at the patrol exit, except this was more pumped. More exciting like the squeezing of the veins that pulse the adrenaline to your brain and heart.

“Man, Frank that was so f**kin close. You’re the best man!”

“I know, but keep it on the down low you know who coulda gotten blown. Anyways, do yah wanna test the product so we know how much to sell? It’s business baby.”

Charlie had reached over to the back of the car to enter into the back trunk. Frank had pulled over the side of the road on top of the bridge over looking at the cruises and skyscrapers that towered over downtown. Frank hi the already broken glove compartment for a razorblade, while Charlie leaned over the seat with his feet touching the clutch to get a teaspoon amount of coke for him and Frank. He later came back over laid it out on the dashboard. He has breaking it half for Charlie and half for Frankie.

It was all done snorting and grinding they were wired. All thought of logic and reality had no existence to them. Life sped up. Their minds were never going to catch up. Frank’s eyes were blazed; Charlie’s pupils were as deep as the black seas depth. Huge.

“That was insane! Where did you get this s**t?!”

“ They’re Colombian exports, I got they don’t worry about where I got it.”

They were blasted. No contact to anything no control. It was about time to get on going the night is young and they need to party. Frank shifted the clutch from park to gear going 115 mph up and down the bridges on the causeway making a way to a bright pink neon light welcoming the New York party of two to Miami Beach. Speeding up Fifth Street heading to Ocean Drive. It was a dreamland, beautiful women, drinks, clubs, and exotic cars. Even the buildings were impressive with its blue eyebrows and circular windows. Frank saw at least 5 Ferrari’s parked on a block, of another block.

They choose to park in a back ally on Pennsylvania Ave. the closet parking to ocean without paying.

Slamming the front doors Charlie stumbled on the cardboard boxes and Frank crushed cans and bottles that should have been thrown in a dumpster but it seemed to have a sleeping man in there. Walking out of the ally looked to be a living hell. There was water leaking fro buildings into cold streets, a red light flickering creating the red aura around them. Giving a sense of evil.

They headed toward the horizon of neon glaring lights. Stood at the end of what seemed the world was the 400 Club. It was in blue the 400 Clu not the b it has been flickering all damn night.

This place is popping, a Dj blasting his mixes that beated your heart to your throat. A bouncer opened up the red entrance for them after paying him a small fee to make sure “their name was on the list”. It was no deal; they had just strolled into the club. Charlie pointed out to all the girls there that looked like they were sleazy and trashy. Wearing fishnets and shorts showing their cellulite a**. They either danced with a date or trying to get some c**t to but them a drink.

Frank didn’t want any business with low lives, he wanted to aim big, so he head pass a security and bodyguards into the V.I .P section. Charlie was still the crazed hormone boy in high school, chasing skirts. It’s obvious he head to the bar to get a girl in bed or in the bathroom.

Until, Bang! Bam! Three Men, Mafioso barges into the club with machine guns as an accessory. Screaming in deep heavy accents, it sounded like Russian. They were shooting while the people randomly hit the floor flew and duck under tables, jumped over into the bar.

Charlie was shot dead, in cold blood. Frank ran out to the mid-stage dance floor. The three men pointed their guns while a gap between them opened to reveal the boss from a dark entrance. The room was silent there was broken glass shattered on the floor and the stereo was shot in gunfire. Here was the Godfather, the leader Fedor. He was vivid, pissed as hell. He called out to Frank.

“Where is my s**t? You f**king rat! You steal from me? You makin an a** of me?!”

Frank, still in shock muffled an attempt to explain himself, but Fedor had enough of it. He sighed and hushed Frank it gave him a sense of the situation. While Fedor gently raised his fist and began to exit the room. Frank stood at the eye of his demise and a brutal death. The 3 Mafioso closed in the gap and the hear the only sound of the change of the magazine and the sound of Fedor jumping into his black convertible Cadillac. Frank was shot about 23 times and fell into a puddle of blood of his and Charlie’s as the laid together. They men left to the get away car where it vanished from the murder of Frank Castle and Charlie Dublin.