Sam-I-Am

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Samuel O’Malley came into this world on March 9, 1892. Samuel was of Irish descent and had short, strawberry blonde hair and pale skin which was splayed with freckles. His father, a rampant drunk, seemed to always be between jobs and his mother always had to be home to take care of him. Samuel quickly became a good-mannered child at the risk of being beaten by his father. At the slightest slip of his manners, the hand would come, and so would the searing pain. His mother never seemed to learn her lesson and Samuel would fall asleep to the dull thumping and muffled sounds of his father beating his mother. This progressed until one night the screaming stopped abruptly. THUD. The bedroom door slammed and his fathers heavy footsteps came and went past his room, just as they always did. TSS! A bottle of beer opening. TSS! Another. And after that one came another and another. CHINK! The final bottle hit the floor. Samuel could finally get some rest.


Morning came and went and still Samuel slept. Finally, Samuel awoke to the sun high in the sky. Astounded that his parents had let him sleep in, he stretched and popped up. There was an unusual calmness about the house that he wasn’t used to. Unnerved, he crept into the kitchen and peered around the corner into the cramped living room. There, stiff as a board, sat his father. Samuel, as always, walked over to his father to check if he would wake up, or if they would have to carry him to the hospital for alcohol poisoning again. One tap on his shoulder. Two taps. Three. No response. Samuel decided to shake him lightly. Nothing. Samuel checked to see if he was breathing. Nothing. “Mom!” Samuel bolted across the room and dashed down the hall into his parents room. His mother was still lying on the bed. Bruises covered her neck, blood covered her face, and the white sheets around her were stained dark red. His mother and father were gone. He had no one.
****

Blood poured like a waterfall from the gang members throat. Samuel held the broken bottle in his hand and looked around in shock and awe. He had not meant to take things this far! He had planned to just scare the member of the Kings away by beating a little sense into him, but the man insisted on fighting back. The Kings were a ruthless gang that procured their income from alcohol sales. Samuel had grown up on the streets of Chicago, and learned how to defend himself. Samuel disarmed the man and wildly swung the shattered bottle to force the man back. He misjudged the distance and slashed the mans throat. Samuel felt no remorse for killing the man. To him, it was a righteous thing to do. The man had broken the law and committed evil and heinous acts, and had paid for them in full. Samuel dragged the body into a deserted corner of the dirty, rat infested alley. He then laid the illegal substances next to the body, hoping no one would find it too soon. Taking a pen and laughing to himself, Samuel scribbled a note on the mans hand. A little gift from Sam-I-Am. Smiling, he turned around and strolled away, completely content with .



“I’m home honey!” Samuel declared as he strolled into his modest suburban home. As he plopped down on the living room couch after a long days work, the entire O’Malley household ran to greet him. “Daddy! You’re finally home!” His daughter, the younger of the two, grabbed hold of his arms and squeezed like she hadn’t seen him in ages!

“Ohhhhkay kids”, he laughed, “Daddy needs some food after a hard days’ work!” Grinning from ear to ear, he journeyed into the kitchen and kissed his wife on the cheek. “ How was your day, beautiful?” Samuel stared deeply into his wife’s eyes.

“Wonderful as always! The children are such a delight. It is such a tragedy that you have to work such long hours…”

“Sarah, you know that I would love to be here watching their every move and counting every breath! But, work is important if we want to continue living at the standard we are so very accustomed to! I have to work at least 5 days a week, and I am extremely lucky that the Chief lets me take weekends off!”

“I know honey, I know, I just want you here with me more often!” she grabbed his hands as they spoke and put them around her waist.

“Sarah, I thank God every day for putting you in my life. I look forward to our free time together this weekend, and I plan to take you out to dinner with some of the money from my last bonus!” As a prohibition officer, Samuel frequently received bonuses for big busts.

“I look forward to it, dear.”



Before calling it a night, Samuel kneeled, clasped his hands, and thanked God for his wonderful life. With his nightly prayer done, Samuel climbed in bed, flicked off the lights, and curled up next to his wife.



The next day passed as slowly as the day before had, and the day before that, and the day before that. He wasn’t getting enough out of sending people to jail for short periods of time just to be bailed out by their respected bosses. He needed the thrill he had gotten from the kill. He needed to combat the devil to the best of his ability, and just being a prohibition officer was not cutting it. It was time for a change.



Dusk came, and with it, Samuel was released from his duties. It was time. Donning a trench coat black as night, and strapping on a ruthlessly serrated hunting knife, Samuel was ready for war. He stalked his way trough The Kings’ district. The back alleys were his best bet for a fight. It took him an hour, but he finally found his targets. Three men were unloading shipments of alcohol out of a truck at what seemed to be the center of the Kings’ illegal operations. Perfect. A chance to make an actual impact on the Kings. They have been running these streets for too long, and its time for a change. Samuel casually strolled up to the three men.

“Excuse me,” he quavered, “Is there a chance that I could acquire some,” he paused thinking for a proper word, “libations from you?”

“How much ya got eh?”



This unintelligible drunken slur from an already unintelligent and illiterate man was enough to convince Samuel of their guilt. The man on the far tight was the least drunk and looked as if he could be the biggest threat. He was at least a head and shoulders above Samuel, and his arms were toned and muscular. He had a bulge under the left side of his jacket that neither of the other men had. Obviously, one should never bring a knife to a gun fight, so eliminating him was Samuel’s main objective. The man in the middle was short and stocky. He currently held a crate and was staring dumbly at Samuel. This was fortunate because the man would have a slow reaction time. Lastly, the man on the truck holding a crowbar. He was a whelp of a man, even smaller than Samuel, but the crowbar placed him a threat level above the man in the middle. It was a tough situation, but Samuel thought he could do it, especially because he thought God was on his side.



Unsheathing his weapon and lunging forward in one fluid motion, Samuel stabbed the tall man on his right side underneath his ribs. He could feel the long blades serrated edges scrape against bone. After pulling his knife out of the mans innards, he angled the blade upwards, rending the man’s triceps. This made it impossible for the man to draw his weapon. All three men looked surprised as to what had just happened. The man on the truck reacted more quickly then the stocky man. He was next. Time seemed to slow down as Samuel took aim and hurled his knife at the scrawny man. It struck him right in the throat. Blood spurted from his jugular and soaked the remaining man with blood. He trembled and shook, but didn’t move. Retrieving his knife from the King’s still gurgling throat, Samuel showed no mercy. He pried the crowbar from his victims clenched and trembling fingers. Spinning around and swinging with all of his strength, Samuel embedded the hooked part of the crowbar deep into the man’s skull. He fell to the ground and crumpled into a lifeless heap. One second, they all stood grinning dumbly at each other, and the next all three were lying on the ground incapacitated or dead. The large man with the gun was still clinging to life. Kneeling next to the man, Samuel fiddled with his knife. He stared the King in the eyes, gazing down into the depths of his soul. “No rest for the wicked, I suppose,” Samuel giggled. With the point of his knife, Samuel carved another message onto the man’s bare chest. Alcohol is a plague on all mankind and should be eradicated for good. -Sam-I-Am. Investigating his handiwork, Samuel hummed a ditty, cleaned off his knife, and departed for.




A week passed. He heard about an insane serial killer named Sam-I-Am and how he was wreaking havoc on the Kings district. Samuel’s best friend, John Macintosh, was the lead homicide detective and they had partaken in many conversations about Sam-I-Am during the past week. John made it clear that he would catch the monster responsible for all of the deaths, whether or not the kills were “righteous.” This greatly disturbed Samuel and kept him awake at night thinking about his actions. He didn’t go on a mission for another two weeks. On Friday of the second week, Samuel decided that it was time to end it. It was time to obliterate the Kings leadership.



Samuel breathed deeply as he walked into the front doors of the complex. His whole life had come down to this moment. He was doing what he thought God intended him to do, and he was happy to sacrifice himself for such a cause. He knew he was going to die and he had no qualms about it. A few weeks before, he had taken out a fat insurance policy out on his life. This, and his pension, would provide for his family once he was gone. In preparation for his death, he left a note on John Macintosh’s desk. It read: Meet me at the Kings’ compound at 11 sharp. Tonight. -Sam. It was 10:40 now. He had 20 minutes to bring down the Kings. He had his military issue sidearm holstered to his right hip and another holstered to his left. He had a knife strapped inside his right boot and one more in each sleeve of his trench coat. A score of men stood between him and the man he needed to destroy. He needed to make his way through the massive room and work his way up the narrow staircase to the top floor, where the boss and his bodyguards would be. It was time for action. His knives could take out as many men as he needed, but he only had a solid 24 shots before he was out of ammo. He counted at most 40 men staring at him when he entered. It would be a tough fight.

“Eh!. What are you doing in here?! This is private property!”
All activity stopped and all heads turned to him. Samuel’s face contorted into an devilish half smile and his eyes darkened.

“I am here to kill every last one of you.” Cackling, he darted across the room and dove for cover. Only a few of the men had guns, but the ones who did could open fire at any time. He had counted 10 men spread out around the room with guns, some men with nothing, and others with various other weapons.



Samuel pulled out both pistols. He knew he couldn’t waste a shot, but he also knew he needed double the firepower to vanquish his foes. Popping out from cover, Samuel fired 6 shots, all hitting their marks. The first hit a man holding a semiautomatic rifle dead in the chest. The rest had the same effect on men holding similar weapons. Just as he crouched behind a crate of the vile liquid he despised, the spot where he had stood just seconds before was torn apart by bullets. The battle continued like this until Samuel heard the familiar click that indicated his pistols were out of ammo. Out of 24 shots, 23 had hit, and incapacitated or killed their targets. Samuel checked his watch.10 minutes till 11. He had to make this quick. From what he could tell, only one King had ammo left. They still thought he was going to pursue them with guerilla warfare. It was 1 versus 17, and he only had 10 minutes. He had to try something drastic. Pulling his knives from his sleeves, he leapt over the crates and bounded across the room. The first man he saw was cowering behind a crate and hadn’t seen him yet. He dove over the box, leading with his feet. His feet firmly landed against the mans neck, breaking it. His three companions turned and gawked at the scene. He was like a dark spirit. Bursting in and out of sight and taking one or two men with him at a time. A few minutes later. It was down to only four men. Samuel was panting with exhaustion but he had to continue. The four huddled together tightly behind a stack of crates. Releasing a roar of passion, Samuel dashed from the shadows. The Kings heard their attacker before they saw him. Appearing from their right, Samuel had embedded his first knife into the skull of the closest man and had hamstringed the next. The Angel of Death was upon them. Samuel, splattered with gore, gutted the second to last man, and was loosing his last knife when a shot rang out. He had miscounted. Samuel laughed at the muffled scream the last King made as his knife slid between his ribs into his heart. The adrenaline kept him from feeling the pain, but he saw the blood, spilling crimson on the floor. The bullet had struck him on the right side of his chest. He could feel his strength ebbing as his blood pooled beneath him. He retrieved his knives and staggered up the spiral staircase. Each step was pure agony, but he had to keep going. He had to stop them. He reached the top and was met by an unlocked door. This was it. He turned the doorknob and performed a diving roll into the room. He observed a man sitting in a chair and resting his feet on a marvelous oak desk. Then he noticed The King’s two bodyguards with guns pointed at him. He loosed his knives and the shots rang out. Pain seared throughout his body. Rent with holes, he rested on his knees. The soft white carpet stained red as his wounds poured blood freely. The bodies of the two guards fell to the ground.



The King got up and walked over towards Samuel. All seemed helpless as The King placed a shotgun to Samuels head. Samuel slipped his hand into his boot.

“Say goodbye son.”

“No.” With near inhuman speed, Samuel unsheathed the knife and sliced The King’s thigh. Causing him to loose his balance and fall, dropping his shotgun in the tumble. Abandoning his weapons, Samuel straddled The King and started wailing away at his face.

“How do YOU like it Father?!” He screamed and beat away until the man’s face was unrecognizable. Crawling off what was now the mere semblance of a man, Samuel knelt and did his customary nightly prayer, thanking God for the wonderful life he had been able to live and asking him to watch over his family. Samuel continued to pray until the darkness took him. Even then, he smiled. Samuel’s watch read 11:00.



John walked into the Kings complex and retched at the atrocities he saw. There were none left alive. It was a mess of blood, guts, and body parts. Backup was already on the way because of the sounds of gunfire come from the building. He drew his gun and picked his way through the battlefield, making his way up to the office. Slowly he walked up the small staircase to the office, opened the door, and what he saw rent his heart in two. Samuel O’Malley, his best friend, dead on the floor, surrounded by The King himself and his bodyguards. He could hear backup downstairs and he had to quickly concoct a plan that would make his friend seem innocent. Sadness filled John’s heart. Sam had taken matters into his own hands and had done a pretty decent job of destroying one of Chicago’s best known crime syndicates, but it had cost him his life and his sanity. Backup arrived and opened the door behind him. They all gawked at the site, just as he had.
“Sir, what HAPPENED here,” a Lieutenant asked.

“The bravest man I have ever met died here today men. Samuel O’Malley walked in here without backup, and demanded that the Kings halt their operations at once. He immediately met resistance and was attacked. Through some inhuman feat, he defended himself and killed all these men. Something was driving him that no one man, or forty men for that matter, could stop. Samuel O’Malley is a hero and should always be honored and remembered as one,” John declared with a tear rolling down his cheek.

“How exactly do you know all that Sir?”

“One of the Kings told me so when I walked in, Lieutenant.”

“But aren’t they all dead Sir?”

“Yes.” John walked out of the door, intent on informing the O’Malley family of their loss and seeing to it that Samuel received the highest reward and honor possible. Reaching his automobile, he collapsed and did the only sensible thing he could. He wept for the tragic events that had befallen Samuel. But most of all, he wept because he knew that his best friend had been a monster.





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