Greetings, fellow readers and writers of fanfiction!

Welcome to my attempt at writing a story with some humor, and sidling away from the sci-fi/fantasy genres for a change. This story is (very)loosely inspired by a Netflix series called Lilyhammer(Steven Van Zandt is so freaking awesome) and some other crap that crawled into my head while playing V.

Anyway, some things I should warn you about:

1: Pantsing. No, I'm not talking about pulling some unsuspecting person's pants down. This kind of pantsing is when one writes a story without an outline. We're going for a ride, folks, but there isn't a road. There's just a general direction we're going to go. What happens on the way there is going to be a surprise for all of us. Now let's just hope I don't drive us off a cliff. ;)
2: Updates. They shall be unpredictable.
3: I write unnecessarily long Author's Notes. I know you probably couldn't tell...

Disclaimer: The only things I own are a few OCs. The rest belongs to Rockstar, those motherhumping geniuses who have the ability to make us love violent criminals and spend obscene amounts of time gaming instead of going out to enjoy the real world like normal people. Pshaw. Who wants to be normal? Who needs the real world? I'd much rather spend my free time rampaging across San Andreas. Who's with me!? *raises fist skyward*

Lastly, please don't starve the writer; reviews are my sustenance. Feed me, Seymore!

Enjoy.

Prologue

The tall security gate slid open with a noisy, metallic screech, a sound that might grate on most ears, but to Brice Murphy it was the sound of freedom. The sturdy, six-foot-three man inhaled deeply, breathing free air for the first time in fifteen years. It was dry and hot and dusty, and smelled faintly of the gasoline, exhaust fumes, and hot rubber wafting in off the busy freeway a few hundred yards from Bolingbroke Penitentiary. To a nose that had mostly known the reek of urine and sweat and misery for a decade and a half, those scents were like sweet perfume.

"We're not gonna hold this gate open all day," one of the two armed guards nearby spoke with a tone of impatience. "Beat your feet, Murphy, or we're gonna haul your ass back to your cell."

Brice turned to face them, reached down between his legs and grabbed a handful of himself. "You screws can suck my fuckin' dick." Smirking at the guards' frowning faces, he swung back and sauntered through the open gate, his paper sack of possessions swinging from his hand.

The gate shrieked shut as he headed into the visitors parking lot, spotting a familiar face. Rick Murphy leaned against his black Huntley S, smoking a cigarette and watching the orange-clad prisoners have their rec time in the yard. Rick, being one hell of a loyal brother and Brice's only living relative, had visited him often while he was incarcerated, and over the past fifteen years his young sibling had changed, though not in a way that had pleased Brice, a point he often brought up when they saw each other. He had stopped listening to alternative rock and sporting his geeky superhero t-shirts and distressed jeans, taking up rap music and wearing baggy clothes three times too big for him instead. He even talked different. Rick had been well-spoken and mannerly. Now his vocabulary consisted mostly of swears and ghetto slang.

Rick finally took note of him, a grin stretching his mouth. "Awwww, there he go! Big B outta the Big House! Motherfuckers best watch theyself now!" He tossed his cigarette, then grabbed the crotch of his sagging pants to keep them from sliding down around his knees as he went to greet his big brother with a 'bro hug'.

Brice pulled him back, his forty-year-old, bearded face serious. "You did what I asked?"

Rick looked confused for a moment. "Huh?...Oh, yeah, fo shiz, my nig. You know me!"

Do I? I'm not sure anymore, Brice thought.

"Called your boy's contact and took care of bidness. The deal's set up for Saturday."

"Good. That gives us time then. We need to get a van for the merchandise."

"We can use my ride, B," Rick suggested. "Don't sweat it."

Brice shook his head. "Ain't big enough for how much merchandise I intend to buy." He looked over at the Huntley S, the afternoon sun glaring off the chrome, spinner rims. "You never mentioned the Huntley durin' your visits. What happened to that old pickup you used to drive?"

"Can't be seen drivin' around in a fuckin' hoopty. Traded that shit in and got the Pimpmobile!"

"Aside from the rims, it looks like somethin' a white-collar soccer mom would drive."

Rick got an offended look. "Da fuck!? Stop hatin'! This class, B - gangsta class!"

"You ain't a 'gangsta'. You're a thirty-five year old white guy who was born and raised in a tiny, redneck town, for Christ's sake. If you're gonna be a stereotype, at least be the right one. You should be sportin' a mullet, bad teeth, and a meth addiction. You have an identity crisis while I was locked up?"

"Peeps change, B. Now, let's bounce. Got some forties and a bag of green I bought off this hippie back at the crib. Time to celebrate The Headsman's return to the world!"

Brice hadn't been called that in what seemed like ages. It brought up memories of blood and murder, of his victims, enemies who had crossed him in some way or another or threatened his former operation. He'd made a habit of killing them and decapitating them, or killing them by decapitation, sometimes having their heads put on a spike outside his enemies' houses or gift-wrapping them and sending them to their respective gangs, to show what happened to anyone who would oppose or threaten him. Some members of a Mexican drug cartel he had aligned himself with had started calling him El Verdugo -- Spanish for executioner - and it caught on with allies and rivals alike, eventually turning him into The Headsman. That was so long ago, though. The world moved on and so did people. His old alliances were dead, some figuratively and others literally. He had no friends other than the ones he'd made in prison, his old crew had moved on, as had his connections. As his brother had told him in the past, his hard-earned reputation was non-existant, his feared moniker no longer spoken or thought of. That would soon change.

"Woo!" Rick exclaimed as he swerved the Huntley out of the parking lot, zipping onto the freeway. "I'ma invite my boys to the crib and we gonna throw a wild-ass party! Forties and chronic and hos like you ain't ever seen!"

"No," said Brice, annoyed. "No parties. I got shit to do, Rick."

"Yeah, you all about the bidness and shit, and I ain't disrespectin' or nothin', but come on, B, you just got out. Bidness can wait. Time to get buck wild!"

"It can't wait," Brice growled with impatience. "Why do you think I had you gatherin' information and settin' up meetings a month before my release? Preparation, Rick. My territory got taken over by a fuckin' tweaker when I got thrown in the pen. Now I'm gonna take it back."

"A'ight, then. So gimmie the four-one-one on your plan, 'cause you ain't said shit to your motherfuckin' brother about it. Just 'do this' and 'do that'. Need details, B. How it gonna go?"

"First and foremost, we need to set up shop out here, get the lab up and runnin' again."

"Can't do shit without a cook."

"I'm gonna get one. I made some friends inside, Rick. One of them gave me the name of a good cook, makes product with above-average purity. Right now she's across the state border, cookin' for a cartel that pays her shit. In a few days I'm gonna go...'liberate' her."

"Her?"

Brice looked at him. "Is that a problem? You turn sexist too when you went 'gangsta'?"

"Nah, man. A'ight, so I get why you had me set up that deal with that gun supplier."

"She's only partly why. I intend to buy a shit-load of weapons - three hundred grand worth - to get my cook and arm my soldiers."

Rick frowned. "We ain't got no fuckin' soldiers, B. Ones from the old crew, they moved on. Fuckin' turncoats either gone gangsta in Los Santos or they down in Mexico with the cartels. Some tried to set up shop on they own, though they got killed before they could."

Brice smiled. "Like I said, I made friends inside. Some of them are gonna be released soon and they're gonna join up with us. One of them is a biker, a member of the Devil's Sons. His cousin's their leader, and he's assured me a partnership with him and their club. That's more soldiers. Once we have enough men, we're gonna take out that Philips fuck who, by some fuckin' miracle, has control over my county, despite his three-man operation and shit product."

"Ain't the manpower behind the operation that matters, bro, not for this dude. Back in the day, dudes did business with you 'cause they were scared of what you'd do if they didn't or they respected you for the way you did business. It's the same for him. And his enemies were dumbasses who didn't know enough to band together against him. His product ain't really that bad either, just average. The best you can get in the county right now. Keeps the customer base loyal to him."

"I intend to start a fuckin' war, Rick, one this prick will never see coming."

"Look, bro, all I'm sayin' is don't underestimate this dude. He's had control over this county almost as long as you been locked up."

"No, I'm the one who shouldn't be fuckin' underestimated. I'm gonna crush that fuck's business, then I'm gonna take his head off his shoulders. Maybe I'll turn his skull into a lamp or somethin'. What do you think, Rick?"

"Long as you don't fuck it in the mouth like you did to that cartel dude's head. That was fuckin' sick, B. Didn't think you'd go that far."

"In anything I do, little brother, I will go as far as it fuckin' takes."