Early morning. The cold wind cut hard across the outskirts of Chicago.
Under an abandoned overpass sat a beat‑up old Ford with its paint worn down to nothing.
Inside the car, the brothers Connor and Murphy were smoking and watching a dry‑cleaning plant in the distance through binoculars.
They had picked this surveillance spot very carefully. The distance was safe, and the position even safer.
The concrete pillars of the overpass not only hid their car from view, but could also stop bullets if things went bad.
And why the car?
Come on. If they got spotted, were they supposed to run on foot?
"You know, it's still kinda hard to believe," Murphy muttered, peering at the plant through the binoculars. "If it weren't for Boss Rorschach, would you buy this, Connor? That the owner of Loboro Fried Chicken is actually a major drug trafficker—and the kind of psycho who uses kids to move product?"
"Doesn't have to be drugs. Could be something even more depraved. Who the hell knows what kind of sick kinks those 'high society' types are into?"
Connor answered absently, chewing on his cigarette as he stared out the window.
A moment later he suddenly said, "Murphy, where do you think all the shit we take ends up?"
Murphy froze. He lowered the binoculars and, as if he had misheard, asked, "What did you just say?"
"My shit. You know, my crap. Where does it all end up?" Connor repeated.
"Where do you think? It gets flushed down the toilet," Murphy said, exasperated.
"Jesus, man, I mean after it gets flushed. Where does it go then?" Connor sounded genuinely curious, cigarette clenched between his teeth. "Some kind of poop‑processing plant?"
"What poop‑processing plant? Why the hell would anyone build a factory to process shit?!"
Murphy could not take his brother's insane train of thought anymore. "It goes into the sewer or the septic tank, then maybe soaks into the ground as fertilizer, or maybe ends up in the ocean. Who the hell knows?"
"Into the ocean?"
Connor perked right up, eyes lighting up. "So you're saying dolphins and whales are out there swimming around with my shit every day? Damn, that's some motherf*cking poetic romance right there."
"Yeah, sure. You're not wrong. And then your shit gets evaporated by the sun, turns into water vapor, becomes clouds, and finally falls back down as rain—right on the idiot who dropped it."
Murphy burst out laughing at his own remark.
But that line suddenly grabbed Connor's attention. He looked up at the clouds drifting overhead. After a long pause, he said quietly, "Murphy…"
"What now?" Murphy snapped. "If you ask me one more question about shit, you can get out and walk."
Connor pointed at the clouds. "If even our crap can get out of the South Side sewer pit, maybe we can too."
Murphy blinked, then looked into his brother's hopeful eyes. A smile tugged at his lips and he nodded. "Of course we can. We just have to stack more cash. Then we can go to New York, the West Coast, Hawaii—anywhere we want."
"Exactly. All we're missing is money."
Connor slapped his palms together and glared at the plant shrouded in morning mist. "If we take out that bastard Gus, Boss Rorschach will definitely throw a lot of cash our way."
"Rorschach's still just a cop. Even if he did skim some dirty money, it wouldn't be much."
Murphy had a different idea. "If we could find Gus's stash, that'd be better. Dealers deal in cash. If we found it, we'd be set for life. But just the two of us? Not likely. We'll have to see when Rorschach decides to move on him."
"Hahaha, just wait. Got a feeling he's already cooked up a way to screw Gus over," Connor said, full of confidence.
————————
"F*ck, another day completely wasted."
At home, Rorschach stood in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush frozen mid‑air, cursing under his breath.
He had spent the entire day yesterday at the arena and never got a real chance to speak to that Salamanca accountant, Jose. The Mexican had shown his face once and then vanished.
He had spent the whole time listening to Sapp spray trash at him from the cage. Rorschach had already decided—once Gus was taken care of, he was going to put two full mags from an automatic rifle straight through that bastard's hands.
He was still turning over ways to get in with the Salamancas when his phone suddenly rang.
After listening to the urgent report on the other end, Rorschach was surprised but not shaken. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.
Bob Sapp had beaten someone up again.
This time, though, it was not his wife. It was one of the waitresses hired for the fight.
Half an hour later.
Rorschach strolled into the United Center's medical wing and laid eyes on the girl who had been beaten half to death.
"He said he wanted to have a drink with me in his RV that night, so I went. But before we even finished the drinks, he started putting his hands all over me…"
Her head and arm were wrapped in bandages, her face was a mass of bruises, and a splint on her nose made it obvious it was broken.
Sniffling, she went on, "He told me to drop the innocent act and said he'd tip me a thousand dollars. But before I could say no, it's like he just lost patience and started punching my head. I blacked out, and then he used a bottle…"
By that point she was sobbing so hard she could barely speak, her face twisted in regret.
Rorschach watched her coldly, without the slightest trace of sympathy.
Of everything that had just come out of her mouth, the only part he believed was that Sapp had hit her. The rest was bullshit.
Going alone at night to the RV of a fighter who made headlines constantly for his chaotic sex life, and claiming she had "just gone for a drink"?
She was just another gold‑digging little bitch.
He shut off the recorder and said in a businesslike tone, "I've got your statement. Why you went to his RV and what you were after doesn't matter to me. What matters is he committed felony assault. I'll make sure he pays for it."
He exchanged a glance with Ginny, who had arrived earlier, then nodded and left the room, heading out to slap cuffs on Sapp.
The arena was right there. Within minutes they were back at the fight venue.
Yesterday's ring had been replaced by a steel‑mesh octagon. Sapp was in it, working pads with two sparring partners like nothing had happened.
As Rorschach walked, his hand drifted toward the cuffs at the small of his back. This time he planned to go straight in and not give Sapp any chance to resist.
But before he could move, a cluster of local businessmen surrounded him.
"Officer Butcher, I'm sure there's been some kind of misunderstanding here."
"We've already agreed to compensate the girl together. Maybe you could look into the matter again. She might not even want to press charges in the end."
"Whether this bout goes off smoothly is critical. Even the mayor's watching it closely. Officer Butcher, I hope you'll make the right decision."
Voices clamored around him, but the intention was perfectly clear: if he had to take Sapp, it had to be after tomorrow night's fight.
Rorschach ignored them all. His eyes were fixed only on Sapp, who was glaring at him from inside the cage.
Then one sentence made him pause.
Jose stepped close and said in a low voice, "If you delay Sapp's arrest by just one day, the Salamanca family will remember the favor. Believe me, this fight is very important to our family."
His voice was quiet, but carried a tone that brooked no refusal. There was even a faint threat in his gaze as he looked at Rorschach.
Rorschach merely glanced down at him once, then turned away and kept walking toward the octagon.
Jose frowned in confusion. Did this little cop really not understand what the Salamanca family was?
Inside the cage, Sapp watched Rorschach approach, grinding his teeth in fury.
What the hell did this little cop think he was? Some nobody?
He wanted to cuff him and drag him out of here in front of all these rich men and reporters?
"Rorschach!"
He shouted down at him. "You here to arrest me, huh, Rorschach? Just because some greedy little bitch wants to shake me down for cash, you can't wait to drag off a hometown hero who's promoting this city?"
"Come on, I'll be right here in the cage waiting. If you're really a man, use your fists to take me in!"
He pounded his chest and sneered down at Rorschach. "Don't tell me all you can do is hide behind that gun like a pussy. I knew it. Chicago cops are all nutless cowards. That's why this city's a hellhole—it's because of you useless CPD f*cks!"
Sapp had already made up his mind. Even if he got taken in, he was going to beat Rorschach bloody first. He had been choking on this anger for a long time.
As it happened, Rorschach was thinking the same thing.
"You really think you're that tough, huh?"
He stared at Sapp in the cage—easily two meters tall, muscles bulging everywhere like an enraged gorilla.
The next second, he yanked his duty belt off and tossed it into Ginny's arms.
Then he calmly unbuttoned his uniform shirt and shrugged out of it.
Ginny slapped a hand over her mouth as she stared at his bare back in shock.
Not just her. Every reporter and businessman present went wide‑eyed.
Across the thick, explosive muscle on his torso were scattered bullet wounds, knife scars, and burn marks from explosions. One look was enough to feel the raw, brutal violence etched into that body.
Rorschach stepped into the octagon and grabbed the door, slamming the steel gate shut behind him.
He locked eyes with Sapp, a cold smile slowly curving his lips.
"Try me."