Disclaimer: Don't own 'em don't fucking sue me or I'll let you have a nice little chat with Dark Pheonix the Baptist--- _

Morning

I hate hang-overs. You wake up not knowing where you are or what you did or who you fucked for about a minute and then it starts coming back. But it doesn't come to you in big pictures. You get little splinters of memory, fragments of guns and booze and blood. Man---that was a fucking wild party.

Happy 18th birthday Chris.

It was afternoon by the time I finally woke up. I hoped my father wouldn't be mad. Its just him and me, you see, and he worries a lot. Last year for my birthday I had to help dispose of some incriminating evidence and my father promised he'd make it up to me this year. So, dipsite my killer headache, I was excited, if not slightly aprehensive.

I rolled out of bed and hit the floor. The quickness of that movement and the hardness of the wooden ground made my head spin. I stood up slowly and looked around for some clothes. I pulled on a wrinkled gray t-shirt and some dark blue jeans.

Scratching my stomach and blinking my eyes against the harsh sunlight I made my way to the lower level of our London home.

My father had come into some money a few years back and he and I had a nice home. Very nice. Looking at it, one would think that maybe my father was a lawyer or a doctor. But then, one would be thinking wrong. My father is a businessman of sorts. Specializing in the more illegal asspects of that term.

And in case you were wondering, yes, I fully intend to carry on the family business. In fact, I do. Nothing spectactular but I've got connections and I can earn a certain amount of repect. My father was just a simple hit man, but then he got rich and with the money he got power and with the power he ( with help form me and several important connections) started a mass underground crime ring.

We steal cars.

A little cliché yes, but we make a hell of a lot of cash.

But I soon grew tired of importing and exporting and stealing cars (we don't actually steal them, we have enough money to pay people to do that for us) so I tried something new.

I was 12 years old when I learned to play poker, 12 ½ when I learned to count cards and 13 when I got so I was any good at it. By 13 ½ I was unbeatable. Yeah I know I'm bragging, but when you're good you're good right?
That should bring you pretty much up to speed on where I am right now.

I'm sitting at the breakfast table eating cereal, staring at my father and munching quietly.

Understand? Okay good.

So I'm eating my cereal and my dad says

"Happy birthday Chris." And he slids a box across the table.

It was white, small with a red ribbon tied around it. I opened it slowly, and saw inside. a piece of paper?

Not just any piece of paper, but a recept for.a car.

Whoa.

Not just any car, but a MG V8, ( ~A/N I'm not sure if that's the car.this is just a car I like.) gold with a gray interior. It was the first car that my father bought after we came into money.

I smiled so brightly my cheeks hurt and I hugged my dad.

"Don't forget to buckle up." He smiled right back.

I loved my father.

I had only sat back down in my seat for a second when I heard a loud knocking at the door.
I stood up at the same time as my father and we both took the safties off our guns (you can never be too carful) and we made our way to the door.

My dad opened the door cautiously and in the frame stood four men. Four men who looked all to familiar for me and my dad's tastes. Four men commanly know as Eddie, Soap, Bacon and Tom in the organized crime world.

Oy.

"Er.consider this a waving of a white flag. We've got a propostion for you."

And may I repeat?

Oy.

TBC????

A/N I'm not sure if I'll continue this or not. I really gotta update my other story. If you like it, review, and if I get a lot of good ones (even bad ones) I might update. I did this just to see what people would think. Thanks. ~Darky