The axe fell with the momentum of an enraged swing. At the height of its parabolic rhythm, the beard gleamed against the sun’s fading rays, skewing as the head made its final descent of the day. When its mark was found, the target sliced in clean halves, exhibiting the lengthy experience of its wielder.

Arthur reached down for the split chunks of wood. He bent his knees in a deep squat to avoid the sharp pain sneaking upon his back. Using the medicine ball in the mornings strengthened his core muscles, but he was never one to take chances. He hauled the two chunks and settled them amongst the growing pile. 

“Don't you think that’s enough firewood?” Alice inquired whilst staring at the growing mountain. She was leaning against the doorway in Arthur’s favorite dress. It was a wonderful shade of Egyptian blue and laced with creamy white outlines, vaguely reminiscent of the girl in her own wonderland story. As a kid, that was always his most cherished tale; his first true exploration into his own imagination. It was a matter of fate that his lover would carry the same fantasy-sparking name. Many a comment was shared concerning how well her caramel brown locks matched her muted wardrobe.

“That’s what my grandmother told my father, and that same winter she croaked in the second month,” Arthur replied in a tone describable as either humorous or subtly dead serious.

Alice sighed, a smile infecting her face, “If you so strongly insist honey. I’m finishing dinner, and it’s your favorite grass-eater. Spiffy yourself up too, I don't want any shavings in my dining room.”

“Say no more my sweet,” Arthur shouted as she disappeared into the two-story. He soon followed her in and placed his axe on the wall mount. An impressive collection of firearms and blades boasted itself upon the fireplace wall, just out of sight for any curious window peepers. His family had a history of joining the country’s bloody conflicts at the forefront. The Great War was the first exception; Arthur had been too old to be enlisted, and was too occupied to enlist. 

The steak dinner itself could’ve caused a war. The aroma alone summoned floods of watering into the mouths of those who captured a scent. The small crack in the outside door frame leaked a small whiff, grasping an audience of critters, blocked by Arthur’s previous work on it. The juice that flowed onto the taste buds was an unbeatable blend of Alice’s favorite spices all mashed into a Chef Boiardi masterpiece.

Arthur spent his next hour on the porch rocking chair, reading the news with whatever light was left. After a steak as divine as his wife’s, one can’t just simply get back to work. Alice walked out in her cream coated evening gown, sitting down in the swinging chair just perpendicular to him. 

Crackles arose into the growing night, a light flickering upon the two inhabitants. A model T rolled onto the gravel road up to the house. Years of Arthur’s own driving over the paving broke down the larger chunks that provided his own at-home rollercoaster when they first moved in. The vehicle’s fresh polish shone amidst the growing moonlight. A few loose patches of earth had jumped onto the coating; the vehicle had come a long way since its departure. The wheels contrasted with a muted crimson hue varnishing their spokes. They branded it an official vehicle of the Mosins, an upcoming branch of the mafia. They always cherished their twisted metaphors of blood, naming themselves after a weapon that shed most of The Great War’s.

Arthur jumped to the cabinet on his left out of panic, reaching for his .45 in the hidden compartment at the top. It had been so long since the Mosins had caught him off guard, and he didn’t believe exhaustion a good excuse for it on that night. Two men dismounted and hobbled over, the driver brandishing his own holstered bean-shooter and the passenger carried a long rifle.

“Arthur”

“Gentlemen”

“We’ve come to cash in your favor. Don't forget you owe one last job.”

“I haven’t forgotten my dues. First time your posse has come this far out to hire me.” He put the .45 back into the cabinet.

The driver shifted his gaze towards Alice, “Don't worry ma’am, he’ll come back in one piece. We’ll just be out for the night.”

Alice, the wife better than Arthur thought he ever deserved, nodded her head in understanding. She knew the origin of their house funds and how Arthur could afford some of her gifts. Her single condition held over him prohibited any blood to be shed by his own hands.

“Bring the axe,” the driver shouted as he stepped back into the car.

Arthur leaned in to kiss Alice, her cold lips reflecting her slight disapprovement of the situation, but she knew better than to have him deny a request at his own doorstep. She went for a second, hexing his mind to leave a spot exclusively for her.

“Promise me you won’t use it. This is our big chance and I’m so proud of you for doing it. After it we won’t have to see their faces again. I want us to finally settle down. You won’t have to be so paranoid all the time,” she whispered to him, their foreheads rubbing gently together.

“Alice, I make my solemn promise to you that I won’t hurt a soul on this last job,” he whispered back. He snatched the axe from the mantel and walked to the car without looking back. He saw his wife of 15 years one last time before the vehicle turned the corner.

Western Chicago was vacant on that night, not a soul wanted to end up a witness. The car rolled up to a brick building so plain that it could never hope to catch an eye. When inside, the men escorted him to a large open room. Resting in a leather chair tall enough to reach Arthur’s nose was a plump figure, the cane to his right revealing the crippling condition of his legs.

“There’s my favorite pacifist,” he chuckled.

“I wish I could share your enthusiasm for this meeting Frank, or should I call you Mr. Powder,” Arthur replied amidst a heavy frown.

“You’re lucky we didn’t bag your head on the way here. An empty building comes in handy for a lot of work,” An advantageous smirk resting across his face upon hearing the appointed nickname. It was first linked to the rumors of Frank taking up substances like so many others after the war, quickly transitioning to a meaning of gunpowder when he formed the Mosins. “Now, we all know you’ve wanted out for some time now. Sadly, it doesn’t work that smoothly. Considering I’ve known you for a long while and you’ve shown nothing but your undying loyalty in these years, I can make an exception in this case if we get our desired result.”

They moved to a hallway, where three other doors sat. Frank, keeping his weight on the cane, pointed at the leftmost one.

“In there, is a member of the Carlyle clan. We caught him spying just the other night and nabbed him on the spot. You know our beef with that clan has been happening ever since I started this whole show. This is our chance to finally get dirt on their whereabouts and resources and we need you to be the one to interrogate him. We’ve pooled our own men all for digging into this sap’s past. His name’s John, he has a wife with two kids that live central downtown; everything else you need should be in the file,” Frank intoned whilst one of the henchmen handed him a rather thin folder, “You don't even have to lay a finger on him; the axe is simply an intimidation tactic. Just get the information.”

Arthur sighed, knowing better than to question the orders of his old boss. There were rarely any interrogations done by the Mosins, none of their enemies lasted long enough for capture. He wondered if their plan was to implant an amateur to manipulate the captive into lowering his guard, playing off the perception that a Carlyle's superior intellect can’t be compromised.

Arthur composed himself for a moment, entering the room with a neutral face. Immediately upon eyeing the captive, he nearly broke into shock. The man tied to the chair had bruises covering his face. His left eye had sealed shut amidst a dark blue circle. Not the ugliest scene Arthur had seen in his service, but it contained a brutal reminder of his motive for closing this chapter of his life. His role made all too much sense; he and the axe were the last line of threats to a sap who had the life beaten out of him. 

“John, are you awake?” Arthur asked in a collected voice, a small jitter in his hand as he sat down.

“And here I thought you guys forgot about me,” John replied with swears striking out every few words.

“I see my predecessor didn’t fancy his results with you,” Arthur got out, almost cracking his words.

“You’re actually the fourth guy to take a crack. Guess I’m tougher than you fellas bargained for,” the captive remarked with a heavy smirk, “Nice axe.”

“I’m hoping that we can solve this without-”

A crackle rivaling the electric smite of a thunderbolt boomed as the wall in front of Arthur exploded into fragments. The impact knocked both chairs over, enough force for Arthur to fly out of the chair. The door behind him burst open with multiple goons of the mob, bean-shooters aimed straight forward. Two ran over to the prisoner, a third aiming his rifle high into the building’s new window. Men came rushing into the interrogation room guns ablazing. 

Arthur crawled his way into the hallway, consuming his remaining breaths. Two more henchmen sprinted past him, each holding heavy weapons of warfare. He made it to his feet and ran back into the open room, only realizing the axe was still in his grasp when its head struck the corner. Four armed guards surrounded the leader of the Mosins, aiming their iron sights in Arthur’s direction. Mr. Powder yelled at the men to lower their weapons.

“The Carlyles must’ve followed us here. We’re hopelessly outgunned. Get to the car and get us out of here. Arthur, I want you right next to me. If we survive this night you’ll never have to hear from us again,” the mob boss yelled out as they moved outside.

Arthur was positioned in the front as they hugged the wall. Clearly they had thrown out following his promise. The car was down the street, parked at a distance to throw off any cops. They crept up to the first alleyway, stopping right before jumping across to the next building’s wall. Arthur stepped out into the open only to be met by one of the Carlyle men. Filled with the adrenaline of the moment, Arthur withdrew his hesitation and swung the axe into the forehead of the attacker. The man fell down onto the hard pavement. The mobsters pushed Arthur to keep going amidst his shock. It was when they reached the next wall that Arthur looked back to see the man unscathed save for a forehead bruise. He had hit his assailant with the blunt side of the axe head.

The small posse made it to the getaway vehicle, barely squeezing into the limited seating areas. They sped through the night, making it out of the city entirely. Frank was exhausted from using his legs past their limit. He looked over to Arthur, who was still huffing from escape. Under the exhaustion, he held a subtle smile. He was finally free.