Nicholas: I swear, this is the LONGEST song fic ever written! Anyway. I was a challenge of Becki and I'll tell you right now, It's not happy. It isn't really very happy at all. You are probably going to hate me, Sithy, but you'll get over it. I'm proud of this and I'm dead tired right not being that it's like 3:30 in the morning. Going to sleep now!

Disclaimer: Don't own, fuck you who think I do!

Rating: M...language...dark themes...angst...sex...over-all-depressed-ness

He kneeled down and put a rose on the freshly turned mound of dirt. Eyes dry—he'd shed his tears already as he dug the shallow graves. The middle of a vacant lot just hidden from the street in some backward slum south of New York City. Two great men, two great influences in his life, snuffed out like they weren't there to begin with. How do things like that happen? Hugging his arm around his knee, he stared down at the dark piles that hid away the bodies—the evidence. All they were now was evidence. Evidence of a crime, evidence of countless murders…evidence of the existence of The Saints. Reduced from wonderful, strong human beings to evidence soon to be laid out on a fucking table with tags on their toes.

"Murphy?" The voice behind him almost startled him. He'd forgotten that he wasn't alone here—he never seemed to be alone. He turned to his companion (the last one he had on this planet, it seemed). "It's time to go. You've got to get out of here soon."

He stood and faced one Paul Smecker (formerly AGENT Paul Smecker, but the way things go…) with a forced smile. "Right. Thank ye fer all ya've done fer me…us." He motioned to the graves. "An' I'm sorry about yer—"

"Nah, don't worry about it," Paul stated with that aura of the great man he was still lingering about his person. "The FBI was getting a bit old anyway. If they can't see the need for men like you, I want nothing to do with it." Murphy meant to say something, make some reply, but Smecker stopped him. "I'm letting you go, MacManus. They fired me and all but promised to throw my ass in prison if I don't 'keep a clean record,' so what I should do is turn you in. But I'm not going to, so get the fuck out of here."

Despite all of his promising himself that he was done with crying, Murphy felt though acid-tears burn at the back of his eyes, opening the scars of his woe that had only just begun to heal. He blinked harshly twice. "God was great ta put a man like ye on this planet." Clenched his jaw—to keep it from quivering.

"What are friends for?"

Before he could even finish speaking, a shrill, empty screech vibrated the air between them. Murphy visibly flinched and looked around for red and blue lights he knew went with that alarm. His heart had jumped into his throat for a split second. It was hell on his nerves. "I s'pose that's my cue."

"Right," Paul stated, "but just remember, it's not just the police you need to worry about."

"Yeah…which mafia d'ya think'll get me first?"

"That's not funny."

"Five bucks says the Italians." Murphy took a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth then searched for his lighter.

"Knock it off, fucken Mick." Smecker thumped him on the shoulder sharply. "Look, I know a place that will take you in until you can make arrangements to get out of the city. Go to a club called Jesse's and ask for Dani. If you mention me, they should put you up, no questions asked."

"So where is this club?"

"You'll have to find it. I've never actually been there, but Dani works there."

I wake up in the morning
And I raise my weary head
I've got an old coat for a pillow
And the earth was last night's bed
I don't know where I'm going
Only God knows where I've been
I'm a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind, yeah

Those dreams were the stale remembrance that stayed with Murphy's heartache. He hadn't actually found the club Smecker had mentioned, so he ended up sleeping on the concrete in a cramped corner of an alleyway—that added it's own kind of ache to his side. The "p" in his P-coat now stood for "pillow" and his head now meant, "pounding mass of hangover." He hadn't gotten drunk the night before, but a grief-induced hangover was simply expected after he'd lost his brother and father in that shoot out.

A stench woke him from a fitful sleep. It wasn't an unfamiliar scent, but the intensity of it was startling. It smelled like shit, for lack of a better word. Like that person in a small, overfilled elevator that hasn't showered in three weeks. He opened his eyes and immediately covered his mouth.

Someone was standing near him, oblivious to his hiding place. Murphy could have reached out and grabbed this guy's pant leg, but he didn't. He made himself as small as possible because of what he saw in this man's hands. Guns.

Murphy had no idea what all this was about, but he'd rather not be caught up in it, if you don't mind. So he pushed himself slightly against the wall, trying to become as small as possible. "Fucken-a," he heard above him. Someone wasn't happy about something.

"Where the hell's Antoni?"

Another voice, somewhere that Murphy couldn't see from his limited perspective of halfway behind a Dumpster. "I don't know. He was supposed to be here by now. You think he ran into those guys again?"

"We killed those fucken guys, remember?" Three guesses who they're talking about…Murphy felt his heart beat start to rush itself again. He had to get out of there before he was noticed.

"One got away, didn't he?"

"That's exactly why Toni's out looking for him, dumb ass."

And there was all the more reason for Murphy to run—and run like he never ran before. Trying to be undetectable, Murphy lifted his head from his jacket and looked up the stature in front of him. A giant mass of Italian man was planted to his chunky ankles by the sheer weight of his size. Murphy knew that if this man caught him, it'd be a short trip to the ground.

"Who's that?" The other man said and the voiced seemed to be, unfortunately, pointed in Murphy's general direction.

The big, freakin' huge guy suddenly turned, looked around for a moment before looking to his feet and seeing what seemed to be a homeless person there. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, nudging Murphy's side sharply with his foot.

"Just lookin' fer a place ta sleep," Murphy muttered innocently, trying and failing to mask his accent. Just in case, he subtly put his hand into the pocket of his P-coat and held his handgun tightly.

"Yeah, well get the fuck out of here," the Italian spat harshly. He aimed the pistol in his hand at Murphy's head.

"I'm out," Murphy promised, getting up awkwardly. He let his hand relax on his gun and struggled to hurry out of the alleyway. A foot caught him in the rear and helped him along, but he didn't turn back. He didn't need this right now.

When you're brought into this world
They say you're born in sin
Well at least they gave me something
I didn't have to steal or have to win
Well, they tell me that I'm wanted
Yeah, I'm a wanted man
I'm a colt through your stable
I'm what Cain was to Abel
Mister catch me if you can

Layers upon layers of cigar and cigarette smoke waxed the wood ceiling. The sign outside that read "Jesse's" in large, painted, red letters looked like it needed to be replaced centuries ago and the inside didn't seem any better. People sat listening to classic rock and things that should never be played more than twice. The particular song that caught Murphy's attention with irony was Jon Bon Jovi's "Blaze of Glory." As the Irishman sat at the old bar with a glass of whiskey—the last bit of cash he had—pressed against his forehead, the song brought about some memories:

It was so short that it could have been that deadly. Still, when Murphy returned to the scene that both his father and brother had desperately shooed him away from. Everything was so suddenly silent that his ears were ringing.

Il Duce, that man who Murphy had just a day before gotten in the habit of calling Da, lay lifeless in a puddle of his own blood. Horrible. Things like this just shouldn't happen…a bullet in his head. Murphy stared and gripped his own hair so tight that he might rip it out. As weird as it may sound, the consolation Murphy had was that he'd seen Il Duce go down in a rain of gunfire like a hero in an action movie.

He couldn't look for long. This situation was slowly ripping at his substance. Letting his eyes now wander over the remnants of the chaos and mayhem, he searched for any movement, any survivors. There were about a dozen dead Mafia men, Il Duce, and Connor…Shit! Connor!

The slight flinch of one black figure distinguished him. Murphy ran as fast as he could, his blood pumping adrenaline to get him over those few yards as fast as possible. "Hey!" he called to the last living person beside himself.

Connor turned onto his back immediately and aimed his gun acutely. That was until he saw that it was his brother coming towards him. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, ya scared the shite outta me, ya bastard." He put his gun down as though it was too heavy to hold and embraced his twin as soon as they were close enough to each other.

"O thank God!" Murphy exclaimed quietly. He held tightly to Connor, kneeling awkwardly, but he didn't mind the discomfort in his knees at all. "I thought ya were dead."
In that moment, Connor cried out quietly and pushed Murphy away from him. He lay back on the pavement and clenched his eyes shut. "Ya might not be too far off in that assumption," he muttered, pained.

Murphy's eyes widened and he pulled Connor's coat to the side to expose the blood-soaked fabric with the black handle of a knife sticking out sideways. Oh shit! Oh shit! He barely touched the hilt before Connor grabbed his arm to stop him. It just hurt too much. "O fuck…I'm so sorry!"

"Th'fuck're ya sorry fer?" There was blood in Connor's hair and on his hands. There was blood staining the asphalt. The blond brother smiled past his twisted, hurt expression. "…Da…? How's he?"

After a beat, Murphy bowed his head dismally, a fiery burn corroding the delicate tissue of his tear ducts. "Bullet ta the head."

It was all that Connor could do to just nod. He didn't know what he would say to something like that. In all honesty, there wasn't much room in the vat of his emotion to register what Murphy had said. He had too much pain stuck in him—in the form of a semi-dull blade still lodged between two ribs. "Murphy…" he began, but he couldn't really find his breath for a moment.

"What?" Over-excitable, little Murphy. He eagerly held his brother's hand, needing to be told what to do. He didn't know what to do. It was all so stupid and confusing. "What is it?"

Connor's face twisted awkwardly as his muscle once more contracted around that fucking piece of metal. "Get the knife out," he stated, so desperate that he was almost begging.

"But…s'at an angle. If it pierced a lung an' I pull it out you'll die."

"I fuckin' know!" Connor had tried gripping the handle, but it was slick with blood and each time he touched it, his body wouldn't let him pull. Each time he touched it, it sent him reeling through the same feeling of excruciation as when that fucking Italian had stabbed him in the first place. "Just do it…do it now, or shoot me in the head."

Like acid in the ears. Murphy didn't want to hear that, but he had heard it anyway. It made all of this so real suddenly…This was it? Connor was… "Okay, I'll do it." Murphy pinned his brother to the ground tightly and held him there as he once more held the end of the string that held the entire knot that was Connor. One pull and that was the end. One pull and…Murphy didn't want to think about it. Connor groaned in pain and then Murphy yanked sharply.

"Fuckin' cocksucker!" Connor exclaimed randomly. He'd lurched violently at the withdrawal, but now it was done and things were slightly better. "Thank ye…"

"I'm so sorry, Conn," Murphy blubbered quietly, his eyes finally leaking the signs of his despair. "Why'd I run off like that?"

"'Cause if ya hadn't, there'd be a bullet in yer head as well…" For a moment, Connor smirked wryly. Then it passed and another surge of pain made his body involuntarily jolt. "Fuck!…it en't yer fault anyway, so stop fuckin' apologizin'. I told ya ta get the fuck outta here."

"But what the fuck do I do now?"

"Th'fuck d'ya mean? Yer a fuckin' Saint, Jesus Christ! Ya go an' ya do what we've always done." All this shouting—well, the closest thing to shouting that a man with a ruptured lung could manage—made Connor feel light-headed. His eyes rolled slightly.

"Conn?" At first Murphy didn't get a response. He freaked out slightly and gripped his brother's shoulders. "Connor!"

"Fuck! Don't scream in me face!"

Murphy sighed, letting out the steam that his over-worked heart was boiling. Connor was barely conscious now, but his eyes were open as wide as he could keep them. "What about right now," Murphy began, "what should I do now?"

"Just…lay down next ta me. There's stars out tanight."

With tears rolling down his face, Murphy nodded and acquiesced. He lay on his back next to Connor and stared straight up at the night sky. There were a few stars out, which was nice to see for once. He felt like a fool for being a grown man and crying like he was. He didn't expect Connor to make a retort, and so he didn't. They just lay together, side by side, amidst the carnage of a shoot out just fifteen minutes ago. "Murph?"

At first Murphy wasn't sure he'd heard anything. Connor was so quiet then. "Aye?"

"Do me a favor, will ya?"

"Anythin'…"

"Make sure we're not a lost cause."

I'm going down (down) in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I'm going out (out) in a blaze of glory
And Lord, I never drew first but I drew first blood

I'm no one's son, call me young gun

"You looking for someone?" The barkeep broke Murphy out of his thoughts. "You keep staring off as though you got something to stare at."

Something about that made Murphy smile and nod. "Actually, I'm lookin' fer someone named Danny."

"Dani, eh?" The Irishman nodded. "That's an interesting venture, Mick. But I'll get'er if you want me to." When Murphy did nothing but give a strange look, the bartender straightened up and called across the club. "Hey Dani! Some guy here wants to talk to you!"

Murphy turned abruptly to see who he was shouting at. To his surprise—and yes, he was surprised at this—a tall, long-legged woman came forward from amongst the smoke, tables and customers. She was dark-skinned, but had dirty blond hair. As she approached the bar, her thigh-length skirt and short, red blouse warped with every movement she made. "What you say, Scott?" she asked, looking completely past the astounded Irishman that was staring at her so intently.

"This guy:" he motioned to Murphy and actually reached over to shut his mouth—which had been hanging open (how embarrassing). "He says he has some business with you."

"Business, eh?" Dani smiled quaintly as she took in the bedraggled state of her summoner. "Well, Mister. What it is you need with me?"

It took a bit for Murphy to get past her strange accent—it seemed a mixture of something Colombian or Cuban with something Asian. Then it took a bit more to get past her being a woman—he really hadn't expected that. "Um…A friend o' mine said ta ask fer ye. His name's Paul."

"Smecker?" Her eyes lit up slightly. "Oh, well isn't this some surprise. So, I'm assuming you are in need of place to stay the night or maybe the week?"

"Aye…he said that it wouldn't be a problem."

Dani laughed gently and turned to Scott, the bartender. "I'll be taking the rest of the night off. Make it up tomorrow, don't worry." Scott gave her a skeptical look, but then nodded. "Now you…Follow me."

She immediately took him out of the club and once more onto the cold, night street that he'd earlier retreated from. He wondered how she wasn't affected with her legs so bare, but then he added that up to "experience, probably." They walked down the sidewalk a ways, both silent as the grave, and then she turned down a lane between buildings. She stopped before a shaky, metal staircase and motioned for him to go first.

"The stairs will only take one person at a time, so you go up. I wait down here to catch you when you fall backwards." Murphy raised an eyebrow, but eventually stepped forward to climb the rickety steps.

They were as bad as they looked. He had to cling to the rail just to stay on the small footholds. At one point, he did fall backward and, as promised, she kept him from falling on his ass. The second try was the charmer. He made it to the top quite triumphantly and then waited for her to come up. "This way," she said, not stopping as she went through a door and down a corridor, expecting him to follow.

It was topsy-turvy the way the place was set up. Murphy saw three doors in a row that looked like they were straight out of that movie, A Clockwork Orange. Then, once they'd finally arrived at a normal—seeming portal, Dani abruptly stopped and started to search for her key.

"Aha!" she snickered unexpectedly before unlocking the door. "Now, please don't look at the mess that is where I live. If you are lucky, you won't have to see much of it. I have to keep you in the back room in case any gangsters come by…yes they do come by. They own this building and rent it off to people like me. I get the feeling that you are on the run, so the back room would be to your advantage."

As she was saying all of this, she was leading him quickly through the darkness of her apartment. She flicked on a light in a small room and cross over a carpet of dirty laundry. "Come," she ordered sharply.

Murphy followed her in, even though it made him feel awkward to enter a lady's bedroom. She stopped him at her chest of drawers and opened the top drawer halfway. Reaching in, she pulled a lever and there was a quick snap from somewhere in the wall before the front of the wardrobe began to come forward. It swung on hinges like a door and the room behind it was as small as the opening.

"In there?" he asked carefully.

"That is where you will sleep. If I tell you to go in during the day, you must do as I say. It would be for your own benefit."

You ask about my conscience
And I offer you my soul
You ask if I'll grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if I'll grow old
You ask me if I've known love
And what it's like to sing songs in the rain
Well I've seen love come, I've seen love go
I've seen it die in vain

There was a regular system in the apartment complex that Murphy quickly became accustomed to. He worked some odd jobs for a few of the tenants over the week and a half that he called the place home so that he could raise some cash. Did laundry for Dani—because she definitely needed help with that. Fixed a bike for the kid down stairs. He even searched high and low all up and down the street for a little girl who'd lost a piece of a Nesting Doll that she cherished like a part of her living heart. The girl's mother gave him five bucks for his troubles.

Dani kept him fed, washed, and rested. Only three times had he had to hide in that small room hidden by the wardrobe, and he hadn't been caught yet because of Dani's cleverness. He really appreciated her for it, and everything she'd done for him, and he meant to tell her that.

"Hey Dani, d'ya got a minute?"

She looked up from her current task of sorting through some old photos in a box she'd found. She was sitting on her bed with the little, floral-patterned box on her lap. "Yes, come sit." She patted the comforter next to her.

Murphy still wasn't comfortable with going into a lady's room—even though he had to do so to get to his sleeping area every night. He entered cautiously and sat down next to her. She had gone back to taking out pictures, looking at them through her small, cheap glasses, and then putting them back. "I just wanted ta thank ye fer everthin'. I mean, ya don' even know my name d'ya?"

Then she looked at him and shrugged. "I think you have some right in that…I never thought to ask. Anyway, if you're friend of Paul's you are friend of mine."

He smiled and nodded distantly. "Well…Is there anything I can do ta repay ya?"

"Now, do not start acting that you do nothing here. You're presence has done wonders to liven this place up. I have never seen little Shelly smile so much, even though you never did find that piece of her toy."

"I mean, for ye…I know I've taken a bit outta yer time since I've been here. I made ya lie ta those peons the other day while I hid in a fuckin' closet."

"Language, Mister."

"Right…I'm still workin' on that. Sorry."

"You apologize too much." She took out another picture and examined the happy faces that Murphy didn't recognize. Something in that photo seemed to make her gleeful, and he liked to see that in such a kind person as her. "Meu caro…There is only one thing on this planet that I would consider a gift. I can't ask for it."

"What?"

For a moment, Dani considered him, the picture hanging limply from her fingers almost like a forgotten cigarette. Then it suddenly was held tightly and nudged towards Murphy. "This is my son," she stated, pointing to the child playing in a water sprinkler. "He was five years old at this time."

Murphy took the picture and looked at the little, dark-skinned boy. He had a grin on his face beneath a mop of wet hair and he stood naked, arms outstretched as if to grab something. "Where is he now?"

"My ex-husband lost custody rights, got angry and kidnapped him. Both died in a plane crash on the way to Guatemala." She took the picture back with a slightly hesitant hand. "The only gift that God could give me is my son back, and that I cannot ask of you."

"I…I'm sorry, Dani."

"Why you apologize for something that is out of your control?" She put the photo anyway and closed the box. "Even you cannot change the past."

"What d'ya mean, 'even me'?"

With a smile, Dani looked him straight in the eyes. "The saint I harbor may be holy crusader, but he is no God. Yes, I know who you are, that is why I never asked." When his jaw dropped, she chuckled lightly and pushed his mouth closed. "Still…what is your name? That I do not know."

It took him a bit to get past this revelation, and a bit more to muster up an answer (i.e. remember his name). "Murphy," he stumbled over the syllables clumsily. "Murphy MacManus."

"So then, Murphy MacManus…I believe it is time for bed."

Murphy stared at her, suddenly very grave and very dismal. "I have a strange feeling," he explained when she questioned his behavior. "I'm going to die tomorrow."

Shot down (down) in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
'Cause I'm going down (down) in a blaze of glory
Lord, I never drew first but I drew first blood
I'm the devil's son, call me young gun, yeah

Animalistic is hardly the word for this ritual that took place on the last night of Murphy MacManus' life. It was neither primitive nor obscene in any way just because it wasn't out of love. The event was born of feelings that were mirrored in each other and had to be dealt with. And this was how two adults deal with such feelings.

Murphy pressed Dani into her mattress gently and kissed her even though it meant nothing. The thing was, it didn't have to mean anything. It wasn't that kind of one-night stand. This was finality at work and—on a more obscure train of thought—this was Murphy's last chance to get laid.

She undressed herself beneath him and wrapped her arms around his waist, completely ignoring the presence of his shirt. Her back was bent slightly and her head lay carelessly on her pillow as Murphy set a trail of kisses down her firm abdomen.

As he gripped her hips and lapped at her skin, he drew her from her usual self and made her rationality seem just a bit superfluous. Her chest rose and fell with every sharp inhale she stole and the lower he went the more often a quiet whine escaped her tight voice box. His tongue was suddenly there, circling along her inner thigh, and she couldn't remember when she'd let go of his waist.

He kissed and licked in a sloppy line until he felt that rough hair beneath his lips. Her quiet gasps and encouraging groans were what coaxed his tongue once more past his teeth. It wasn't her exactly, just the idea of her. Just the idea of what he was doing made him lick to please.

Neither of them spoke in their entire time in intimacy. It didn't feel necessary to say a word to each other; they both knew exactly what they were doing and what they were doing to each other.

When Murphy had returned to her eye-level and undid his jeans, he wasn't thinking about her—or rather about screwing her—he was thinking about why he was doing it. He was thinking about the last thing that Connor had said to him and it rang in his ears more so than the cry she gave when he entered her had. He felt her legs wrap around his back, taking him in further while she writhed beneath him.

Dani didn't take this seriously. She knew what the morning would be like, and she knew that taking it seriously would just mean that she'd be heart broken. So when she locked her arms around his neck and took his mouth on hers, she didn't mean it. This was just something she was doing that she didn't have to think about, like making coffee or even breathing.

They did this to escape, most of all. Dani did it so that Murphy wouldn't have to be plagued by his premonition on his own demise and Murphy did it because he thought that Dani deserved something that was a bit different from whom he now knew as "her asshole ex-husband."

Each night I go to bed
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
No I ain't looking for forgiveness
But before I'm six foot deep
Lord, I gotta ask a favor
And I hope you'll understand
'Cause I've lived life to the fullest
Let this boy die like a man
Staring down a bullet
Let me make my final stand

Murphy sat up in bed, the gray light of this winter morning pouring onto his bare back from the part of the window not covered by the curtain. He held his head for a moment, just until he could at least ignore how tired he was from last night's activities. Stiffly, he turned around and watched Dani as she slept. She was only half-covered by her comforter, even though it felt like it was about thirty-two degrees in that apartment. With a hint of a smile, Murphy reached over and pulled the blanket all the way up to her shoulders.

Quietly, Dani stirred and turned onto her back with a sigh. Her eyes only opened for a moment, but then she simply gripped the blanket and snuggled into her warm bed.

He pulled on his jeans and his shirt that he'd worn the day before—and the day before that, and the day before that….etc.—and crept silently to the chest of drawers. Once inside that little room, he collected his gun and his P-coat and then retreated.

"You are leaving like that, then?" Dani was awake now. She held the blanket against her nude self as she sat up in bed. "Should I go back to sleep and pretend not to mind you not saying good bye?"

For a moment, Murphy felt the notch in his stomach that he called guilt twist dangerously. Then he sighed and shrugged. "Would ya rather I woke ya?"

"No, I like that you are a silly gentleman and think all women aren't morning people."
"I just didn't want ya ta offer me breakfast 'cause ya know how much I love yer cookin'. I'd never actually get around ta leavin'." He pulled on his coat and pocketed his gun.

With a smile, Dani nodded that she understood. "Alright then, I never woke up." She turned back onto her side, her back towards him, and pretended to be asleep.

Murphy couldn't make himself just walk out of the room after that. He looked at her and for some reason remembered his brother when he was still alive. It almost brought him to tears, but he'd be damned if he cried in front of a woman, especially Dani. He went up to her, crawled slightly over the bed and kissed her naked shoulder gently. "G'bye. Thank ye fer everythin'."

"Adeus," was all she said in reply.

And he left just like that. He walked slowly down that corridor and looked from door to door, thinking about the people that live there. Out of nowhere, his foot hit something that clattered loudly across the metal floor. In the dark, he searched it out quickly and held it up to his face. It was a wooden bowl-like thing like…a piece of a Nesting Doll. He smiled sadly and put it in his pocket.

When he was outside and easily took the steps without falling, he found himself just where he'd thought he'd be. Face to guns with black-clad figures. He stood still and gazed out at all of the men that seemed to want his head. "G'mornin'," he said ironically.

"Where's your gun?" The man in the front looked vaguely familiar, but then, they all looked the same, so what was the purpose of familiarity?

Murphy begrudgingly took out his gun and obediently set it on the ground when he was told to.

Shot down (down) in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I'm going out (out) in a blaze of glory
Lord, I never drew first but I drew first blood,

I'm no one's son, call me young gun

I'm a young gun, yeah

Young gun, yeah…, Young gun

A large, Italian man by the name of Hojo grabbed Murphy by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to his knees, a gun on the Irishman's head at all times. The scenario seemed a bit familiar. About a dozen guys in black suits, each with a gun. The only difference was: instead of three saints fighting for their God and lives, there was one, on his knees, with his hands raised defensively.

"Any last words, prick?"

"Mind if I ask why ten men came all the way out inta this back alley slum ta see one guy blow me fuckin' brains inta the ground?" Cool as a fucking cucumber. Murphy looked straight up that barrel and questioned this wise guy.

It seems Murphy's words had a bit of an effect on the other men. Hojo then found himself in the midst of a subtle debate. "Yeah, why can't I kill the mother fucker?" and "You always get the best shit, Hojo," were just a few complaints. "If I may, ya over did it just a bit when ya brought yer entire, fuckin' family," Murphy stated.

Hojo gave the Irishman a deadly glare and then punched the man on his knees to the ground. Murphy spat out a tad bit of blood and then straightened himself up again. Then, Murphy pushed himself to his feet and grabbed Hojo's gun, trying to wrench it away. The subway train that was his spontaneous attack stopped in its tracks when a single gunshot fired. Murphy met the ground again, a bullet in his shoulder.

No cry of pain, no exclaimed curse. Murphy silently clutched at his wounded arm, trying to apply enough pressure to the spot to at least make it stop hurting. Then a foot came out of nowhere and pushed him flat on his back again. The heel of a boot ground into his injury, but Murphy bit his tongue. He would not make a sound.

What made Murphy open his eyes then? There was a click of a gun cocking and he thought it might have been that gun that had already harmed him. It wasn't, however; he turned his head and saw Dani, dressed in nothing but her bathrobe, with a six-shooter occupying both of her hands. Not only that, but others stood behind her as well. To his dismay, little Shelly was standing, half-hidden by her daddy, watching with wide-eyes what was happening.

"Get off of him," Dani demanded. She looked very intimidating, even for her state of dress. No one in their right mind messed with Dani, and apparently Hojo knew this. He hesitantly stepped off of the saint, but aimed his gun at Murphy's head.

"What is all of this?" Hojo asked, staring at what seemed to be all of the occupants of the apartment complex filing out around them.

"These're God's children," Murphy muttered, "ya mother fucker!" Another gunshot: the Irishman felt a flaming fist tear through his stomach.

"Stop it now!" Dani was getting royally pissed off. She waited just a beat before she fired her gun and a man to Hojo's immediate left fell with a bullet in his head. "Get the fuck out of here!" There is rarely a time when one gets to hear Dani curse.

Hojo looked at the dead man near him and flinched slightly. Then he gawked at the crazed, scantily dressed Portuguese Woman before him. "Fine," he said at length, "we're gone."

Nine men got into three cars and drove off in a screeching hurry. The silence froze like a block of ice that took up the entire volume of the alleyway. No one dared move until the Mafia cars had officially disappeared down the street. Then, Murphy let out a pained groan and his body contracted in on itself.

Dani finally lowered her gun and swept up to Murphy's side. "Meu caro," she began gently, "how does it hurt?"

"Well…I've got two bullets stuck in me an' my nose is throbbin'…that's how it hurts." His sarcasm was taken lightly, but only for a moment. Blood was still spilling from the wounds in his gut and shoulder. He could hear Shelly asking her mommy what was happening.

"I don't think…Mister, you are pretty screwed up right now. But you expected as much, right?" She put a hand on his check and gently stroked his clammy skin. "Now would be a good time to tell you then…"

He barely heard her over the ringing in his ears and the roaring growl of the painful flames that were eating him alive. "Tell me…" he winced and held his hands over his belly. "Tell me what?"

"I have a strange feeling…" Dani took one of his bloody hands in hers and smiled sadly. "A strange feeling indeed. I can't possibly know this for sure, but…if I'm right you're to be a very absent father."

Murphy's breathing got harsher suddenly and he gripped her hand too tightly. "You can't…it was last night!"

"Just a feeling."

He clenched his eyes shut and it seemed the pained magnified for a moment. With a sharp gasp, he remembered something that probably didn't seem too important. He stuck his hand in his pocket and took out that Nesting Doll piece. "Give this ta Shelly, okay?"

Dani took it and was amazed at what it was. "You are not saint," she muttered, "You are miracle worker."

"Whatever I am…" Murphy muttered a pained 'fuck' under his breath. "If I'm an absent father…I'm so sorry."

"It's just a feeling, Mister. Let it go."

Murphy did let go. In a moment or two later, he let go of her hand and his eyes went calm and colorless. His last breath was throaty and dry, but it was a sound that Dani would never forget. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then stood and sighed.

When she turned to her neighbors and friends, she smiled. "We've lost our saint," she stated and everyone seemed to bow their heads as one.