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Born Under A Bad Sign	By : LilLolaBlue Category: DC Verse Comics > Watchmen Views: 1341 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Watchmen, and I make no profit from writing this story.

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BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN

Chapter One: Mad Dog, Bad Blood

New York City, 1937

I: Eddie

Eddie Blake was glad to have a job, a real job that was on the level.

He took the subway every morning and went the building site where his company worked in a new pair of coveralls and workboots with newspaper stuffed into the toes and a shiny new lunchpail. Crazy Jack had bought into a construction company, and he grandfathered 14 year old Eddie into a job he wasn’t supposed to be able to hold down until he was 16, and supplied him with the new work-clothes and boots and even the hardhat he wore that was too big for him.

Eddie was growing like a weed, he was sure he’d grow into it. He worked 12 hours a day and it was hard work, too hard and too long hours, some said, for a young man only 16, who was really 14. But he was a strong lad, big for his age, and old beyond his years.

He didn’t mind working, it didn’t bother him.

The important thing was that the Old Man was gone, he was gone forever.

In a couple of weeks they were going to throw the switch on the wicked old bastard and he was going to smoke and toast in that chair the way he was going to smoke and toast in Hell, forever.

He was gone, and what was left of the family was safe, safe from him, and the very idea of that cocksucker breathing his last in agony put a smile on the face of his oldest son, the person who had been his victim and his adversary the longest.

A smile that died on Eddie’s lips as he scaled the third of three flights of stairs to their East New York apartment.

Familiar sounds came from behind the door.

Things breaking, the little kids crying, his mother screaming in pain and terror and the Old Man, the Old Man like a demon out of Hell, swearing and shouting in his wrath.

“…I said youse better gimme some fuckin’ money, ya lazy cunt! I gotta get outa the city!”

“Fuck you, Mickey! You take that gun and shove it up your ass! You might as well kill me because I ain’t got no fuckin’ money and if I didn’t I wouldn’t give it to ya, ya fuckin’ shanty bastard!”

Eddie ran up the last few steps, and burst in through the door.

His father was beating his mother with the butt of a .38, beating her to the ground as she cursed him and the little kids cowered behind Aggie in her waitress uniform and Edie, who was still dressed in the clothes she wore to work the street.

Edie lifted up her skirt, and reached into the top of her garter belt to pull out a switchblade.

She saw Eddie and they exchanged looks.

Mickey Blake didn’t see his oldest living son until it was too late, and Eddie swung his lunch-bucket as hard as he could and clipped Mickey in the face with it.

The lunch-bucket was only slightly dented; Mickey definitely got the worst of it.

He went down to the floor in a shower of blood and teeth, and the gun skittered across the kitchen.

Mickey Blake was out cold.

“I’ll call the cops.” Maggie Blake was mumbling.

She got the gun, and Mickey’s wallet, and put them in the pockets of her apron.

“Fuck the cops! This ends here!” Edie Blake insisted.

“Get the little kids and Aggie out of here, Ma. You don’t want them to see this.” Eddie agreed.

“Edward! Edith! That’s your father! You can’t!” Maggie protested.

Eddie balled his hands into fists and Edie moved next to her brother, and flicked the blade open.

“My ass! The law had their chance!” Edie snarled

“You better go, Ma. You’d better get the little kids and Aggie out of here.” Eddie reiterated.

Margaret Blake picked up her youngest daughter from her high chair, and herded her four other younger children and her second oldest daughter, Agnes, down the stairs and out of the apartment.

She was promising them something, anything, through her swollen lips as tears ran down her puffy, bleeding face.

Aggie shut the door behind them.

Meanwhile, Mickey Blake slowly regained consciousness, moaning and drawing himself to a sitting position.

He found himself alone in the kitchen with Eddie and Edie, both of them black-haired and black-hearted as he was, advancing on him.

That slut Maggie didn’t have the balls for it, and Aggie wasn’t the type and the little kids were too little, but Eddie and Edie, they were a couple chips off the old block.

Stone cold, right down to the bone.

Mickey tried to smile.

“So, this is how it ends up? Well, better my own kids than the fuckin’ chair. I raised you right, I done, you grew up to be a coupla chips off the old block. Fight fair, willya? Give you old man a chance ta get up, huh, Eddie?”

The way he spoke reminded Eddie for a minute of when he was a little kid, and he used to sit on the steps outside and wait on his father to come home.

His Old Man, the biggest, strongest, greatest man in the whole wide world.

He could pick you up in one hand and lift you up so high that you could almost reach up and grab the sun right out of the sky.

It made Eddie wonder how the fuck they had gone from that to this.

“Sure, Pop.” He said.

Mickey Blake, the most feared enforcer in East New York, drunk, contract-killer, wife-beater, child-abuser, rapist, murderer, cop-killer, felt in his pockets for one last cigarette.

“Shit. Fucked again.” He mumbled.

“Here, Pop. Have one of mine.” Edie said.

Eddie lit it for him.

Mickey knew what kind of man he was and what he had done to his children; he wasn’t about to ask them for mercy, and he sure as shit wasn’t going to show them any.

A moment passed between Mickey Blake and his oldest living children, a moment in which birthday parties and ice cream cones and shiny new nickels and trips to Coney Island mixed in with beatings with booted feet, closed fists, coat-hangers, his belt, anything he could get his hands on, mixed with burning with lit cigarettes and a hot iron and brutal, merciless, drunken rapes in a murky pool that mingled screams of joy with screams of terror, all winding down to this, the end of all things.

Mick the Merciless finished his cigarette and drew himself to his feet to face the daughter and the son he had beaten and raped and tortured and abused all their lives.

“I’m not goin, easy.” He warned.

“We wouldn’t expect you to.” Edie replied.

“But you’re fuckin’ goin, Pop. Either you or us, this is fuckin’ it!” Edie snarled.

“Fine with me. I’ll see the both of you in Hell.”

Mickey Blake, Eddie Blake and Edie Blake all lunged forward at the same time.

A chorus of yells filtered out the window and were swallowed by the noisy summer street as Maggie Blake used the money in the wallet she had lifted from her prone husband’s body to buy her younger children some ice cream from the truck on the corner.

“Ma?” Aggie asked.

“Don’t say nothin’, Aggie. What kinda ice cream you want?”

***

According to the report filed by East New York cops, cops who respected the memory of Maggie Blake’s father, Sgt. Edward Morgan, cops who had arrested Mickey Blake for countless crimes against his family and the rest of the neighbourhood, the hated and feared “Mick the Merciless” died in his apartment while resisting arrest.

His body was quickly and quietly cremated, and the cleaning crew from the local precinct cleaned the Blake family kitchen until it was spotless.

Edie Blake spent a week in the hospital, suffering from a lacerated lung.

Her pimp picked her up at the end of it, and she went back to work on the street, continuing to come home every once in awhile, always with money for the family.

Eddie Blake returned to the building site in midtown Manhattan where he worked the next day with stitches in his face, a black eye, his broken nose taped up and a cast on his left hand; he had broken two of his fingers and three of his knuckles.

The three policemen who came to the scene had only disclosed the details to other cops, but in neighbourhoods like East New York, the walls have ears, and the word on the street travels fast.

In death, “Good Looking” Mickey Blake, “Mick the Merciless” wasn’t good looking anymore.

His skull was multiply fractured, shattered, his face pulped, his very brains had been pounded into jelly, not by any blunt instrument but by human fists.

He had been stabbed at least thirty times, deep wounds that penetrated into his bones, and, some said that he had also been emasculated.

The story went onto say that when they came to remove the body and picked it up, it simply fell apart.

After that, Edie Blake had to quit her job as a streetwalker, and her former pimp had her out selling dope and putting the arm on junkies who couldn’t pay; men were afraid to touch her.

As for Eddie Blake, everybody in the neighbourhood started giving him a very wide berth.

As the local witch, an Irish gypsy or sorts, who lived in the building across the street from the Blake family observed,

“Mickey Blake was a devil, and God’s own couldn’t kill him and the Devil’s own wouldn’t. But his children, they belong part to the Devil and part to God, so they could and they would and they did. Only time can tell whether they will choose to serve God or Satan. It’s their choice.”
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Born Under A Bad Sign