"We’re going to destroy him completely, but not with that pieceal tactic."
Carter Wright walked back to his desk and picked up the sharp cigar cutter. He snapped it shut hard in his hand, making a crisp "KLACK" sound.
"We’re going to fight a war of annihilation."
"I want you to gather all your ammunition, all your thods, all your resources."
"I won’t have you launching a fire inspection today, a tax audit tomorrow, and a sar campaign the day after. That will just give him ti to breathe, ti to find our weaknesses."
"I want it synchronized."
Carter Wright stared at his three confidants, his tone grim.
"I want to bring the weight of an entire mountain down on his spine in a single instant."
"Even if he really is a once-in-a-century political genius, under that kind of pressure, suffocating with no chance to breathe, he’s bound to panic. He’s bound to make a mistake."
"And if he takes just one wrong step..."
"He’s finished."
The three n looked at the man before them, his aura now fully unleashed. They felt the oppressive presence of an old-school political animal.
They nodded forcefully.
"Understood, boss."
"Go for now. Wait for my instructions."
The three n stood up and left.
When the office door closed again, Carter Wright walked over to the liquor cabinet.
It was stocked with expensive red wines and whiskeys, all for entertaining important figures like Morganfield.
He bent down and opened a small, locked compartnt at the very bottom of the cabinet.
From inside, he took out an unlabeled glass bottle.
It was filled with hard liquor—harsh, cloudy, and extrely potent.
This was what he used to drink every night back when he was a district councilman in the roughest part of Pittsburgh.
Back then, he was ferocious, cunning, and full of vitality.
He twisted off the cap and took a huge swig straight from the bottle.
The fiery liquid burned its way down his throat and into his stomach.
The intense burning sensation made him cough a couple of tis, but a wave of heat imdiately surged through his limbs.
That familiar feeling was back.
The feeling of being a predator.
Carter Wright held the bottle, just about to turn.
A flicker of movent on his desk caught the corner of his eye.
A massive Arican cockroach was scurrying along the edge of the desk.
Carter Wright reached out, his thumb pressing down directly on the scurrying insect.
SPLAT.
The resilient creature burst beneath his thumb, its juices splattering.
Carter Wright lifted his hand and stared at the blurry remains on his thumb.
He glanced down at the three-hundred-US-Dollar Italian tie on his chest. Then, he pressed his thumb against the tie and wiped it downward, hard.
An ugly sar stained the tie, like a gash.
Beneath that stain, the dignity of a Mayor, the composure of a statesman—it all beca a joke.
It was now just a rag for wiping away filth.
’Leo Wallace thought he had won the support of those above him, thought he had the so-called "montum."’
’That young man has no idea.’
’In the swamps of Pittsburgh, life and death aren’t decided by the gods above, but by the crocodiles in the mud.’
The corners of Carter Wright’s mouth pulled back, baring his teeth.
"Welco to the swamp, kid."
"I’m going to teach you what real Pittsburgh politics is all about."
He raised the bottle again, gulping down the throat-searing liquor.
The jackal that once hunted in this jungle had been driven mad.
He was ready to tear out the throat of any intruder.
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