Enzyme
The All-Powerful Enzyme!
Chapter 14: Thanksgiving
Thursday 25th November 1971
...20 days later…
Evening - Cold, Rain, Wind
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Jackson McCarthy
Despite the casualties on the grounds below Lady Liberty's sandals, Roxie's rescue mission was what a military commander would consider a total success. She had been returned back to the safety of her loving partner, with no permanent damage done to either her or the children she was bearing. Even with Jackson's standing point on god, the safety net of Syd's sanity with the saving of Roxie had felt like divine intervention. It indeed could be a monumental turning point for the kid, at a place where it could've quickly gone the other way and had been a genesis of Syd's downfall. To that, Jackson raised his glass. No matter who stood above humanity on a white cloud, if anyone, he tipped his hat to those that determined their fate, for they had a kid that Jackson loved as if he were his own son.Thursday 25th November 1971
...20 days later…
Evening - Cold, Rain, Wind
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Jackson McCarthy
As there was often in the Porters' line of work, with such a stark victory, came a bitter defeat - a hit hard enough to stagger any man. It wasn't a blow to the Porter industry's papers, or to her vast wallet, but to the souls of the men who inhabited her lineage and wore her identity like a nametag. It was the death of Warren Porter. In the past, it was warranted and almost expected. Jackson had done his best to protect the man and earned his own scars in the process. With the spotlight fading, they had let down their guard. Similar to when Jackson lowered his fists around the time the Porters had to meet with the IWU. The news hit him in a spot only a Dempsey would've been capable of striking. One that made him feel intensely vulnerable, like childhood trauma. He felt another life slip from his fingers, and another weight slide onto James's ever drooping crown.
The incident at the apartment had sent James into hiding, and Jackson wasn't going to make any exceptions. The Porter security in New York absolutely appalled him. The fact that a few Italians had managed to plant an explosive inside James's apartment was beyond acceptable. Fingers were going to be pointed and heads were certainly going to roll. If they hadn't been in such a position, Jackson would find it desirably to layoff half the workforce. Unfortunately, they were in no position to thin their numbers. Instead, James would have to remain at the mansion, where the Morettis wouldn't dare step foot on. With James's presence gone, a new face would have to take his place. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Conor fit perfectly at the Porter throne. With him there, it was either redemption for his fall into madness, or the beginning of a cold, cold winter. By the wander in Jackson's stare, he was unsure of which path his friend would tread.
With a glass of whiskey in hand, Jackson sat in his familiar seat in front of the mahogany wood. His vision fixated on the smoke trailing from his burning cigar, turning it in his fingertips like a spinning cog. "This is it, right," Jackson contemplated, his eyes finally looking to Conor in front of him. "This is fuckin' it." Jackson looked to the glass in his hand, shaking his head softly. "I'd love to talk about anything else; the shipments, the clubs' revenues, the bookies' sheets, your fuckin' ball team - the Yankees is it? Anything other than those Italian pricks. We don't get that luxury, though, do we?" Jackson stuck the cigar in the side of his teeth, his eyes wander to James in the corner now. "We can't do a thing until they're gone, mate. Not a bloody thing." Jackson narrowed his eyes, his frustration bleeding through his beading eyes. "We can't even keep 'em out of our fuckin' houses," Jackson emphasized strongly, so much so that spit shot from his over bitten lip.
Jackson rubbed the bottom of his nose with his knuckles, as he often did when he felt cornered. Back in the day, he'd do it before the bell rang for his fight. A simple habit of wiping the blood and sweat that dripped from his nose turned to a tool that helped focus his thoughts, like a sudden-change switch. "Conor," Jackson started, looking to the man in the driver's seat. "You're a fresh face for us, and we need to take advantage of that. I think this could be a good opportunity to strike relations with a family outside of New York. A family that would give us a hand, cause God knows we fuckin' need it." Jackson took a sip of the whiskey, his eyes finding James once more. His stare faltered, as the sight of the man gave him a pain in his chest. No matter the man's condition, he'd always be the head of the Porters, even in death. In the cathedra or not, James's say was final. "It would only help us."
Misty Gray (Conor/James)