Tommy TWO Fingers

By PROJECT MONROE · Melodic Death Metal · From the album A FULL YEAR OF MURDER

The alley behind the Crimson Lantern bar stank of piss and old blood long before tonight. Rain slicked the bricks, turning every footstep into a wet slap. Tommy Reilly owed Marco Voss twenty grand and three broken fingers. Tonight was the night the debt came due in full.

Marco waited under the flickering neon, brass knuckles already slick with someone else’s evening. Two of his guys flanked him (Rico with the shaved head and Lena with the switchblade smile). Tommy stumbled in at 2:13 a.m., soaked, eyes darting like a rat that already smelled the trap.

“You’re late,” Marco said, voice soft. That was worse than shouting.

Tommy opened his mouth (some excuse, some plea), but Rico’s fist crashed into his gut first. The air left Tommy in a wet whoosh. He folded, knees hitting the puddle with a splash that looked black under the streetlight.

Marco stepped forward and brought the brass down across Tommy’s cheek. Skin split like overripe fruit. Blood poured hot and immediate, mixing with the rain, running into Tommy’s mouth so every scream tasted of iron.

“Please—” Tommy managed, spitting red.

Lena laughed and flicked her blade open. She carved a quick line down his forearm, shallow but perfect, watching the sleeve of his jacket darken. “He bleeds pretty,” she said.

Rico grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked Tommy upright. Marco hit him again (temple this time). Something cracked, loud as a branch in winter. Tommy’s left eye swelled shut instantly, a purple-black plum blooming under the skin.

They took their time. Fists, boots, the dull wet thud of meat on meat. Each blow found a new place to burst open. A rib snapped with a sound like green wood. Blood bubbled from Tommy’s lips in pink froth. He tried crawling, fingers scraping the alley floor, leaving scarlet snail trails.

Marco crouched, pressed the brass knuckles against Tommy’s throat until the points dented skin. “You should’ve paid,” he whispered.

Tommy’s good eye found Marco’s. Something passed between them (not forgiveness, just recognition that this was how things ended in their world).

Lena knelt behind him, slipped the blade under his ear, and drew it across in one practiced motion. The cut was clean, deep. Blood didn’t trickle; it surged, a hot red fountain that painted the wall in frantic arcs. Tommy made a sound like air leaking from a tire, hands fluttering to the wound as if he could hold himself together.

He couldn’t.

He slumped sideways into the puddle that was now mostly him. The rain kept falling, diluting the red into pink rivers that ran toward the drain. His chest hitched once, twice, then stopped.

Marco wiped the knuckles on Tommy’s jacket, stood, and lit a cigarette. The flare of the lighter lit the ruin of Tommy’s face for one last second (mouth open, eyes staring at nothing, the alley reflecting in the one that still had light).

Rico kicked the body once, for punctuation. Lena closed her knife and smiled at the blood on her fingers, then licked it off like it was candy.

Sirens in the distance, still miles away. Plenty of time.

Marco exhaled smoke toward the sky. “Get the saw,” he said. “He’s too big for one bag.”

The rain kept washing the alley clean, but some stains don’t come out. Not ever.

Watch the Tommy TWO Fingers music video

About Melodic Death Metal

A Gothenburg-originated fusion of death metal extremity with soaring melodies and harmonized guitar leads, balancing brutality with accessibility and emotional depth. Bands include: In Flames, At the Gates, Dark Tranquility

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