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Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings	By : MelThorn Category: 1 through F > Boondock Saints Views: 1228 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints or the characters within, and make no profit from the film or characters

Chapter List
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Chapter One
For some, lower Boston was a prosperous city—for the criminals, the underbosses, the schemers and liars. For others, it was not so much a utopia, or a safe haven, but a rock, which when lifted bares all the ugliness of society that dwells beneath it. It is this part of Boston that Connor and Murphy MacManus would soon reside, though they would feel it an obligation, rather than a choice.
It had been quite a while since they had seen any kind of opportunity to scrap for cash. The previous winter had been a harsh one, and the summer didn’t seem any more forgiving. Most work had been taken, and businesses, while keeping their slurs beneath their rancid breath, refused to hire a couple of “Micks” who they felt were beginning to swarm the city with drinking and violence. Any look of scorn cast upon them was met with an matching one in return, especially by Murphy, who wouldn’t hesitate to call the Italians “wops” every chance he got.
Connor was more level-headed about their situation. He knew they couldn’t live with Rocco forever. There came a time when a resident overstayed his welcome, and he knew that time was approaching swiftly. A spit here and a growl there became a bit too unbearable for him, feeling he had more than one life to look after, and he didn’t know how much longer he could face being unemployed. Murphy seemed less interested in working and more in drinking, which might have passed the time well enough for him, but wasn’t sufficient in Connor’s mind.
Sitting at the tiny table in the filthy kitchen, which was littered with empty beer cans and stained pizza boxes, Connor toyed with a bottle cap between his fingers as he considered the multiple possibilities. His initial thought was “deal drugs.” After all, he knew Donna would be a frequent customer, at least according to Rocco. However, if he had chosen to do such a thing, it would go against the very code of ethics he stood by with such devotion. Doing drugs, any kind, was bad enough, but supplying them to those who couldn’t help but purchase them was worse.
He glanced at his brother, who was thrown over the cushions of the couch, sprawled in all directions, snorting and wheezing, as he always did after a long night of binge-drinking. It surprised him even to that day how much alcohol Murphy could intake and the quantity only seemed to increase each sit-down session they spent with Rocco or at McGinty’s. Even Connor had to protest at the amount of booze he dumped into his head, and he was no better at refraining from consuming the stuff.
Money, Connor’s mind nagged once again, and it returned to the things that mattered most. Two men in their twenties should not have to rely on friends to hold their weight—at least, that was how Connor saw it, and how he was always taught by his mother. A man must support himself, feed himself, even afford beer by himself. How he missed his mother, and everything else about home. His pride forced him to avoid asking her if he and Murphy could stay with her for a while. He wouldn’t put her in that situation.
Murphy stirred, made that groaning sound he always did when waking, only to toss an arm back over his eyes to block the sunlight. He’d bitch about a hangover soon, and Connor wasn’t looking forward to it, nor was he looking forward to spending a day in church with him while he was in this state of mind. He fished a crushed pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his ripped, spattered jeans and puffed at one of the many crimped sticks that had been smashed within the box. He hoped it might clear his head, but it only made his thoughts busier.
The front door busted open with a resonating smack, causing Murphy to gasp awake and collapse off of the couch. Connor rose as well, attempting to still his vibrating heart. He settled once he saw Rocco, lowering back into his chair, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.
“Ay,” Murphy coughed from his spot on the littered carpet. “Learn to knock, would ya?”
Rocco, annoyed, glowered at Murphy. “It’s my fuckin’ place, Murph. Go sleep in the damn gutter.”
“Ignore ‘im,” Connor told Rocco, flicking ash into a tray. “He’s hung over again.”
“Ah’m not,” huffed Murphy, who stumbled to his feet and grabbed his head, only to drop back onto the comfort of the couch.
Putting it out of his mind, Rocco slammed the door shut, storming into the kitchen and diving for the coffee mugs in the upper cabinet, where rows of filthy glasses were stored. “What’s eatin’ ya, Roc?” Connor asked, noting their companion’s flustered movements.
“What do you think?! The damn bitch.” He muttered this a few more times before pouring a cup of old coffee that Connor had made the previous night to sober up his brother. “I told her! I fuckin’ told her! She doesn’t give a shit!”
“Donna again.” He shook his head, wondering why he expected anything else.
“She stole some of my shit to buy drugs for the fourth time this month. Some of my records! Those are fuckin’ collector’s items, man!”
“Ya ne’er listen to dem,” grunted Murphy from the trashed living room.
Tensing up and releasing a heavy sigh, Rocco snapped, “You’re not supposed to listen to them. You’re supposed to collect them.”
“But why would ya want to collect dem if yer not goin’ to listen to dem?”
“Murphy, please. I’m in a really fucking bad mood right now. I don’t have the patience to talk to you about fucking records, okay?!” Murphy turned his nose up at him, indicating his problems were his own and wanted no part of it anyhow. Connor’s eyes fell to the table surface while Rocco glared at him next. Connor took a long drag off of the cigarette perched between his cracked lips. “Guys, I’m sorry, but at this rate, I can’t afford to have you here anymore.”
“Where’re we s’pposed to go?” asked Connor, looking at his friend with desperation.
“I don’t know, man. But you can’t stay here. I have enough problems with the druggie bitch on my hands.”
“Why don’ ya jus’ t’row her ass out, huh?” Murphy taunted.
“She has a vagina,” Connor uttered on the depths of his breath.
Rocco heard him, but made no remark on it. He was half right. “I’ll help you guys find a new place.”
“Don’ worry ‘bout it, Roc. We’ll be all ’ight.”
“Like hell we will!” shouted Murphy from the sidelines. Connor flashed him a calming stare to ease him, but Murphy’s agitation was unabated. Still, he kept his mouth shut, at least for a while. Connor left his seat, gathered Murphy from his nest of cushions and blankets and turned to Rocco one last time.
“Yer a good friend, Roc. No one else would’ve taken us in dis long.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rocco grunted, smacking his palm upon his neck to kill an unsuspecting mosquito. “Take care of yourselves, would you?”
On their way out, Murphy couldn’t stop his griping, and Connor wished he would. He knew this day was upon them, and he was certain Murphy was also well aware of its approach. “Fuckin’ wop, keepin’ dat drugged up whore aroun’ while we go out with just da clot’ing on our backs.” He turned his gaped maw up toward the window of Rocco’s place, yelling, “Hope she’s wort’ it, ya dumb dago!”
“Chris’ all migh’y,” Connor gasped, tugging his brother along the street. “Why don’ ya make an even bigger raucous, maybe scare more of da neighbors? Dey got kids here, man.”
“Can’t help it, Connor,” Murphy confided. “Head hurts, m’hungreh. Been hungreh fer days.”
Connor knew just how he felt. All he could do was put a consoling hand upon his back and give it a few graceful pats. Now that they were out on the street, they had no idea where their next destination would be. Where would they go from here? Without a cent to their name, they wouldn’t be able to find a place to live, and they’d be even less able to afford any food. The only place they knew they could find solace in was the cathedral down the street, where they were comfortable no matter how much cash was in their pockets.
With a shove of the heavy doors, both Connor and Murphy crossed through the entrance, stepping into the towering room, trailing between the wooden pews. They took a seat in the very back, each of them bowing their heads. Connor’s prayer consisted of asking for shelter for him and his brother, whereas Murphy’s was laden with pleads for his headache to go away, as well as to get some food in his stomach.
After crossing their hearts, Murphy jumped to his feet and made a mad dash for the exit, surprising Connor out of his prayer. Soon, he joined his brother outside, and watched as he puked upon the pavement, unsettling passersby. Connor hated the sight of people vomiting. His stomach never managed to handle it without tumbling as well.
Once he was done blowing chunks, Murphy sat back on his knees, then cackled up at the sky. “Oh, t’ank da lord. My headache’s gone.”
“Works in mysterious ways.” He took his hand helped Murphy back up. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’ we pay Doc a visit? He might have some’tin’ for us.”
“Aye,” Murphy agreed. “More whiskeh.” He ignored the scolding glare of his twin and started heading in the direction of McGinty’s, Connor in tow, who somehow knew that each step they took was one closer to a path of destiny.
Connor had barely cracked the door of McGinty’s open before he was greeted with a warm cheer. “C-C-C-Connor!” The old man hadn’t seen them in a few nights, and to him, that was a long time. “M-Murphy! C-Come in, boyos!”
Murphy wasted no time heading for the bar, where he sat and grinned, his eyes scrunched up in that crinkled squint as he pulled at the prickly fuzz on his chin. Connor took a seat beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and rested his arms upon the bar top, a familiar Irish jig playing on the stereo system at a hushed volume.
“What have you boys b-been up to?”
“We’re lookin’ fer work,” Connor explained. “Well, more den we a’ready have been.”
“Still on hard times, are ya?”
Murphy snickered, and they both glanced at him. He fell silent and eyed the bar, then the rest of the room, pretending it didn’t happen. “Aye,” Connor responded. “Rocco booted us. We’re stuck on da street now.”
Murphy tapped the bar with his index finger. Doc stared him down. “C-c-can’t serve those who c-c-can’t pay, Murphy.”
“Aw, come on!” He dropped his head onto the wooden surface with a resound clunk.
“Ya had enough anyway, ya lush,” Connor let him know. Murphy didn’t bother putting up a fight. “Do ya know where we might be able to snag jobs?”
Doc ran a hand over his silver hair, adjusting his thick, round glasses that rested upon his pink, bulbous nose. “As a ma’er of fact, I heard dat old m-m-meat-packing plant is looking for extra hands. FUCK!” Neither of them flinched, having been accustomed to such random outbursts by now.
“Meat-packin’?” Connor confirmed. There was another snorting giggle from Murphy. “Da fuck is yer problem?”
“Not’in’,” he chortled.
“Would dey care if we was Irish?”
“C-c-can’t say. I don’ t’ink dey’d give a damn ei’ter way. Las’ I heard, dey were pretty desperate for help. ASS!”
“Well, it’s a start. T’anks, Doc.”
“One o’ter t’ing. T’ere are dese…” His eyes skimmed the ceiling, surreptitious and wandering. “L-L-Lofts.”
“What kind of lofts?”
“T’ey don’ have a manager dere. L-l-living dere is f-free.”
“Free?” Murphy sang, his head, as well as his hopes, rising.
“It’s a fuckin’ shit hole, and you’d be illegal squatters, b-but it’s be’er den not’in’. FUCK!”
Connor smiled at the sound of this news, slapping a palm against his brother’s back, who winced. “We may be all ‘ight after all.” Murphy rubbed his shoulder, which stung. He must have bruised it the night before, but couldn’t remember how. “T’anks again. We’d be’er go check it out.”
"Before you boys go,” Doc began, then poured them each a shot of whiskey. Murphy’s tongue wagged as drool glistened the corner of his mouth. “Have one on da house.”
Connor scooped up his shot, as did Murphy, and while swapping grins, they toasted to each other. “Veritas,” chimed Connor.
“Aequitas,” replied Murphy, and they downed them in a flash. The burn of fresh liquor cascading down their throats was a welcome start to the afternoon. They gave each other a brotherly smack on the bicep, set the empty shot classes upon the bar, then said their farewells to Doc as they headed back out to the street, refreshed and rejuvenated. Things would change that day, Connor was certain of it, and it was only the beginning of what would shape their futures.
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Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings