Dixon Soon was sitting at the table for a meeting with the other top crime bosses on the east coast. There were major problems within the organization over the past couple of months as several police raids had cost them nearly 50 million dollars in seized drugs and cash. The head boss, known as Mr. C., believed there was an informant in the organization. There were 12 men sitting at the table excluding Mr. C. There was a nervous tension in the room as Mr. C. started to speak.
"Well as all of you know over the last few months we've have been busted by the cops over a dozen times. That means only one thing to me. There is someone in this organization that is tipping the police and we are not going to leave this room until I find out who it is and when I find this out you will have your fate decided by me. Likely a concrete tuxedo at the bottom of a river."
Mr. C. began to circle around the table and then resumed, "I really doubt that anyone is going admit to bringing an informant to the police. Either way if you admit or not when I find out you are going to die either way. So I have talked to my sources in the police force and they have told me that there is definitely a informant in the organization but they didn't know who. So all I can do is make a decision based on the information I have. In the end someone is going to die."
He stopped talking and all the men were mute and they were watching from the corner of their eye the gun that he had in his hand. It was a small calibre pistol, it wasn't a heavy gun but it could kill a man most definitely. He continued to circle the table when like a bolt of lightning he held the gun to the back of a man's head and bang! He shot the man in the back of the head. The victim was Dmitri Madliano. A veteran of the organization for over 40 years. His head slumped on the table and blood began to pour out of his ear.
Mr. C. spoke, "Well, as you can see I am a man of my word. Dmitri was a man I have been suspicious of for some time. I wanted to give him a chance to admit he was the traitor but he didn't, so I killed him, but I would have killed him anyways."
He then told a couple of the men to go and bury the body in the woods. The men complied and when it became dark they rolled up the body in a rug, threw it in the back of a Lincoln Continental and drove out of the city into the country. Once about 30 miles out of the city they found a remote location, dug a grave and tossed the body inside and covered it with the shoveled earth. They hopped back into the Lincoln and headed back to the city.
Little did they know that Dmitri, a man that weighed over 350 pounds and had a head the size of a tire and as thick as pitbulls neck was not dead. The small caliber pistol penetrated his head, but did not kill him. He head was simply too thick. Now he lay unconscious rolled up in a rug in a shallow grave.
Slowly he extended a hand out of the grave and clawed away the earth so he could breath. But there was slow bleeding inside his brain and he needed to get to a hospital soon or he would die. There he lay for a week with barely enough air to breath. His body was starting to decompose. But somehow he found the strength to the climb out of the grave, but one of his legs had decomposed and fell off. There again he lay looking up at the stars for several days. Then he started to drag himself through the woods, determined to get back to Mr. C. to kill him. Day after day, mile after mile he inched closer when his other rotting leg fell off. He felt lighter and moved quicker without his legs. Then right on the outskirts of the city his arm, blackened from infection, fell off, but he continued to push on ahead. He was less than a mile away from Mr. C's mansion when part of his torso rotted away on the pavement. He was nothing more than an arm and a leg holding a gun. Finally, nearly a month later he arrived on the doorstep of Mr. C's mansion as nothing more than an a head attached to an arm holding a gun. He mustered up all the strength he had and hammered on the door. He heard footsteps shuffling from within. He raised the gun when his head fell off and rolled down the front entrance stairs. He was now nothing more than an arm holding a gun. Mr. C. opened the front door. Dmitri pulled the trigger.
But the gun wasn't loaded.