He has lost his left arm but I have lost my right

Virginia 1850

Samuel looked up at the stars carefully looking to the north one. It was not a difficult task as the heavens were lit up and it looked as if one could see across the galaxy. He had been following the path for three days, avoiding farms and houses, living off of what he could pillage from farms. He had heard about freedom. About those who had fled the plantations and made their way north. He had heard that there were those in the north who were sympathetic and who would help him. All of it had seemed like some crazy fantastic idea but he had gone with it. He had stored up enough courage and he ran. Anything, better then the life he had left behind. A life of cruelty, of beatings, of backbreaking labor from dusk til dawn. Samuel had not told anyone about his plans, it was too risky. There were always those among them who would turn him in. Those who would tell simply to curry favor with the master. Some of the others had spoken of escape but mainly it was in a theoretical kind of way. Something they might attempt if the consequences were not too dire. They called it crazy. For Samuel it was far more crazy to submit to a lifetime of toil with nothing to show for it except a few ragged pieces of clothing and bad lodging. That was insane. He knew that there was likely a party looking for him by now, dogs and a whole bunch of rednecks. Still he vowed he would rather die then go back.

I can show you the world

John O'neil awoke with a start. He stared into the darkness for a few minutes attempting to process it all. For a while he thought he was back in the pacific but now he slowly came to the realization that he was in his home in Staten Island. Cold sweat covered his brow and he wiped it off with his hand. The images had come back to him. Horrible godforsaken images. Images of death and carnage, of severed limbs and decapitated heads. Images so horrific that no amount of time or medicating had been able to delete them from his brain. Of burning flesh, of piles of dead bodies, of talking to your best friend one minute and having his head blown off a second later. For a long time the drinking had gotten rid of the images for him. For a long time he assumed they had gone away. However they would still come back to him from time to time and tonight seemed to be one of those nights. He got up from his bed. He looked at the clock 4:30 am it was very early. Still he knew it was unlikely he would be able to get to sleep again. Most likely it would invite more images. He walked over to his liquor cabinet. He extracted a tumbler glass from underneath and poured himself a large shot. He took the shot as if he were drinking water. At this point it was almost a reflex something done without thinking. Johnny had a meeting with Vito later and he was already worried. Fear was something that was always hard for him to process. After all he had been a marine earlier in life. A decorated combat veteran for him to be scared because of a few overweight Italians seemed absurd to him. Still he knew what those men were capable of. They could order a man killed without a second thought. If the boss said so they would murder their own brother. What chance did he stand? An Irishman in a sea of Italians. They had always liked him but he knew the bigger picture. He knew if the hammer really came down they woulden't hesitate to put him out of the picture. And nowadays the hammer was coming down hard. Already the government had supeoaned him before a congressional committe investigating organized crime in labor. It was only a matter of time before they figured it all out. John poured another shot, its going to be a long day he thought.