The Harvest

"Alright, that’s enough," Sal growled. The hospitality was gone. The Capo was back. "You come into my house, you don't eat my food, and you talk to me like I’m an idiot? I don't know what kind of sick game you freaks are playing, but it ends now."

Sal snapped his fingers.

Mikey stepped out of the shadows. He drew his pistol—a heavy .45 automatic—and pressed the barrel against the back of Mr. Smith’s head.

"Apologize to my uncle," Mikey spat.

Sal leaned back, crossing his arms. This was the part of the script he knew. The intimidation. The fear. The respect.

But Smith didn't flinch. He didn't sweat. He didn't even look at Mikey. He kept his flat, dead eyes on Sal.

"Is this the negotiation of resistance?" Smith asked.

"This is me telling you how it works," Sal said. "You pay the tax. You follow the rules. Or you don't leave this room."

Smith tilted his head again. "Your weapons rely on kinetic energy. Crude."

"Shoot him, Mikey," Sal ordered. "Just the leg. Teach him some manners."

Mikey pulled the trigger.

* BOOM.*

The sound was deafening in the small room. The bullet struck Mr. Smith in the shoulder, tearing through the charcoal suit.

But there was no blood.

No red spray. No scream of pain.

Instead, a thick, black sludge oozed from the hole, smelling like tar and burnt copper.

Smith stood up. He didn't stand up like a man. He unfolded. His limbs elongated, the joints cracking and snapping into impossible angles. The suit tore at the seams.

"Mikey, shoot him again!" Sal screamed, scrambling back in his chair.

Mikey fired. *Bang. Bang.*

The bullets hit Smith’s chest. They sank into him as if he were made of dough.

Smith turned to Mikey. His jaw dropped—literally. The skin of his chin split open, unhinging down to his chest, revealing a throat that was not a throat, but a swirling vortex of needle-like teeth and bioluminescent light.

"Biomass accepted," the thing that was Mr. Smith vibrated.

A limb—long, black, and multi-jointed—shot out from the tear in the suit. It wrapped around Mikey’s head.

There was a wet *crunch*.

Mikey didn't even have time to scream. The entity whipped him across the room, his body hitting the wall with the force of a car crash. He slid down, motionless.

Sal couldn't breathe. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was The Architect. He controlled the unions. He controlled the streets.

But the thing standing before him didn't care about unions.