Gang Killer, Truck Driver

The next morning, at dawn.

Luke crawled out of bed early, washed up, and went through his usual routine of going bald and getting stronger.

Push-ups, squats, sit-ups, sunbathing...

After a full set of exercises, the clock on the wall had already ticked past eight-twenty.

"Bucky should be on the ship by now..."

Luke shut the door and headed out to find Rogers.

They'd planned to see Bucky off, but Sergeant James Barnes, bound for England, said he didn't want his friends watching him wobble on weak legs.

All of New York had probably been a battlefield of gunfire and chaos the night before.

With a crisp uniform and a few smooth words, a young man buzzing with hormones could easily charm a pretty girl.

Maybe that was the perk of serving the country.

"Luke, morning!"

The florist downstairs greeted him warmly, raising his voice: "Frank's looking for you—he seems in a pretty foul mood!"

"Got it! Thanks, Uncle Dalle!"

Luke stopped, changed direction, and headed toward Uncle Frank's place.

Probably those street punks from yesterday had ratted him out to their boss, and word had traveled through the Irish Mob to his uncle's ears.

Ten minutes later, Luke fished the key from under the doormat like always and unlocked the door.

"Uncle Frank, I brought you Aunt Bertha's baked mushrooms and potato pancakes!"

Carrying the steaming breakfast, Luke walked into the living room and saw an old man with graying hair and a slightly stooped back.

From his looks and build, you could still catch a glimpse of the tough, strong man he'd once been.

"Luke! You troublesome brat!"

The old man snapped as soon as he saw Luke, cursing angrily, "That pansy bastard Hobson went running to Mr. Hoffa again, whining that you beat up his underlings!"

"Hobson takes something like that to Mr. Hoffa? Why doesn't he tell Mr. Hoffa that his mom died on the toilet a few days ago?"

Luke feigned shock, not pausing as he pulled plates and utensils from the cupboard.

"Eat while it's hot! I had Aunt Bertha stuff the potato pancakes with meat!"

The old man named Frank sat down at the table, grumbling, "Don't think you can buy me off with this! Luke, you troublemaking bastard, those Italians last time... mm, this tastes great! Never gets old!"

Turns out, no one can escape the law of "it's actually good"!

After Frank finished that breakfast, he never brought up Hobson or his underlings again.

Instead, he spent more time urging Luke to join the rapidly growing Irish Mob.

"Mr. Hoffa thinks highly of you—that clever idea of doing business with the army got the gang some 'surplus' guns! Those Italians haven't been as cocky lately!"

Frank couldn't figure out why his nephew was so against joining the mob.

The idle street punks in Brooklyn would kill to get into a gang and become a made man.

At least then no one would push them around anymore!

"Not interested. If I'm really going to run with a gang, I'd rather go back to school."

Luke poured himself a cup of coffee and said flatly.

He knew this was the most turbulent period in American history, just like the papers said: "Violence is as American as cherry pie."

Ever since Prohibition, gangs had been sprouting up like weeds.

Most started as poor, struggling immigrant groups—like the Irish and Italians.

Unlike the British and Germans who came with big money to develop North America, these so-called "immigrants" just moved somewhere else to stay at the bottom.

Many couldn't even afford rent and had to take the hardest, dirtiest jobs.

These immigrant clusters gradually formed slums.

That's how Hell's Kitchen, later famous in New York, was born.

As some sociologist once said, poverty often breeds nationalism.

Since the Irish and Italians were both Catholic, they were seen as "savages" who couldn't be assimilated in Protestant-dominated North America.

Constant exclusion and discrimination made life tough for these immigrant groups.

So, to fight back against foremen's exploitation and religious persecution, the Irish and Italians formed their own violent groups.

That was the seed of American gangs!

Back then, gangs were just groups of poor people, not taken seriously by anyone.

It wasn't until later that a special group called the City Bosses began to rise.

They were a "profession" born out of the industrial era, tasked with raising campaign funds for political candidates and buying votes—what later became known as "fixers."

As everyone knows, America is a nation of immigrants.

In the past, no one looked twice at those lowly, impoverished immigrant groups.

But the "City Boss" keenly recognized their value. What started as gangs formed by workers gradually evolved.

One side accepted the protection of interest groups, the other provided stable votes for politicians.

It was a perfect match!

But no one could have predicted what came next.

"Prohibition" poured vast wealth into the gangs, coupled with the rise of unions and frequent labor movements.

The monster of organized crime finally tore through the cage of social law!

With one hand gripping enough wealth, the other pulling politicians through votes.

And by cooperating with unions, they gained a veneer of legitimacy.

For a time, they grew fast!

Take Uncle Frank's Irish mob, for example—they had close ties with Mr. Jimmy Hoffa, a top figure in the Teamsters Union.

That union represented nearly a million truck drivers and warehouse workers, later peaking at over two million three hundred thousand members.

It could be said that if you were running for mayor or city council, getting the union's backing was as good as declaring victory.

Gangs, unions, politicians—they formed a tight chain of interests.

"Too bad that glory didn't last long," Luke thought quietly.

Whether it was the Irish or the Italians, Their power had once peaked.

The former helped get Kennedy elected president; the latter had close ties with Edgar Hoover, the first Director of the FBI.

But in the end, organized crime was just a deformed product of social upheaval.

As World War II ended, they inevitably declined.

Reduced to tools in the hands of politicians and interest groups, they could never regain their former glory.

"There's no future in being a mob boss in the Marvel World, not even with Kingpin's status."

That was Luke's inner thought.

"You good-for-nothing brat! Won't join the gang, won't drive a truck and take over my spot—do you think you're going to be a War Hero?"

Seeing Luke's unconcerned expression, Frank got angry.

He had a good relationship with Mr. Jimmy Hoffa of the Teamsters Union, so after he couldn't swing a house anymore, he retired and became an honorary chairman of a union local.

It was just a title, but he still collected a fat paycheck every month.

If he put in a word, the gang and Mr. Hoffa would probably look out for Luke.

"Uncle Frank, don't worry about all that! Here, put this blanket on!"

Luke didn't argue. Grinning, he draped a thick blanket over Frank's legs.

If he'd followed Captain America and joined the Howling Commandos, he might've actually earned the title of War Hero!

But even if he became a hero, he'd still be a tool and a mascot for politicians and capitalists.

So Luke had other ideas.

ps: Hands up! Hand over your collections and recommendation tickets! (〃-ω)