Canada, 5am, Hockey Stick

Frank grabbed the hockey stick and broke it in half. The splinters were large and sharp. Being held down by three of Frank’s men, firmly pressed against the ice, James couldn’t help but to be scared. He had snuck into the gang’s headquarters early, around 5am, in order to find out where their next attack would be. But he was caught the moment he arrived.

The gang liked to call themselves Icebloods, but the FBI and Canadian police force preferred to call them the Ice Devils. They were part of a resurgence in organized violent crime prevalent in the southern Canada and western New York area. But the Icebloods were particularly gruesome, frequently impaling victims on hockey sticks, shoving pucks down throats and slicing arms with skates. To the cops, it seemed like a typical group of extortionists at first. But ever since they shot up a hockey game in Toronto a few weeks back, the Icebloods have been labeled a terrorist organization. Since then, the FBI and top Canadian law-enforcement officials had been monitoring the group.

Frank ignored James’ cries of pleading. “Don’t come around here. You should know better.” He took the splintered and struck James right in the eye. Frank left the stick in place, right in the skull. He squelched James' horrified screams with a hockey puck. With one more act of psychotic violence, he sliced open James’ neck with a skate. “Good job boys, this could’ve turned into a mess with the cops. Now, let’s get ready our next spree…”