Maybe behind every legend lies some untold, bitter past.
Gus could not really be called a legend, but in Chicago's underworld, his name alone was enough to make countless people tremble.
His story was like the deepest shadow of this city—hidden and heavy, rarely spoken of, yet so real it was suffocating.
Twenty years ago, Chicago's drug market was firmly controlled by a group of Mexicans who called themselves the Salamanca family. They held a secure route straight back to Mexico.
With cheap product and hundreds of ruthless gunmen, they controlled nearly ninety percent of Chicago's market and were utterly unmatched.
Then one day, a Black man in a suit and tie appeared and changed everything.
He and his closest brother took a trip down to Mexico to meet the Salamancas' supplier—a super‑cartel boss who controlled nearly thirty percent of North America's entire drug supply.
Two men went. One came back.
No one knew exactly what he had gone through in Mexico, but when he returned to Chicago alone, he already held a secret supply line and tons of cheap product in his hands.
In just a few short years, this Black man tore a huge chunk out of the Salamancas' monopoly and single‑handedly rewrote Chicago's underground order.
Today, his star even outshone the Salamanca family's.
His name was Gustavo Fring.
Most people might not know the details, but Rorschach, who had joined Gus's organization back in his student days and been heavily trusted for a time, knew one piece of the hidden truth.
Back then in Mexico, the Salamancas had been there too.
They had mocked Gus for overestimating himself, and right in front of him, they had shot his closest brother dead with a single bullet.
Yet whether out of self‑interest or a desire to keep the Salamancas in check, that Mexican cartel boss, after scaring him half to death, had still handed the shipping route over to Gus.
From that day on, Chicago gained a new underground king, and the Salamanca family gained a mortal enemy who would never let them go.
Rorschach never expected a drug clan with no bottom line to help him, but he knew this much: if Gus ever set himself on fire, the Salamancas would be the first to rush in and throw gasoline on the flames.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, his mind already made up. He had to find a way to spark a conflict between those two forces as soon as possible—ideally something big enough to turn into a street war.
The Salamancas could always train up more gunmen from the endless stream of Mexican illegals, but Gus did not have that luxury. Once things blew up, at least half the shooters guarding the plant full of kids would have to be pulled away.
Then Rorschach could go in and rescue the trapped children with the risk cut to a minimum.
But he had to move fast. If he dragged his feet, Gus might ship everyone off to New York before the plan ever got started.
"Connor, Murphy."
Rorschach looked at the Irish brothers in front of him—two guys who were not all that close to him yet, but who constantly called him "Boss" and burned with idealism. "There's one more thing I need you to do for me. Over the next few days, keep the dry‑cleaning plant under quiet surveillance. Count how many people go in and out each day, and call me immediately if anything unusual happens."
As he spoke, he started to get up to grab another two grand for them. If Gus found out they were watching his place, they would be killed for sure. The risk was huge.
If he did not pay them well for that, Rorschach would really feel guilty.
But before he could stand, the brothers hurried over to stop him. Their tones were identical—firm, and utterly rejecting the money.
"What do you take us for, Rorschach? You think we're that greedy and afraid of dying?"
"That's right, Boss. From the night we teamed up to beat that Brit in the bar, we've treated you like a brother."
"And with Fight Club—you gave the key to us. You trusted us to open and close the place. Since you trust us that much, it's only right we do something for you."
"…"
Looking at them being so deadly serious, Rorschach actually felt a little embarrassed.
He had started Fight Club just to find a place to throw punches and stay in shape. All he had really done was rip a few lines from a Brad Pitt movie, and somehow these guys had turned it into their holy scripture.
Still, it had to be said: the easiest way to win an Irishman's friendship really was to beat up an Englishman with him.
"All right."
Rorschach did not refuse their good intentions. He slung an arm around each of their shoulders and grinned. "From this moment on, we're brothers. Remember, if anything happens while you're watching that place, don't do anything rash. Call me first and wait for my word. When we finally bring Gus down, we'll go hit some English pub to celebrate—and then pound a few Brits into the floor."
With that, he held a hand out to them.
Connor and Murphy traded a look, then slapped their palms against his with matching excitement.
"I'm absolutely beating the crap out of those Brits!"
"I'm bringing a gun! No, better make it a wrench—perfect for fixing up their rotten teeth!"
"Hahahaha—"
——————————
The next day, Chicago PD.
Rorschach sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples.
Last night he and the Irish brothers had put away several cases of beer and another five or six bottles of whiskey. If Connor had not insisted on showing off his "cooking" with a pot of fish stew that smelled like pure death—and successfully made Rorschach puke his guts out—he would probably still be at home dead drunk.
That pot of fish had taught him one thing, though: the Irish might hate the English from the bottom of their hearts and reject their own English blood, but when it came to food, the two sides were equally disgusting.
Bang!
A heavy white plastic bag hit his desk.
Ginny wrinkled her nose at his pale face. "Here. Breakfast. Five boxes of dumplings and three boxes of donuts. Go ahead and eat—see how long it takes you to get diabetes and fatty liver."
Rorschach stared in surprise at the still‑steaming food, his gaze inevitably drifting to Ginny, who stood there with her hands on her hips, looking smug.
After a long moment, he held up one finger. "First, let me remind you: poisoning is a serious crime—especially when the target is law enforcement."
"Second…"
He picked up one of the dumpling boxes and jabbed at the writing on it—just circles and little lines to him. "I said I wanted Chinese dumplings from Chinatown. You brought me Korean dumplings. I'm telling you, that's worse than poisoning."
"Eat it or don't. If it wasn't for…"
Halfway through, Ginny swallowed the rest of her sentence. She gave him a long, deep look, then lifted her chin with a little huff and turned away.
Watching her back as she walked off, Rorschach clicked his tongue, baffled.
In the days they had partnered up, she had either been running after the squad car or getting "trained" by him in every cruel way he could think of.
Anyone else would probably have gone to the brass long ago to demand a new partner. But not only had Ginny stayed, she had actually brought him breakfast…
A thought suddenly struck him, and his expression turned strange.
Did this girl have some weird, secret fetish?
If so, then all the "abuse" he had been putting her through these days had been hitting exactly the right spot.
Rorschach shook his head in disbelief. Rich kids really did play on a different level.
Grumbling to himself, he pulled a dumpling out of the box and popped it into his mouth.
Two bites in, his face changed. He leaned down and spat everything straight into the trash can by his feet.
"Motherf*cker—kimchi filling!"
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