The 911 call was placed from the Palmview motel in Miami, Florida at 6:47 am on April 14, 1986, detailing the dead body found in room eight.

Police and paramedics arrived on the scene at 7:12. They entered the room and were greeted by a grisly sight. A trail of blood led from the bed to the bathroom, where a mutilated corpse lay in the tub. Two of the officers vomited on the spot.

The police had almost certainly determined the identity of the victim, but first they had to verify it with the help of his acquaintances.

Shaggy Rogers arrived on the scene at 8:33 am, and an MPD officer led him to the bathroom, where the body still lie. Despite the knife wound across its throat and the numerous bullet holes that ventilated its body, Shaggy instantly knew who it was: Scrappy Doo.

"Like, what the fuck man," Shaggy exclaimed at the sight. "Like, what did he do to deserve this?"

Miami PD investigator Ramirez approached Rogers and directed him towards the bed, upon which an open suitcase lie. Within the trunk were small crumbles of a white powder and a note made entirely from magazine clippings taped to a piece of printer paper. The note read Hey Scrap, you owe us. Bring the fucking money or the coke, or we're talking both of em by force.

Ramirez said "we believe that organized crime may have played a role in your friend's death."

The detective continued to talk, but Shaggy didn't hear it. He only had one thought: revenge.

July 28, 1985

Scrappy Doo kneeled down on the crusty shag carpet within his rundown apartment. He poured a small pile of cocaine upon the nightstand, which he pushed into two lines with his right pinky nail before snorting both of them. He rolled onto his bed as his nose began to bleed. He hung in state somewhere between consciousness and sleep until being pulled into awareness by the loud knocking on his door. He pulled himself from the mattress and walked to the apartment's entrance. He looked through the peephole only to see three men wearing identical white suits standing in the grimy hallway. One of them weighed significantly more than the others. Each of them carried a pistol on their belt.

The fat one came forward. "Mr Doo," he said in a thick Russian accent. "It seems that you owe me quite a lot of money after I sold you some...products. Please open the door, I have a business proposition."

Fearing what would happen otherwise, Scrappy promptly opened the door. The three men entered. The last one in check the hallway before slamming and locking the door.

They stood in silence for a few moments before the fat one spoke. "Hello, Mr Doo. I know you very well, you're one of my top customers. I am Dimitri Klaskinov, and you owe me. A lot. But I'm not here for money. I've seen you so work which interests me. You are just the type of character I'm looking for in my "team." And if you joined me, I'd be more than willing to forget about your debts. So what do you say, Mr Doo?"

Dimitri extended his hand to Scrappy. The two body guards popped the straps holding their pistols in place out. Without hesitation, Scrappy shook hands with the Russian.

"Good" said Dimitri. "Now come with me." He led Scrappy from the apartment, down the hall, through the building's lobby, and to a limousine in the parking lot. The silent bodyguards walked behind the duo the whole way. They loaded Scrappy and Dimitri into the vehicle before it sped off.

"Now, Scrappy, can I call you?" the mobster said as they sped down oceanside boulevard. He pulled a bottle of vodka from a mini fridge under the seat. He cracked it open and distributed it into two glasses. He handed one to his new partner. "Let's talk like adults. We are not friends, you are my worker. My indentured servant. You're only here to pay the debt that you owe me. If you quit, you die. If you fuck up, you die. But, if you can manage to acquire all the capital you owe me, and said capital enters my possession, I will gladly let you walk a free man. Or you can stay under my employment. If you make it to that point, your life choices won't be any of my concern."

The vehicle turned onto a dark dirty alley. Dimitri pulled a small pistol from his jacket and handed it to Scrappy. "Now comes your first task," the mobster said. "This limo will stop and you will exit. You will enter the house we stop in front of and kill the lone occupant. He's like you, he owes me money. The difference between you two is that I see potential in you, this kid is simply worthless."

Scrappy was visibly gripping the gun with much force. "Of course, you could shoot me instead," Dimitri said. "Bear in mind that that would only serve as a temporary solution. Sure, I wouldn't be on your case anymore, but everyone on my payroll would be. And believe me, they're not as keen on second chances as I am."

The limo stopped. Scrappy was pushed into the street, and the car's door was locked behind him. Scrappy turned and looked at the building which lay before him. At one point it may have been a nice house, but now it was no more than a ghost of a building. It had no door or windows, just pieces of plywood nailed in their places. It had almost no paint covering the wood and bricks which made it up, and that which was left had faded until it was completely white. Scrappy walked up the front steps and pushed on. the plywood "door." Without hinges or any other method of security, it simply fell to the ground. Scrappy worked his way through the darkened house, into the living room, where the squatter sat on the ripped sofa, preoccupied with his crack pipe. The druggie didn't even notice the invader until Scrappy had emptied the firearm into him. The shots echoed throughout the empty house as the crackhead writhed on the floor, choking on the blood that was filling his mouth. Gradually the flailing slowed until it stopped completely and the debtor laid still. The blood flow from the bullet holes ended. Scrappy exited the crack den.

A torrential downpour had begun since Scrappy entered. The broken streetlights did little to illuminate the stormy light, but the headlights of a limousine effortlessly broke through the darkness. The vehicle stopped in front of the house and the door opened. Dimitri sat inside and beckoned for Scrappy. The canine henchman entered and took a seat.

"Nicely done," said the boss. "You have a lot of potential."

April 13, 1986

Scrappy entered the mob building, the same way he had almost every day for the past eight months. He walked across the lobby, to the elevator, where he entered the code for the private penthouse office. The elevator ascended and Scrappy exited. He walked through hall, between the fish tank walls, until he entered Dimitri's private office. A black suitcase sat on his glass desk.

"Morning Scrappy," Klaskinov said. "I have one final assignment for you. If you perform to my satisfaction, I will allow you to permanently walk away from business with me." Scrappy silently nodded. "All you must do is deliver this briefcase to its buyer. He will arrive at room eight in the palmview motel at 11pm tonight. He will provide you with a duffel containing exactly 1 million. Return it to me, and neither of us will have to see the other ever again."

Scrappy checked into room eight at the palmview motel at 10:27 pm. At 11:02 pm, a knock came from the door. Scrappy opened it and a man wearing a black turtleneck carrying a duffel bag walked in. Without a word, he dropped the sack on the floor and unzipped it.

It was empty.

Before Scrappy could react, the cold steel bottom of the man's pistol connected with his skull. He blacked out.

Scrappy came to at 6:11 am. The suitcase lay on the bed, no drugs left in it save for a few granules of coke. Sometime over the night, a note had been slipped under the door, which stated: Hey Scrap, you owe us. Bring the fucking money or the coke, or we're talking both of em by force. Scrappy picked it up and placed it within the empty briefcase.

At exactly 6:30 am, the door to Scrappy's room burst open.

"YOU FUCKING IDIOT," Dimitri yelled as he entered. "YOU HAD ONE FUCKING JOB." He grabbed scrappy and threw him against a wall. "WE LOST A MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS BECAUSE OF YOUR DUMB ASS." He picked Scrappy back up and tossed him onto the bed. "You're not working this one off, piece of shit." He drew his gun and fired two shots into Scrappy's torso. Scrappy tried to crawl off, but Dimitri grabbed him and dragged him into the bath tub. He fired the remainder of his bullets into his former worker. When the gun was empty, he holstered it and removed a switchblade from his white suit jacket. He extended it and jammed it into the right side of Scrappy's throat. He pulled it across until it was in the exact same spot on the opposite side.

Scrappy was long dead at that point but that did nothing to end the sweet feeling of revenge rushing through the Russian.

Dimitri walked out of the hotel room, picking up empty bullet casings on the way. He entered the limousine waiting in the parking lot. The vehicle sped off. The sun was beginning to illuminate Miami in its orange April morning glow.

The 911 call was placed at 6:47.

April 19, 1986

The Mystery Machine pulled away from the mob building, leaving Shaggy standing on the curb. It hadn't taken him too long to discover where the Russian mob operated from, and it took him even less time to make his decision to destroy them.

In one hand, Shaggy held a chicken mask, in the other, a used golf club. He pulled on the mask. "Like, this is for you Scrap."

He charged in.

Immediately, he was greeted by two lobby guards. He smashed one's skull in with a single blow before snapping the other's knee into a backwards position. They both dropped AK47 assault rifles. Shaggy picked up one.

"Ass...hole" gurgled the guard whose knee had recently been reversed. Shaggy dispatched him with a single shot.

The receptionist and pulled a pepper spray from her desk. Shaggy smacked her across the head with the stock of the weapon. He entered the elevator and attempted to take it to the top floor. A speaker in the elevator car requested a password input. Shaggy hadn't a clue, so he instead ascended to the next floor up.

Floor one appeared to have been a standard office at one point it time. When the mob bought the building l, all the cubicles had been removed and the entire floor was used up by two massive piles: one of money, one of cocaine.

As the elevator doors opened, a mobster charged Shaggy. Shaggy smacked him across the skull with the club. The adversary fell to the ground, but the club snapped in two. Shaggy stepped out of the elevator and jammed the pointed remains of the piece of sporting equipment through the throat of another oncoming enemy.

"Like, what's the private elevator password man?" Shaggy asked the mobster as he lifted him from the ground by a sharpened metal stick.

"Fuck you" the Russian said with his last breath, before spitting on Shaggy's covered face.

Shaggy pulled what was left of the club from the mobster's throat. The barely alive body fell to the floor.

At that moment, Shaggy noticed a bottle of vodka set up against a wall. He searched the mobsters' corpses and surely enough found a lighter. He doused the money with the alcoholic beverage before igniting it. As he took the elevator to floor two, a raging fire had engulfed the entirety of the mob's money and product.

The doors to floor two opened. A mobster waiting outside attempted to enter but drew his weapon upon seeing Shaggy. With a lightning fast reaction, Shaggy impaled him with the club, and spun him around before jamming the sharp end of the stick into the wall.

"Like, what's the fucking private floor password?" Shaggy demanded. The impaled criminal gave it. Shaggy entered it and the elevator went up.

It came to a stop and opened to the hall of fish tanks. Shaggy moved forward, assault rifle at the ready. He turned a corner and locked eyes with Dimitri Klaskinov. The Russian pulled his gun, but Shaggy pulled his trigger. Dimitri's right hand was blown cleanly off. He fell to the ground and held his stump as blood arced through the air.

In no hurry and enjoying his enemy's suffering, Shaggy advanced around the desk, where he found both vodka and cigars. Shaggy pulled Dimitri's jaw open and poured the entire bottle of alcohol down his throat. He couldn't swallow fast enough and it pooled up in his mouth. Shaggy lit a cigar, took a puff, then pushed the smoldering end into the collected vodka.

Dimitri burned alive from the inside. He tried to scream but it was muffled by flaming beverage. Before long, all of the alcohol had burned. The Russian lay on the floor, smoke escaping through his slack mouth.

"Zoinks motherfucker," Shaggy said, spitting on the corpse. He threw down his gun and walked to the elevator, which he took to the lobby. He exited the building and looked up at the burning second floor. In the distance he could hear fire trucks. He had to leave. He was no longer needed here.

Justice had been served. Shagster style.