Spawn slithered across the rooftops of the city, the night sky filled with cloud blocking the moon and making it darker than
normal. He tensed the necroplasm of his body, causing the chains that were as much a part of him as his two arms to be taut
and thus noiseless. It was in this manner that he stalked the rooftops in the hours of darkness. His nightly rounds were
to watch out for enemies and unwelcome intruders into Rat City, the only place resembling a refuge to him, now that his worldly body was dead and gone.
As he leapt from one rooftop to another, he spied an exchange between two shadows in the shadowed confines of a narrow alley below. Crouching over the precipice, he gathered from their hushed conversation that it was a drug exchange, but going badly wrong.
The two men were arguing. one wanting more money, the other insisting he be told where the white stuff was at.
"I tell you, man, you better show me where the stuff is or no money gonna help you where you're goin'!" the guy who wore his hood up
had his hand under his hooded sweater, where a handgun or knife was likely concealed.
"Ease up, Fitz, yo' boss won't let you try nothin', and my gang'd come after you fo' sure if you did, so lay off already
and give me a decent cut. Ain't my fault them Skinner sons-of-bitches are hogging most of the action. Price has gone up since
last month, and you asking me for two-and-a-half keys!"
The second man wore dreadlocks wrapped in a big ball on top of his skull. Their weight caused them to tilt slightly
towards the back of his neck. Spawn's night-attuned eyesight picked out these details and more. He was familiar with the residents who inhabited the dark and winding alleyways of Rat City, home of the homeless, old drunks and winos for the most part, but all kinds of detritus of society; including vagrants, the mentally-ill and those on the run from the law. Being an outcast himself, Spawn did not begrudge them their sins and vices, at least in so much as it did not harm others. However, these men were strangers, and by the size of the heroin deal, also known as 'white stuff', this was no small-time deal. The street value of such could fetch up to a million dollars depending on its purity, easily well over half-a-million.
"I told you I don't got an extra forty-two grand, I'll pay you it back when I've sold it!" The guy with the dreadlocks still had his hand
below his shirt, but his arm had slid deeper inside, suggesting his taking a firm grip of a weapon and being ready to strike. If the other man detected an imminent attack, he gave no sign of it. Most probably he could not see as Spawn did.
Spawn watched dispassionately from his viewpoint as the situation grew more tense. The fate of such wretched criminals as
these was no concern of his. What did interest him was the stash of heroin. Where such a large amount was available, there was
bound to be more, if not, then coming through the pipeline. The presence of hard drugs was yet another cause of suffering for city folk. Crime would spike, the people of Rat city would be turning up dead, while venal scum like those below would profit. Any who stood in their way would be gunned down, whether they were a cop or some rival gang member, without a moment's hesitation. Despite his resurrection into undead Hellspawn, his former life in the police force came back to him in brief snippets and flashbacks. He was deeply troubled by his current state and discovery of demons and the underworld, not to mention in want of vengeance for those who killed him in the first place. By honouring his past life by doing what he knew to be right, and keeping a sense of justice, Spawn was able to keep at least a tenuous grasp on his sanity. It could only be hoped that more light would be shed on his circumstances as time went on and he managed to endure.
Before the situation could escalate, he swooped down from the rooftop, falling four storeys until his two feet found
each shoulder of the hooded guy. He was instantly dropped to the ground, smashing his face to a bloody pulp on the alley's stone
floor. One hand was still under his shirt and body, but his weapon would be of no use to him now. He stood before the dreadlocked guy exactly where the hooded man had been a split-second ago. Dreadlocks shrieked as he suddenly beheld the
Hellspawn, an eight-foot tall, masked monstrosity that towered over his slight frame. He stumbled backwards as Spawn advanced.
"What the fuck?! Who are you? What do you want from me?"
"Your stash. And you'll tell me who your suppliers are."
"Like hell! Dunno what you're talkin' about man. What are you, some kinda cop?" A length of chain shot out from under
Spawn's cloak in response, a vertical slash whipping him off his feet. He went down awkwardly on one shoulder,
grimacing at the impact as he rolled and shimmied backwards and in his efforts to flee the Hellspawn, until his back hit the alley wall and he sat there gaping up at him.
"Listen man, I give it up already! It's in the trashcan over there, the one that's not dented." the man tossed his head
in the direction of a large bunch of trash cans and refuse sacks at the back of an Italian pizzeria.
"Go and get it. Don't bother trying to run off," Spawn warned in a husky voice that dripped with menace.
"You got it man, just don't pull any of that chain shit again." He staggered upright but fell down again clutching his
shin were the chain had hit it. "Damn that hurts, near bust my bone!" A second chain-whip to the floor near his other shin gave
him incentive enough to get up again and hobble over to the bins. He pulled off a half-filled trash bag only from a round bin which unlike the others, looked new. Underneath the small bag of refuse was a small package wrapped tightly in the same type of black bin liner as the other trash.
"Where did you get it?" The enormous blood-red greatcloak bunched around his legs as he walked towards the man. It gave him the impression of gliding over the ground instead of walking. Dreadlocks cringed as he drew near, holding the package gingerly out to him. He did not take it from the man yet, however.
"Please man, don't make me into a snitch, they'll know it was me what told you. They'll kill me."
"I'll get my answer from you one way or the other. And kill you sooner. Tell me now and you might live. It's your choice." he hissed at the man. He raised a pistol from within his cloak and pointed it inbetween the man's beady eyes, which were wide with panic. He did not have to wait long for compliance.
"God damn it, Rosenberg!"
"Rosenberg?" Spawn did not know the name.
"He's just a tour guide for one of the tourist companies, but he's got connections, man. He's the nephew of some bank manager across the water. He pays off the cops to overlook his yacht when he's coming in from Miami."
Sneaky. This may be bigger than I expected. "What port?"
"Northside quays. He got a warehouse nearby, but I not been in it, I swear. He got his own couriers who pass the stuff
on to me in a different spot. So it don't get traced back to him and all. I only know his yacht's there 'cos that's where all the rich boys keep their yachts."
Dreadlocks was still eyeballing the barrel of his gun when Spawn dropped him with a left hook, knocking him out cold. He had learned all he needed to know from the wretch. If he had any sense, he would be out of the city and state before the next day was done. He scooped up the package from where the guy had dropped it when he fell, stowing it in a deep pocket inside his cloak. He would toss it into the sea once he arrived at the dock.