Prologue
Slam!
Black helmets and bullet-proof vests bearing sub-machine guns stormed through the rotting door. A radio transmitter crackled in the background, "Secure the perimeter." The men rapidly scanned the room, pointing their weapons in every nook and cranny.
"Clear!"
"Clear!"
"Clear…"
"…And where the hell is Gordon?"
The room was empty, but even the most seasoned G.C.P.D.'s Special Weapons And Tactics Unit officer knew that it was too late. There was a stench in the air. The room itself was a mess, like a whirlwind had blown through it. The door showed signs of a forced entry. An empty cartridge lay in the center of the room, followed by a trail of blood dragging onwards to the back. The vase lay smashed on its side, water spilling all over the black grand piano. The lilies lay trampled upon the floor.
The room was an annexe to Gotham City's seediest strip club. Every lowlife here had made it their haunt at some point of time in their miserable lives. The flickering neon sign at the entrance was missing two letters. The stripper's breasts sagged. A cloud of pungent smoke hung low over the entire bar. 'The Red Lion' used to be a public house, the middle class working man, and the occasional aristocrat, would visit to escape the drudgery of normality. Now, it served as the headquarters of one of the city's many crime lords, Boss Marconi.
Rumour around G.C.P.D. was that Marconi had called the entire family to a 'sitdown', right from the buttons to the street soldiers. This wasn't just another mob meeting; you don't bring in the entire Costra Nostra for nothing. This was special. Apparently, there was a new cat in town, who's taking over the city, one turf at a time. Crime bosses were being knocked off in the most grotesque of manners.
There were stories going around about things being done to the bodies. Ugly things. Things that got the otherwise tough criminals shit scared. One story was that the entire Benzini family was found with their eyeballs attached to springs, that popped out of their empty eye sockets. The cops found another family with smiley party hats on and their genitals stuck in their mouths like party whistles.
Things just weren't going well for Gotham City's organized crime. The new face had the entire underworld spooked. Drastic times commanded desperate measures. Old enmities were forgotten and new alliances were forged. Today's meeting was to seal such an alliance.
The room had a small door at the back, which opened up to a flight of stairs that spiraled downwards. It led to a basement, where the meeting was to take place. Two of the SWAT team members stood on either side of the door with their backs to the wall. Guns tensed, ready to blaze at the slightest hint of engagement. They both nodded to each other, and to the rest of the team. A third officer kicked opened the door, his gun following his foot. The other followed quickly. As they entered, they were met with an acrid smell, like a chemical experiment that went horribly bad.
The stairway was dark except for a few parts where few wall mounted red stained glass lanterns lit up their vicinity. The places that were lit held more horror than the darkness. There was blood and flesh matter sticking to the wall. Someone's brains got plastered. That someone lay motionless on the floor a few stairs lower. The team rookie puked his guts out. The rest turned their flashlights and laser pointers downwards and kept moving.
The stairs creaked under agile feet. The team was trained to handle these kinds of situations. They were experts in stealth, precision and the rules of engagement. They were an elite force, the pride of a regressing police department. But nothing they had experienced could prepare them for what lay ahead.
The stairs ended at the entrance of a small passage that had two bouncers guarding on wither side. Only, these two lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Their eyes stared motionless at the officers' shoes. Their cheeks were gutted across the sides to stretch the edges of their lips from ear to ear. Vomit crept up the rookie's throat again. Another officer immediately reported a case of multiple homicide and the current body count.
The men past by the bodies. The passage led to a larger room. A giant table stood weakly in the center. A ceiling lamp hung low. The room was furnished for a long and tiring meeting. Whiskey bottles lay opened on the table. Cigar ashes spilled out of the ashtray onto the mahogany wood.
The invitees lay motionless on the table. One of them had blood oozing from the nose. Marconi himself sat upright at the head of the table, his head hung down. The SWAT team leader walked up to him and lifted his head with his gun. The moment he saw his face, he dropped his gun.
The meeting had been interrupted. The family died an unexpected and torturous death. Each of them had wide open eyes, dilated pupils with yellow pus oozing out. But what was most monstrous were the garish smiles that their lips had twisted into. They had died laughing.