An Alcoholic by Any Other Name

Chapter 2

10 years later…

"I don't care if that damn new agent is rising up the ranks in our organization," Gin muttered angrily, slamming a glass down. "I'm sick and tired of being asked if that Moroboshi fool is related to me. Just because we have similar hair styles, all of the senior agents now have the audacity to take liberties with my name and rank."

He looked down at the new agent who had made one comment too many about his hair, and was now clutching his leg in extreme agony.

"Oh, shut up," said Gin. "It's just a bullet wound. You should be used to them by now, if you've worked here even half as long as I have.'"

"BUT MY LEEEGGG! Damn you, Gin! What did I do to you this time?!" the agent angrily protested from the floor.

"If you must know, you mentioned my hair and that idiot in the same sentence. I trust you'll refrain from making that mistake again in the future?"

Not trusting himself to speak, the agent fearfully nodded.

Gin just grunted in acknowledgment. "Honestly. The weaklings the Boss keeps hiring just keep getting more and more pathetic."

Turning back to his drink, he continued muttering to himself. "I'll bet That Person hired him just so he could get his laughs as that bastard gets under my skin! What kind of name is Rye, anyways? It's not even a real alcohol. Sounds more like some kind of germ. My code name is more refined than his is, for what that's worth." Taking a swig of his drink, he proclaimed, "I'm going to regret working for this organization if I have to regularly put up with that scum!"

It was lucky for Gin that this particular bar was one frequented by the members of the Black Organization, and therefore completely unknown to any even remotely upstanding member of society. Otherwise, Gin's continuous string of complaints could very well have landed him in some hot water with the authorities. His threats of violent reprisal, and said actions of violent reprisal, were sadly all too common for this bar, and there was always a dedicated cleaning crew who specialized in the removal of bloodstains.

The bartender glanced over at Gin from time to time, as if afraid that Gin would turn his next drunken ire over to him. Luckily, Gin was more concerned with drowning his complaints in alcohol than picking fights with everyone who irritated him.

Gin had taken to drinking after several of his missions. It started innocuous enough, but soon he was going through at least two bottles a week. Contrary to his boss's original belief, the organization was attracting more and more attention, as each mission led to greater stakes than what Gin was used to four years previous. The "Black Organization," as it was now referred to, quickly garnered the attention of every major law enforcement agency across the continents. There were no infiltrators as of yet (so far as Gin knew), but he had come across files pertaining to the exploits of his employer while infiltrating a CIA outpost operating in Japan. Gin took great pleasure in burning that warehouse to the ground and pinning the blame on a radical nationalist group operating in its vicinity.

Still, despite his exploits, he found himself to be constantly exasperated by his subordinates, whom he had to strictly chastise whenever a mission threatened to go wrong.

Finishing his glass, Gin paused to reflect on the other aspects of his job. "At least the pay is good, and I have the right to kill anyone I choose if they aren't doing their job properly. My partner is competent enough, though I often wonder what the boss saw in him when he was hired. If he can't even deduce a mole from a single unlisted call made on a burner phone, he has no place in this organization. It's not as if it's that hard to trace, what with the technology we've helped ourselves to."

Most of this equipment came from businessmen who were blackmailed by the organization, but the real advancement that unnerved Gin was in the Biological Development Laboratory. This was where the Boss had funneled most of his funding through in the hope that he might find some clue to the secret of immortality. That was what the Boss slipped to Gin one day as they were sharing drinks one day in celebration over a noticeably successful mission, though Gin suspected there was more to this story than the Boss was revealing.

"How is my favorite agent doing?" the Boss asked as he poured himself another drink. "I trust there were no problems with that nosy foreign investigator. What was his name again? Peterson, wasn't it?"

"Who?" replied Gin, sipping his drink indifferently.

"You remember. That nosy bastard sticking his face into our operations. I had you dispose of him just last week."

"Sorry. Don't remember him. Was he that blonde man who was asking questions about our Ginza branch?"

The boss paused to consider, before shaking his head. "That was the police officer Kaneda who fell off a bridge last month."

Gin frowned in contemplation. "Hrrmmn. I'll take your word on that."

"So you really don't remember him?"

"No. Should I?"

Waving his hand airily, the Boss replied, "Not really. I suppose it makes no difference. That said, I brought you up here to see if you had any particular opinion about the new hiring process I've initiated."

Gin refilled his glass, and used that moment to gather his thoughts. "I have been noticing a trend in the increasing headstrong nature of the new recruits. They seem to feel that they have a right to criticize their superiors' judgment and often take their time in accomplishing their intended missions."

The Boss chuckled. "As I recall, you had that same tendency early on in your work at the company. Always eager to prove yourself to the organization, I believe. Gin, the eternal perfectionist"

"Nonetheless, I don't appreciate having to cover for these operatives. They should be able to handle their own missions without the need for my assistance."

"Give it time. I'm sure the agents will blossom into fine liquors, much like yourself. Just give them time, and things will take care of themselves."

Gin frowned, but accepted the Boss's words. "We'll see," he muttered as he finished off his drink.

ooo

Back at the bar…

Despite the Boss's promises, there was one particular agent who was a persistent thorn in his side. Her name was Vermouth, and she constantly irritated Gin whenever she walked into the room he occupied.

He poured himself another glass, working himself up even further.

"That damn demon woman! It's not enough that I had to work my ass off to cover up for any indiscretion the peons make, but now I have to constantly deal with that harlot. I don't care if that bitch is his lover, secretary, or even his damn daughter. Cozying up to the Boss like that, it's as if she's trying to rub it in my face that she's on a higher level as I am. It's infuriating!"

Her espionage skills may be adequate, but her ruthlessness leaves much to be desired. Her sentimentality is going to get all of us killed one day, and I refuse to put my head on the same block as hers. If she attempts to seduce me one more time, I'm going to take my garrote wire and tear off her head!"

The sound of a door opening broke Gin out of his liquor-induced monologue. He barely glanced up from his drink, but kept one eye on the mirror behind the bar. Gin sighed in resignation when he caught a tuft of platinum-blonde hair at the edge of the reflection.

"Well, isn't this a nice surprise. I come home from an exhausting mission, and there's my favorite liquor waiting for me."

Gin refused to dignify that statement with a response. He merely sat still in his chair, his glare fixated on her reflection in the mirror, as Vermouth sauntered over to him.

"My, what are we going to do with you, Gin? All of these bodies you leave lying around make quite a mess."

Gin sniffed in disdain. "And what of your messes? Don't tell me you just finished playing with another agent. How you managed to worm your way into this position is revolting."

Vermouth pouted impetuously, casually raising the glass Gin had finished to her lips. "I must say you have excellent taste in liquors, Gin. A Johnny Walker, and a Black Label, no less. Not a fan of your namesake?"

Gin shot her a venomous look, and scathingly retorted, "Do us both a favor, and choke on a bullet."

Vermouth reeled back in surprise, a display of shock and hurt affection on her face. "Well, now. That's no way to treat a lady. I came here as a favor for you, and this is the thanks I get?"

Gin actually snorted, hearing that remark. Of course, he did it in as dignified manner as it was possible to be, under the circumstances of him being completely intoxicated. "I don't need any favors from you. From what rumors I've heard, you are more of a hag than a lady. Isn't it time you gave up performing by now?"

Slapping her hand down hard on the counter, Vermouth used her other hand to sweep the glasses off and sent them crashing to the floor. She leaned over and glared at Gin, staring him dead in the eyes. "That's a laugh, coming from you. A full head of grey hair at your age should have landed you in a retirement home by now, or preferably a coffin!"

Gin verbally fired back in as malicious a tone as Vermouth used to accentuate her scathing insult. "This coming from a sow who uses her position here to whore herself for our boss? Stop trying to humiliate yourself further." He shot her a contemptuous look, as he his lip curled in disgust.

Vermouth reeled back incensed, but suddenly stopped short, while her eyes narrowed in crafty amusement. She smirked, and ran her fingers over the silver strands of Gin's hair. "That almost hurt me, Gin. I'll tell you what. You stop referring to me as a scarlet woman and I'll stop spreading rumors about your illicit affair with that long-haired friend of yours. I'm sure that the new hires will be highly amused to hear about your torrid relationship with—"

Gin grabbed her wrist, and raising her arm slightly, jerked Vermouth towards him so that their faces were a mere three inches apart.

"If you ever try to touch my hair again like that, I'll chop off your hand and feed it to the first stray I come across. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the Boss himself, but I assure you that it will be the last mistake you ever make." Every syllable Gin spoke dripped with unspoken promise that he would do precisely that, and accomplish it with no emotion save for the satisfaction of ridding himself of a mosquito.

Vermouth smiled and licked her lips, then suddenly brought them forward to meet Gin's. His eyes widened lightly in surprise, as he felt the soft brush of her lipstick while her mouth moved in a rhythmic pattern that she had used to drive CEO's mad with intoxication. For Vermouth, a kiss was simply a means of asserting her dominance over the male sex, and she had utilized every one of her feminine wiles over the years to coax men's secrets out of them before executing them or leaving them to face the inquisition of a scandal.

Gin wasn't one to take any sort of challenge or threat to his authority lightly, as it only encouraged people to keep testing them, so he responded in kind. Grabbing her shirt right where her center of gravity would be, Gin shoved Vermouth off of her chair while forcing her back to the wall as his lips tried to overpower hers. Vermouth glared at him through venomous eyes. No man would have power over her, her mouth tried to say as she forced her head forward in a resurgence of strength.

It was full-on mouth-to-mouth warfare, as each agent stubbornly refused to relinquish control to the other. In the background, a side door opened, and a relatively young agent slowly entered into the room. At first, he didn't quite register what he was seeing, but once he identified the two figures against the wall, he let out a short "EEP!" and hastily tried to exit the way he had come in.

A dark shadow flashed over Gin's eyes, and he turned his head to find the source of this disturbance, and end it. As soon as he found the agent, his eyes locked in target upon the now-quivering man, who was barely holding himself together facing Gin's fierce glare. Gin stormed over, pulling out his gun and swiftly attached a silencer as he stared down the terrified agent.

Vermouth grabbed the collar of Gin's jacket, and pulled him towards her. "Oh, just leave him be. It's more fun this way, with a witness." Turning to the man, she fixed her own glare on the agent who was pressing himself against a chair, and it petrified him with fear as much as Gin's look did. There was something about the eyes that spoke of hellish retribution if he so much as breathed a word of what he saw.

Returning her gaze towards Gin, her eyes suddenly shifted to a crafty leer. Gin let out an involuntary shudder at seeing that particular expression. It spoke of suppressed lust mixed with saucy determination, and Gin promptly redirected his gun at her, shoving it into her chest just below her ribcage.

Vermouth was not to be deterred, that pressure only egged her on. Licking her lips, she snarked, "Oh, lighten up Gin. I know you're not going to shoot me. You wouldn't want to upset dear old daddy if he has to deal with the fallout my corpse could bring. Damn! All that testosterone is such a rush! Come on, then. Show me you know the real way to use your gun, you arrogant bastard!"

Fighting the urge to just shoot her and damn the consequences, Gin retorted, "I don't take orders from bitchy jackals like yourself. Fuck. You." as his eyes filled started filling with barely muzzled rage and something else that was indescribable.

Ejecting sharply, Vermouth smirked and replied, "That's the idea."

…

For the next three hours, sounds of rough screaming and loud thumps could be heard from the inner sanctum of that bar. Any agent who came decided to poke his head in to find out what was causing this disturbance quickly gave up as he felt a wave of killing intent wash over him. No. Scratch that. Two waves of killing intent that were crashing atop one another, causing a fierce lingering presence of aggression and hostility that was laced with the faint hint of carnal satisfaction.

Elsewhere, the boss chuckled to himself, feeling the inexplicable urge to laugh at the sense of someone suffering to a jarring tear in the fabric of sense and sanity.