Twisted Strings of Fate

Chapter 32

The world is concerned with heroes. We are always looking toward heroes for guidance. They are supposed to be the best of us. Children grow up wanting to be a hero. They dress up as heroes for Halloween. We give people the title for completing large tasks, for saving others, and even for small acts of kindness. We are a culture that worships heroes.

And I am in the thick of it. So, when I finally meet someone who doesn't fit into this hero-inclined world, whose entire philosophy is completely against that of the hero, do you think I would find such a change refreshing? Not at all. In fact, I found that person to be a mockery of everything that I held dear.

Scrooge, Mrs. Beakley, Drake, Launchpad and Fenton stood in the entrance a gym. Unlike the classic gyms in America which contained an assortment of exercise machines, weights, maybe a swimming pool, running track, and locker rooms, this gym took things to the next level. In the corner, several runners jogged on treadmills overlooking one-hundred-eighty degrees of screen that featured a variety of scenery from forest paths to artic tundras. The weight machines encouraged men and women to do one more rep with deep, growly voices and silly emoticons flashing at them. Through glass windows, they could see an aerobics class being taught, the instructor demonstrating cutesy dance moves while upbeat J-pop music blared.

"This is where Tokyolk's Yakuza boss is?" Fenton asked with one raised eyebrow.

"Aye, that's what Gladstone claimed," Scrooge grumbled, trying to make himself small. He didn't fit in with these new-fangled contraptions. "Let's get this over with." Scrooge marched up to the front desk to a smiling panda. "I'm Scrooge McDuck, and I'm here to see Mr. Torataro," he announced with a snap of his cane.

The panda frowned and spoke in rapid Japanese back to him. He wondered if perhaps they should have insisted Starling come with them so they would have someone to translate.

"She said that there's no one here by that name and that you should leave immediately," Fenton said helpfully.

Mrs. Beakley smiled appreciatively. "Perhaps, next time you could mention if you speak the language, Fenton."

"Oh, I don't," the scientist said, then tapped his ear. "But I do have a translator. But it's obvious she understands English."

Scrooge frowned at the panda who glared back. "We're here to talk to Mr. Torataro on behalf of Mr. Gladstone Gander. He'll want to see us."

The panda crossed her arms.

Mrs. Beakley understood the woman's language. "She wants a bribe," she whispered to Scrooge.

"Well, she's not getting one," Scrooge said stubbornly, matching the panda's glare and crossed arms.

"Then we won't get in," Mrs. Beakley said, knowing how these kinds of the things worked.

After a minute more of the glaring contest, Scrooge folded. "Oh, alright," he growled, pulling out his wallet. He thumbed through the yen notes they had exchanged recently, pulling out a few bills.

"Do you even know the exchange rate?" Mrs. Beakley wondered with a raised eyebrow.

Scrooge added one more bill.

Mrs. Beakley reached into his wallet and took out twice as much as he held and slapped it down on the desk.

The panda, with a deadpan expression, slowly slid the pile of money off the desk and slipped it down the front of her shirt. Then she picked up a phone, waited a few seconds for someone to answer, then spoke in a hushed tone.

"I'm taking that out of your pay," Scrooge muttered to the housekeeper.

"Fine, but I'm getting a raise," Mrs. Beakley replied.

The panda put the phone down. "He'll see you now. This way." She led the group to the back of the gym where a door marked "Employees Only" with Japanese letters underneath stood. She opened the door and led them up two flights of stairs. At the top, she opened another door that led into a spacious room that was part office, part entertainment center, part spa and part personal gym. Several men and women stood at attention, wearing suits and sunglasses. There were bulges in their jackets and pants, indicating they were packing heat.

Stripped down to the waist, a male tiger faced a punching bag, taking turns hitting it with his fists then kicking it with his legs in fighting combinations. As the group walked closer, he didn't regard their presence at all. It wasn't until Scrooge cleared his throat that the tiger turned to look at him.

"Scrooge McDuck, the richest duck in the world," Torataro said in a smooth, rich voice. His accent wasn't thick but only added color to his words. "You're a long cry from Duckburg."

"I'm here to talk to you about my nephew," Scrooge said, getting down to business.

"Yes, that is what you have said," Torataro said, returning to beating the punching bag. "But I don't understand why. What is Gladstone Gander to you?"

"As I said, he's my nephew," Scrooge said.

The tiger gave the duck a toothy smile. "But he's not really. You're not even related. His real parents died when Gladstone was young and was adopted into the McDuck family. And just like many others in your family, he wasn't raised by his biological parents. You even took him into your own home for a year alongside your niece and nephew, Dumbella and Donald Duck."

Scrooge frowned. Yes, it wasn't like his family kept all of this a secret, but he didn't like that this Yakuza boss had researched his family.

"Perhaps that amount time was enough for you to form attachments to the goose," Torataro said, ending his sentence with a punch strong enough to push the punching bag almost horizontal.

"Gladstone is still family, no matter whose blood runs through his veins," Scrooge said, feeling irked. "Not that it matters. What concerns me is that a man with your reputation refuses to pay his debts, and instead of taking responsibility like an adult, acts like a spoiled child and sends out a hit on my nephew."

Torataro grabbed the bag to still it. "He cheated."

"He did not."

"He cheated with that luck of his," Torataro insisted, rhythmically performing perfect sidekicks.

"That's a natural talent, which isn't cheating," Scrooge insisted.

"You're a hypocrite and a liar," Torataro accused. "You own casinos in Las Vegas, Atlanta City, Monte Carlo, Prague, China and many other places all over the world. Is your nephew allowed in any of your casinos?"

When Scrooge refused to answer, Torataro smiled in triumphant.

"Those who can count cards, they have a natural gift for mathematics, logic, and probability, yet all casinos ban those who use this talent," Torataro continued to explain, moving away from the punching bag. From one of his men, he took a towel and started drying his fur. "It is the same with your nephew. Why do you expect me to honor my debt to him if you refuse to take on the risk to do the same?"

Scrooge sighed heavily, filled with Scottish pride. "You do have a point. But I'm not here to collect the debt. Rather, Gladstone would like to find a peaceful resolution that doesn't end with him being dead."
Torataro grunted and nodded. "But I have my reputation and honor to think of. He cheated, so if I pay him the money, my honor will be tarnished. If we both agree to forget about the money and I not kill him, I look weak. Someone might think I've gone soft and try to take my empire. So what do you suggest I do? What kind of peaceful resolution will satisfy both parties?"

Scrooge was under the impression that it didn't matter what satisfied Gladstone but what Torataro wanted. And why did he think there was nothing more that the tiger wanted than to see the half-goose dead.

"Perhaps you could win your money back," Mrs. Beakley suggested stepping up. "That would restore your honor and the debt would be won back fair and square."

"And does this goose have the ability to turn his luck on and off?" Torataro asked. "No, I will not give him a chance to make a fool of me again."

"It's not as if he can even play anymore," Scrooge said, getting an idea and running with it. "He got a right good knock on the head the other day, and he can't see straight. The doctor says he'll get better, but he can't see well enough to know which card is which."

"And you think it is better if I play an invalid. Do you want me to lose my honor entirely?" Torataro accused.

"No, he can't play. That wouldn't be fair," Scrooge said, waving off the idea. "But a substitute could play for him."

"I've had enough," Torataro said, waving his hand at the group of ducks. "Leave before I really get mad."

"No, I'm not leaving until you promise to leave my nephew alone," Scrooge demanded.

With a dangerous flash in his eyes, Torataro approached Scrooge, everything in his body language suggesting violence. Before he could get too close, Mrs. Beakley had stepped forward, grabbed the tiger's large hand and pulled it behind his back painfully, sweeping her leg underneath Torataro's so he sank to his knees.

Just as their boss was being restrained, all the men and women in the room began drawing their guns. However, they were baffled as the skinny, brown duck stepped forward, spouting nonsense, then became encased in metal armor. He stretched his arms out, weapons appearing on his forearms and shoulders. Each member of the yakuza soon had a bright, red dot on their foreheads.

"I suggest you tell your people to put their guns away," Fenton said in his Gizmoduck voice. "I don't want to hurt anyone." And this time, he had more than just pies to throw at his enemies. Gizmoduck was armed with projectiles that were meant to disarm and negate threats without being lethal with tranquilizer darts, concussion grenades, tear gas, and electric bullets.

However, they didn't need to know he wasn't lethal.

"Put them away," Torataro ordered, nothing in his voice indicating he was in pain. His people hesitantly put their guns back in their holsters, but kept an eye on Gizmoduck. Then he nodded to Scrooge, an indication he was willing to talk more.

Scrooge gave Mrs. Beakley the signal to let the Yakuza boss go.

Torataro stood up straight, towering above all of them, looking calm and collected. "I heard that you are a formidable man, Mr. McDuck, but you need to realize that money and power are two very different things," he said. He turned around and went to the wall where a black robe hung on a hook. He put this on. "Money will not fix everything."

"Then what will. I will not accept that blood shed is the only answer," Scrooge said. "And believe me, I know exactly the difference between money and power. If I have to, I'll show you just how much of the latter I have."

Torataro went to his desk and sat down, looking less like a brute and more like a businessman. "There is one thing. I'm a collector of antique paintings, and there is one piece that has eluded me for years. The man who owns it, he refuses to sell it to me year after year, no matter how much I offer. If you can get him to sell it, then I'll be open to a resolution," the tiger said calculatingly.

"Done," Scrooge said, having years of experience dealing with stubborn people. "Where is the painting and who has it?"

"My antiques dealer will accompany you," Torataro said, snapping his fingers. One woman who stood near his desk rushed away. "She will give you the details that you need."

"We don't need help. We can handle this ourselves," Scrooge said, thinking that Torataro just wanted a spy to accompany them, or worse, an assassin to kill Gladstone on sight.

"Oh, you'll want my help, Scroogie," a voice called out.

Scrooge's eyes widened.

Charity and Della glared as Gladstone sipped his first martini. As it turned out, Gladstone wasn't just talking the drink up. It had been dubbed The Best Damn Martini by the creator, who was the only person in the world who knew the secret of making them. It was one of the main draws for this exclusive club. A person had to either pay a hefty amount of money to get in, have a world-renowned name or be a gorgeous girl. A man would be allowed entry by extension if he had two girls on his arms, which was how Gladstone was admitted in by the bouncers who gave Della and Charity an approving nod.

"I feel so cheap," Della muttered, standing next to Gladstone and folding her arms so defensively.

"Oh, there's worst things than to be beautiful," Gladstone said, swirling his olive before eating it.

Charity had been excited about the party, but looking around, she found it to be a knock-off of everything she had seen on hundreds of TV shows: dark lights, pounding music, people gyrating on the dance floor, and waiters walking around with posh snacks and martinis. There was a live-band playing a pop song with three guitarist, two singers, a drummer and grand piano that sounded great alongside the electronic instruments. A balcony made a U-shape around the dance floor where people could look down on the dancers. However, unlike TV, there seemed to be a large number of males to females.

"I'm good for now, girls. Go and enjoy yourselves," Gladstone said, finishing his martini and picking up another one, moving into the crowd to converse with a random stranger.

For a few seconds, Della and Charity huddled together, unsure what to do. However, not long after Gladstone abandoning them, a pair of male ducks walked up and said something in Japanese.

"We only speak English," Della replied.

"Oh, American," one said with a smile, his accent thick. "We want to dance." As if his words weren't enough, he mimicked dancing with a partner and pointed to the crowd of flailing people.

Charity and Della looked at each other before they nodded hesitantly. They accepted the arms of the two guys and followed them onto the dancefloor. Neither one of them knew what to do in this situation, but after looking around, they were able to mimic the other dancers. After a while, Charity loosened up and enjoyed herself, bouncing up and down to the rhythm while Della's actions remained reserved and a little wooden. She was more of an old-time rock n' roll fan, and this pop music was a little too upbeat for her.

Once the song ended, Charity was quickly asked to dance by a rooster, her first dance partner easily relinquishing her to find someone else. Charity accepted, looking toward Della to see where the duck was. Della moved away off the dance floor, finding a seat near the bartender.

Charity danced song after song after song, never dancing with the same guy twice, which wasn't so bad. It was too noisy for a conversation even if they spoke the same language. Every once in a while, she glanced back at Della, who was sipping a drink and talking to a crowd that had gathered around her. From her gestures and showing off her prosthetic, she was talking about her years on the moon.

Feeling out of breath, Charity moved off the dance floor, refusing several offers for another dance. Since the seats by Della were taken, Charity moved farther along the counter where she could sit and order a drink, all of which were free as Gladstone had explained.

"I hope you don't mind that I ordered a drink for you," a voice nearby said, handing out a flute glass. A male hawk, young and lean, sat a few seats away, his slanted eyes steady on her. "I was watching you on the dance floor, and I hoped you would come over soon. Its white wine, much more sophisticated than those martinis they keep shoving in people's faces."

His voice was light and filled with humor, and Charity smiled, reaching out for the drink.

Before she could take it, another hand reached out and grabbed it. Charity watched in surprise as Gladstone tipped his head back and drained the drink in a second.

"Oh, thanks. That was good," Gladstone said, setting the glass down. "It was just what I needed. Charity, I think that's a slow song. Please, come dance with me."

Charity gave the hawk an apologetic smile and followed. The hawk glared at Gladstone and turned to face the bartender with a disapproving frown.

"Didn't anyone tell you not to accept a drink from a stranger?" Gladstone hissed as he put his hands on Charity's hips and led her in a box step in the middle of dozens of swaying partners.

Charity's mouth dropped open. "What? Did he try to—"
"Well, I'm still upright and talking without a slur, so it wasn't drugged," Gladstone said as they rotated and swayed. "But even if it wasn't, you still shouldn't have taken that drink."

"He was just trying to be nice," Charity defended.

"Or he was trying to get you drunk," Gladstone said. "If you took that drink, you might as well have a big sign on your forehead saying that you're easy."

Charity frowned and looked away. She wanted to be right in believing that people were better than that, but she knew that he was right. Not everyone had good intentions.

"Hey, don't be hard on yourself. It's not your fault," Gladstone said, twirling Charity around before bringing her back into his arms. "Just be careful from now on. If something happened to you, your four amours wouldn't let me leave Japan in once piece."

"Thank you," Charity said. "I will be more careful. But you have to promise that you won't try to save me anymore." A chill ran through her spine. If that drink had been spiked, she might have fallen in love with Gladstone.

Gladstone raised an eyebrow. "Am I that detestable to you?" His smile was derisive and sad.

Charity frowned. "Well, I'll admit, you aren't my favorite person. But…there is some good in you."

"Wow, high praise," Gladstone joked.

Charity smiled. "But just a little."

At that, Gladstone threw back his head and laughed. "Just don't tell anyone else," he said. The song ended, and he bowed to the lovebird and kissed her hand. He led her off the dance floor as an upbeat pop song started and snagged a martini from a passing waiter. "Let's get you a drink. What kind do you like?"

"I'm not sure," Charity said with a shrug.

"Do you drink?"

"Yeah, but it's only been beer with Launchpad and sometimes wine when my parents take me to a nice restaurant," Charity replied.

"Gosh, are you, like, twenty-one or something? How long have you been drinking?" Gladstone teased. "Well, that just means you're a light weight. You should have champagne."

At first Charity was irked at how pushy Gladstone was, but the way he seemed so at-home in this kind of place, perhaps he knew what he was talking about. From the bartender, she took the flute glass with bubbly liquid then took a drink, surprised at how sweet and carbonated it was. It was like drinking a soda with a small kick.

Gladstone moved toward the stairs and Charity followed, curious what it looked like up there. The stairs were unique in that the steps were built into the wall on one side and remained open on the other side.

"This is a bright idea with people drinking," Charity said, looking over the edge.

Up on the balcony, they watched the people on the dance floor as they sipped their drinks, Gladstone taking another martini when he finished his.

How many had he had? He must have had quite a few with how fast he drank them, but he didn't act drunk.

"Oh, what is Della up to? Can't I take her anywhere without her embarrassing me?" Gladstone said. From their position, they could see Della's crowd around her corner of the bar. From what it looked like, Della was challenging everyone to an arm wrestle, having rolled up the sleeves of her kimono in a brutish nature.

"Here, hold my drink," Gladstone said, handing Charity his martini before descending the stairs with the intent of having a stern talking to his cousin.

Charity watched, drinking the last of her champagne, when someone grabbed her arm, turning her around. The grip was strong and insistent, but when she saw the smiling face of the hawk, she relaxed.

"Hey, was that guy bothering you?" the hawk asked, indicating Gladstone.

"Oh, no, he's not. He's a friend," Charity said. "Sorry about the drink earlier. He's really…He's like that a lot," she said, trying to be polite. She was going to say that Gladstone was protective, but she didn't want the hawk to think if she thought he was a pervert or something.

"Oh, no problem. Do you want to dance?" he asked, grabbing her hand.

Charity pulled away, giving him a polite smile. "No, I think I'm done for a while."

"Come on. Just one dance," the hawk insisted, reaching out and putting his hand on her arm. "My dad owns the club."

Red flags started flashing for Charity, and she realized that Gladstone may have had better instincts than she did. "Um…no. Maybe later," she placated with no intention of following through.

"Then let me get you another drink. What do you want?" the hawk insisted.

Charity moved along the guardrail toward the stairs, still holding her empty flute glass and Gladstone's martini. "No, thank you. In fact, I think I've had enough." She wasn't even buzzed, a fact she was glad that she wasn't impaired by the alcohol. "I'm going to find my friends, but I'll see you around."

She shouldn't have been so nice, she determined later, because as she was going down the stairs, she was roughly grabbed again. "Let me go," she told the hawk, pulling away but his grip was too strong.

"What is it? Is that you like ducks better? Or do you like older guys, huh?" the hawk demanded, no longer smiling. "Aren't I good enough for you?"

"Get away from me," Charity said, pushing with one hand. For some reason, she kept a hold of that stupid martini, the liquid sloshing dangerously around in the glass.

"Hey, you heard the lady." Another man—an American by his accent—stepped in, grabbing the hawk's arm. "Don't be a jerk."

"Back off," the hawk said, shoving away the other guy. "Or I'll have my father throw you out."

"Hey, ease up, pal. I'm just helping out. You're drunk," the American defended, not backing down.

Just as the Hawk grabbed the other guy and threw a punch, his body collided with Charity's, pushing her to the edge of the stairs.

Flailing her arm—the other still trying to save the martini—Charity felt weightless as she lost her balance. As she fell, she let go of the drink so she could do anything to save herself.

Gladstone pulled Della away from her fans. Perhaps it was time to leave. The free drinks were great, but this party was no longer the delight it used to be. He hadn't seen a single familiar face the entire time he was there, and several girls he talked to had complained of sleazy men hitting on them. He had been gone from Tokyolk too long. The hot spots had moved, which meant he was out of the loop.

"Let's get Charity and ditch this place," Gladstone told his cousin, looking up along the balcony for the lovebird.

"Great, right when I started having fun," Della pouted.

Then the atmosphere was pierced by a scream, one loud and shrill enough to be heard over the live band.

Gladstone and Della looked up in time to see Charity tipping over the stairs. Without thinking, Gladstone raced forward, his mind going over Charity's request. Don't save her? Did she know what she was asking? Was the curse that bad that she would risk death?

Diving to the floor, Gladstone stretched his fingers out, his hands enfolding around the slender stem of his martini glass, the liquid sloshing delicately in the bowl followed by the olive splash-landing without spilling a drop.

"Thank goodness," Gladstone said, standing up and holding out the drink as if giving a toast.

A second later, Charity face planted the grand piano that stopped her fall short several feet. She moaned, rolling onto her back.

"Are you okay?" Gladstone asked, leaning against the piano and sipping his martini, aware of the whole club watching him.

"Yeah, I think," Charity moaned. "I mean, I've had enough experience to know that I'm not bleeding internally."

"That's good," he said, taking her hand and helping her into a sitting position. "She's fine, folks. She's going to be okay," he said, holding out her hand as if this was a performance.

A few people clapped. Most returned to their earlier activities while a few lingered, asking if Charity was really okay.

"Gladstone, what the crap was that? Why didn't you do anything?" Della demanded, punching her cousin in the arm.

"But I did something. I did nothing, which is exactly what Charity wanted me to do," Gladstone said, making Charity stay sitting on the piano until she was in better control of her faculties.

To be honest, Gladstone had the full intention of catching Charity. But when he saw the grand piano right underneath her, he knew that it would be impossible. She would have hit the piano before he could jump on top of the instrument and help her. He also saw that she would only have a four-foot drop before hitting wood, which was better than an eight-foot fall on marble flooring. He had to hope his luck would help the lovebird would only get minor injuries, and act the part of a buffoon when catching his drink.

"Can we leave now?" Charity asked, her voice soft as she slid off the piano.

"I was just thinking the same thing," Gladstone said, staying by her side.

Della held onto Charity's other shoulder as they headed to the exit.

"Wait a minute. Where are you going?" a Japanese-accented voice boomed at them. A large hawk barred their way, a big smile on his beak.

"We're leaving," Gladstone said, recognizing the owner of the club. He had gotten fatter since the last time he saw him.

"What's the hurry? Have another drink? Perhaps you have a song request I could give the band. They know a lot of English songs," the hawk pressured them, his over-bearing nature so heavy that Charity and Della took a step back.

But Gladstone stood his ground even when the hawk was practically in his face.

"My friend isn't feeling well. In fact, she had a little accident because of your stupid staircase. You might want to have a hand rail installed before somebody gets killed," Gladstone said calmly.

"Please, do not go to the police. My son did nothing, isn't that right, Hiro?" The club owner said, pulling his son toward him.

It was the hawk that had offered Charity a glass of wine.

Gladstone wouldn't have cared a spit about the owner's son except he felt Charity step behind him ever so slightly. "What do you mean your son did nothing?" he asked, getting an idea of what happened on the subtle clues. "Why would you bring that up?"

Hiro hissed, his face scowling.

"Did you push Charity off the stairs?" Gladstone accused.

"I didn't touch the sparrow, okay," Hiro shot back before his father pushed him away.

"It was an accident. He meant no harm," the owner said, bowing.

"And if she says otherwise, then it's my word against the whore," the hawk growled.

Gladstone put his hands in his jacket pocket, looking calm and almost sleepy, a smile on his beak. But despite his outward appearance, he boiled inside. "You know, call me old-fashioned, but I was raised that men shouldn't be using that kind of language around ladies. You never swear around ladies, always take 'no' as a straight answer, and never raise a hand to a lady."

"She ain't no lady," Hiro sneered.

"And if a man did cross those lines, then they should accept the consequences," Gladstone said.

"What consequences? As I said, it's her word against mine," Hiro scoffed.

Gladstone's smile widened. "Bad luck."

A second later, all the lights exploded in a shower of sparks and flashes, raining down to the floor and guests. A cacophony of screams and shouts rose above the sounds of the lights blowing out followed by feet running for cover and bodies bumping into each other in the dark.

Gladstone watched with sadistic glee as he saw Hiro and his father cower at the display, although he had put his arms around Charity and Della, keeping them near him, which was the only spot that didn't get a shower of sparks. Della huddled near him, but Charity grabbed onto his arm, shaking, although he wasn't sure if it was all because of the sparks.

"Well, look at that," Gladstone said once the electric show was over and the panic had quieted. "You might be out of business for a while. Too bad. Those were the best Best Damn Martinis." Loosening his grip on the girls, he led them through the dark without stumbling or running into anything or anyone, stopping by the bag check-in to pick up Charity's purse.

Out in the open air of the night, Della looked up at her cousin in awe. "I didn't know you could do that, Gladstone."

"Do what?" Gladstone said, feigning ignorance.

"That. Whatever that was," Della said, pointing back into the building. "It was like the opposite of your luck."

"It was still luck," Gladstone said, revealing a little of his secret. "What do you think happens to all my bad luck?"

(Author's note: I hope everyone had a happy Halloween. And just to let everyone know, I've been thinking of that scene where Charity falls for months. I'm so mean to her. LOL)