18:47 April 3rd 1996; Rouanpour, Thailand
The air smelt dirty, and yet it was familiar. The sound of the ocean and the chirping of the seagulls all gave him chills, flashbacks to Hawaii. As though he saw a ghost, he saw his old friend 'Beard' putting an arm around a ghostly image of himself, as the phantom reflection flashed the peace sign. Snapping out of his trance, he finally stepped off the boat and walked toward the southern road. Every corner he turned, there was nothing but gangsters, criminals, or prostitutes. Each one looking like they had a gun, maybe he fit in more than he thought, he always had a piece himself. He came to the building, just barely looking like it wasn't abandoned. The plain, painted sign read "Ransap Inn", perfect for what he needed. He slowly stepped in the lobby, and placed a wad of cash on the counter, and without breaking his stride, took a key for the room at the end of the hall.
The hotel room was the only one behind a fireproof wall, though he knew if someone tried to find him, they could just shoot it. But that would buy him some time at least. The room was small, and plane, with only a bed, desk, dresser, and TV. On the Desk sat a cordless phone, on its charging station. He pinned newspaper clippings on the wall, each one describing various criminal activity in Rouanpour, each one mentioning "Hotel Moscow''. While he studies the clippings, the phone rang. Slowly, he walked toward the phone, staring at it as it rang. He finally answered, before he could even open his mouth the voice on the other end jovially said,
"Hello, this is Mike from the pest control agency! We're having a pest problem over on North 39th Ave, do you think you can come in today?" He hung up abruptly, and grabbed a duffle bag, filled with rubber masks, and knew exactly what he needed to do. He left the building, hickory baseball bat in hand, and looked around briefly, settling on a half decent car; he didn't need to make a quick getaway anyway. He sped to the address given to him, and looked up at the bar, it wasn't too big, but he knew how these guys worked, there was a second floor, and a basement, and they definitely had gambling rackets, either that or gun running. Pulling a rubber chicken mask from his bag he sighed, knowing that he'd need to rely on his killing instinct once again. Slipping it onto his head, he had become Richard once more. The building seemed nice enough for a bar with a maximum occupancy of about 100 people. But his main target was the basement for now. The bartender looked up and back down again, focusing on cleaning the whisky glasses.
"We're closed... get lost." Richard only held up a badge, and emblem of a red star, engraved with a hammer and sickle crossed together. The bartender just shrugged and sighed, barely paying attention to the man in front of him. "Downstairs. Door's behind you, over there." Richard turned around, his movements like Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. Behind the door was just a staircase that seemed to go down for miles, yet he could still see a faint light at the bottom.
Slowly, he descended the stairs, listening to each creak of the old wooden stairs. When he finally reached the bottom he saw a man in a dark blue suit, and red tie. He looked different from the ones Richard knew, they all had white suits back in Miami. He sat by an old fireproof door. The makeshift vault could block some small caliber rounds, but it definitely wasn't going to stop an AK. The guard looked up at the tall man in a chicken mask.
"No masks. We do business face to face." His accent was definitely Russian, and it only brought out that rage, and desire for vengeance once again. Jacket felt it all come back in an instant. With lightning speed Richard swung the bat at the man's head, the impact creating a loud crack. The man's head now missing half its teeth, bent at a frightening angle, and nose cracked and bleeding profusely. As he fell to the ground, blood poured out from the massive gash at the top of head, like something out of a snuff movie.
That was just the beginning, This was only the first of what Richard vowed to be hundreds. He went through the door, and saw three men all at a wooden table, inspecting, and putting together Kalashnikov rifles. Oddly, they were all in white suits. The sight made Richard sick to his stomach, his hands shook, his whole body feeling like it was fire. He charged toward the men, his thumping footsteps giving his charge right away. But before any of them could reach for a gun, he had swung his bat, at two of them. Smashing one in the face, making it completely unrecognizable.
The other got off a little more lucky, Richard only hit him in the ribs this time, each one stabbing his lungs. He fell to the ground and vomited blood, as he took his final wheezes of life. The last one ran off, seeing what this man was capable of made him afraid to even look at him. Richard, however, cared so little about their resistance that he only casually walked after him. Then there was shouting, in Russian.
"Tovarishchi! Mne nuzhna pomoshchʹ! My atakovany!" Richard hated the fact he knew Russian, and he hated that he even had to hear the language. He had to fight the urge to vomit right there.
"Mne skazatʹ kapitan?" Richard went from his casual stride to a brisk jog, reaching the corner where he saw the third man in a white suit and one more in an old soviet army uniform. With one swing Richard hit both of their heads, watching them fall, lifeless, to the ground. There was an open room to his left, probably more guns being held there, then he heard more footsteps running his way. He guessed about four people, and no doubt each would be armed, but he couldn't allow any gunshots, the bartender would hear and investigate. With the blind faith of a preacher, he threw his bat directly to his left, and managed to hit someone directly in his face.
Dazed, the man stood up on his feet like he was using his limbs for the first time. Richard ran to him, grabbing his bat, and slammed it down on his head. He smashed the man's head again, and again and again, each thwack turning the Russians head into a bloody mush. Another charged at him with a crowbar, one of Richard's favorites. The man met Richard's bat with his belly and the impact practically made him feel like his organs turned inside out, only to have his skull cracked completely, the internal bleeding killing him immediately. The other two men hesitated slightly, as Richard picked up the crowbar.
This would prove fatal. The madman moved faster than any human they had ever seen, with a flash he took a swing at one of them, hitting one of them in the head, sending his jaw flying off. Then he turned to the other soldier, using the hooked end of the crowbar into his abdomen, creating a huge gash that poured blood onto the floor, as if he was in a Quentin Tarantino murder scene. Richard looked at the carnage around him, hearing a rifle being cocked. There was one left, and had an AK. He waited for the man to come down the corridor, throwing the crowbar aside, wanting to finish this with his bare hands. It was another man in a soviet military uniform, and this only made it easier to get especially violent with him.
Richard threw a devastating haymaker, followed by a left hook, knocking the soldier down on his ass. He was on top of the ruskie in seconds, and grabbed his head, clutching it like a table vice. With the force of a semi truck he slammed the man's head into the ground over, and over, and over. Even as he could hear his skull crack more, and more, and see the blood spatter grow bigger and bigger Richard wouldn't stop. At last he took his hands off his head and looked at what he had done. He took a big deep breath, reaching down, grabbing the soldier's dog tags and yanking them off, putting them in his pocket. Then we went back to the other man in a military uniform, and stole his too.
Walking over the bloody and mangled corpses of the Russians, he took a deep breath, ascending the stairs and headed toward the back door. He felt relief that the bartender had gone home by now, the last thing he needed was a witness. He went around the alley and found his car again, removing Richard and throwing him in the back. He started the car, and drove up the road, being sure to obey the traffic laws. Jacket didn't want to head straight back to the hotel, it wasn't in his routine. He drove downtown and looked for a place he could relax, and just have a drink. Everywhere seemed like it was a wild west saloon, ready to explode in a Mexican standoff.
Finally he settled on a nice looking place, The Yellowflag Bar. It was just as volatile as every other bar in the city, but somehow Jacket was drawn to it. A fight had broken out the instant he opened the door, one man tackling another to the ground, knocking a table over. The Vietnamese man behind the bar shouted at them in a gravely, yet high pitched voice.
"Take it outside! I'd like to have one night where I don't have to fix something in my bar!" Jacket walked past them, as though they didn't exist, and sat down at the bar. The bartender looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"What's with the get-up? You lost a bet?" Jacket didn't reply, just sitting there, his arms on the table.
"You want something or not? If you want information, that'll cost you." Jacket replied by pointing at a bottle of Bacardi, and placing a wad of cash on the table. Bao had worked at the bar long enough to know what that meant. One glass, leave the bottle. He placed them both on the counter and turned around, going back to his newspaper. Jacket poured his drink to the very top of the glass, and chugged it all. He slammed the glass down and sighed with content. Before he could even start pouring his next glass, someone suddenly sat down next to him. A woman with red hair, boy shorts, and a very small tank top, leaving her stomach exposed. She had two customized M92's, which she no doubt knew how to use efficiently.
"Why don't you pull the broom out of your ass, and have a fuckin' drink! We got a bonus, why not celebrate?" Her vulgar speech pattern reminded Jacket of his old comrade, and friend "Barns".
"I was hoping we could go at least one night outside the bar, maybe just... relax I guess." The man with her complained. He stuck out like a sore thumb, he had an aura around him, like he was uncorrupted by the city. Though he wasn't pure ether. Jacket looked at the pair, and caught the attention of the Chinese woman. She chuckled at him, condescending, pointing her thumb at him.
"Get a look at this guy, Rock! He's got a worse sense of style than you do!" She leaned back in the bar stool, nearly falling flat on her back. It wasn't uncommon for Revy to meet a few strange characters in Roanapour, but with the brown letterman jacket, with tan sleeves, the sky blue jeans, and taped fists this guy took the cake, at least in how he dressed. She turned to the man she called 'Rock' and laughed along with him, but the Japanese man didn't seem to laugh quite as earnestly as his friend. He seemed off, like he was a lamb among a pack of wolves. If he had ever even fired a gun, he either always missed, or used blanks. He let his tie loose and sat next to her, giving her a genuine smile.
"Says the one who bought the ugliest Hawaiian shirt that ever existed for me. Unless you bought it to make fun of me for wearing it." He joked. She scoffed, and pouted angrily, rolling her eyes as she held up two fingers in front of the bartender
"Bao! Bottle of Bacardi, two glasses, and leave the bottle."
The bartender nodded and did just as she said. Revy downed her rum faster than anyone in the bar, then tapped Jacket's shoulder. She looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes, holding her glass by the top.
"So, Blondy, how does it feel to be the living embodiment of synthwave? Maybe you should head to Miami, they'd love you there." Her sarcasm didn't phase Jacket, just annoyed him. He turned his head to meet her eye to eye. At the moment, time stood still. It felt like they had known each other for years, they were the same thing. They were both monsters. One a result of abuse by family and authorities, an impoverished upbringing and self loathing, the other from grief for his friend, guilt from failing him, and hatred for those who did this to him. Both saw twisted, yet familiar, reflections of themselves.
Revy grinned wildly, giving out a raspy chuckle, and downed another glass of rum again.
"This city attracts some real fuckin' weridos, especially other killers." She tilted her head back to pour a third glass of liquor down her throat.
Slamming her glass down on the bar she looked back at the mystery man next to her
"For a fuckin' mute with no name, you stand out like a sore thumb. Not everyday I get to see one of my own kind, around here. The walking dead." Jacket paused.
"Yeah, I can smell it on ya, we're both dead, aren't we? Never thought Roanapur could get even shittier, but here you are. At least I'm not gonna be bored! My trigger finger's twitching already, thinking about what kinda trouble you're gonna cause. And I want to see what you can do for myself!" Jacket never broke eye contact. The same light scowl frozen on his face since he arrived quickly transformed into a small smile, and a nod. Standing up, after what had only felt like two drinks, he returned to his car, and drove back to the motel, only stopping to pick up a local newspaper. Getting back to his room, he neatly cut out yet another article about "Hotel Moscow", and one more talking about a local gun running operation in the city, and the police's inability, or unwillingness to find it.
He pondered for a second and wondered where was the one place he didn't think he'd have to look. Then it dawned on him. The Church!
