Claw Marks
Happy Snax Warehouse, Downtown, Medean
The crowd roars as the combatants in the ring face up to each other. Two men, caucasian, twenties, look bloody murder into each other's eyes as they wait for the referee to call a start. The ropes are made of razorwire, and they wear brass knuckles instead of gloves. One man, maybe the younger of the two, wears a white suit with a blood-red panther's head emblazoned across his chest. His hear is long, but for tonight it's tied up close to the back of his head and clipped tight down the back of his suit so it doesn't get in his way. The other man wears a night-black bodysuit and face- mask. The referee yells to the crowd.
"Have I got any White Panthers in here?" The corrugated iron warehouse, cleared of crates of semi-legal goods and a couple hundred boxes of ammunition to make room for the fight, rattles to yells, screams and battle cries. "Black Ninjas, give your man some noise!" The other half of the audience puts up an even louder din. "It's midsummer night once again, so let the pound-out begin! 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Go!" The referee vaults backwards out of the ring, and the crowd surrounding it grab him and hoist him up onto their shoulders.
All of which basically means that, being the referee, I get the best view.
The two of them lay into each other with a vengeance - this is the annual grudge match between two of Medean's biggest gangs, after all. Thing is, the guys doing the fighting have got so much muscle on them that they're hardly feeling it anyway. One minute in, and the only real effect is that both combatants have a couple less teeth. Since this is going on for a while, and there aren't really any rules to enforce, I let my mind drift back to twenty years ago, when this tradition first got started . . .
Midsummer Night
Panthers and Ninjas had first noticed each others' existence six months previously, and both started shooting the other side to pieces with great enthusiasm. The various people caught in the crossfire weren't so enthusiastic, and both gangs started losing protection money, goodwill and loyalty in their respective territories. That combined with the casualties was going to destroy them both, and they knew it, but neither wanted to be seen as having backed down. Which is where I came in. By some fairly energetic telephone work I'd managed to convince both gang leaders to meet in the Happy Snax Warehouse. I'd had the place modified for the occasion. They (and the half-dozen men they each brought as bodyguards) entered the warehouse through opposite doors, and were presented with the following sight : A glass wall, and maybe three feet behind it, a mirror wall. Isn't half-silvered glass great - but I digress.
The other thing they saw was me. Floor-length Afghan and the shades I affected up until about '84, when I realised they looked like shit and jumped up and down on them. I turned to face the Panthers (the Ninjas seeing me perfectly well in the mirror), smiled, and started talking in measured tones.
"I have had enough of Panthers and Ninjas spilling each other's, and everybody else's, blood on the streets of my city. I am telling you now that it is time for a truce - time to meet and find a solution that doesn't get the whole fucking lot of you killed." Both groups were now muttering about how they'd never be able to get within half a mile of a parley without getting ambushed, so I look straight down the centre of my little partition and whipped both fists out straight, shattering the silvered glass and leaving them facing each other.
Which is when the shooting started.
When they all finally ran out of ammunition and/or realised that the glass had actually been double-glazing and I hadn't shattered the outer, bulletproof layer, I yelled across the stunned silence before they started hurling insults.
"Don't you dare start fucking shouting or I'll laughing-gas the lot of you!" And they knew that I would. So they calmed down somewhat. So I carried on. "The turf that you're seriously contesting is what, a half-mile radius round this warehouse?" Murmurs and nods. "Right. In which case, I propose that your two leaders settle it, man to man, no armour, no weapons, tonight. Winner takes all. And yes, I'm well aware that whoever loses is going to be screaming for a rematch. So you'll get one. This night, Midsummer's Night, every year. Honour is satisfied, nobody loses face and I can go for a pint in the neighbourhood without risking getting my face blown off. Agreed?"
Nods, murmurs, mutters. I raise my voice, just slightly. "Agreed?" "Agreed" comes the reply back from both of the gang leaders, who've been sizing each other up while they were muttering and have both decided they're going to win.
The fight started ten minutes later, and was over in twenty seconds when a really crappy punch from the Ninjas' leader (crack shot with a gun, punched like a girl - you just can't get the staff, can you?) lucked out and broke the Panther head honcho's jaw. At which point I laughing-gassed the lot of them, just for kicks. And to stop the Panthers picking up guns and re-starting the war I'd just managed to end.
And as we left, looking for somewhere to get good and hammered, a monster hiding in the shadows nodded his approval and started getting ready to die.
Present Day
Buoyed up by hands from both gangs, I watch as the Ninjas' fighter smashes a flurry of blows into his opponent's midriff; I come back to reality just in time to catch the sound of ribs cracking. But the Panther just keeps on coming, smashes his opponent hard in the face and then picking him up bodily from the floor. While it's considered bad form to throw the opponent clear out of the ring, halfway out is perfectly acceptable, and I can see just the right muscles tensing in the Panther's body. Unfortunately for him, so does the Ninja, and as the Panther is just about to let go, the Ninja competitor uses the momentum to throw his body into a mid-air spin that brings both his feet into his opponent's chin. There's an unfortunate crunch, and the Panther goes rigid and collapses, neck broken.
The crowd screams, and half a dozen Panthers pull guns - only to be beaten unconscious by their wiser comrades. This generally happens, meaning I don't have to release the laughing gas more than about once every five years. I fish through my pockets, and find the radio mike.
"Well, after four straight years of the Panthers controlling the Happy Snax area, I guess it's about time the Ninjas got their own back. Naturally, both gang leaders will contribute significant sums to the funeral of the fallen warrior," they nod their assent, "may he rest in peace." The two gang leaders leap onto the stage, one to help his combatant to stand as adrenaline flees and he starts to realise how many cracked and broken bones he's got, and the other to close his man's eyes and lay his head at a less unpleasant angle.
"And now, with the fate of the district decided for another year, it's time for us all to go out and get horrendously drunk. And, to celebrate two decades since you came to your senses and stopped killing each other, the beer's on me!" The crowd cheers as one, thoughts of free alcohol instanrty eliminating their differences. Then some bright spark realises we'll never all fit into one bar, and asks where the beer is. I step down, evict the nearest gang member from the crate he's been sitting on, crack it open and throw a half-dozen bottles of beer into the air. Most of the bottles don't actually get caught, but both sides do catch on, and the biggest piss-up in the history of the two gangs begins . . .
Four days later
I'm walking the streets a couple of hours after sundown, trying to shake off a bad dream - a dream of a city, and a huge green claw cutting it in half. Except I'm pretty sure it wasn't just a bad dream, because the streets feel wrong. There aren't as many people out as I'd expect, and the ones that do look like they don't want to be there - it's almost as bad as during the shooting war twenty years ago. The hairs on the back of my neck are starting to twitch.
Then I hear the scream.
I break into an instant run - long practice has given me a gait completely unnafected by wearing a floor-length coat - analysing the scream as I go. Female, young, and very, very afraid - although not in mortal danger. Yet. I round the next corner, and there, in an alleyway, there's a girl, maybe sixteen, seventeen, trying to burrow into the wall of an alley with her shoulderblades. The smell of cold sweat rolls off her, and the four Vietnamese bruisers wearing green jackets and leering expressions give me a good idea of the reason why.
They've not actually done anything yet except scare her, and I've not seen these gang colours before, so I figure they're new in town. Time was I would've given them a scare and a warning, and let them go. Time was I was a lot nicer than I am now. And they haven't noticed me yet. Too bad.
Betty comes out from under my coat and barks three times. Three of the four collapse with shotgun shells embedded in their hearts. I grin at the last one. "And you would be?"
"We are Green Claw."
"You're new in town, aren't you."
"We are Green Claw. We see, we rule."
"Rules of Medean. No children, no women who weren't pulling a gun on you already, no rape. You break the rules, bullet to the head is death by natural causes. Ask any ganger in the city."
"I have heard of you. Green Claw does not believe in angels of death. We see, we rule." This is getting repetitive, and I'm getting bored. So I ask the essential question.
"Does Green Claw believe in shotguns?"
Bang.
Shortly before midnight
"HQ, we got three bodies on the floor, one crucified upside down on the wall. The body on the wall is headless, completely drained of blood, and some of it's been used to paint 'rapist' on the wall above it."
"Car 67, more detail on the bodies please."
"Unfamiliar gang colours - green and black."
"Must be new in town. They'll learn the rules soon enough."
"HQ, are we ever going to catch this psycho?"
"Why bother?"
Midnight
I've made half a dozen phone calls, and now I know where Green Claw's base is. Thing is, any gang trying to set itself up in a new city is going to have to buy in at least some hardware and ammo. And I've helped out most of the big-league arms dealers in this city in one way or another, so they were more than happy to return the favour. Plus I know what they've been buying - pretty high-class stuff. Half a dozen AKs, plus a smattering of Uzis and .45s. Assuming they brought a load with them, that adds up to quite a significant amount of firepower - borne out by the somewhat explosives fates of those who refused to pay protection money on Green Claw's first pass through the district. Approximate casualties : Fifty civilians, a dozen gang members and half a dozen police.
No-one else has found them yet, and I figure I might as well ask them nicely.
The building is set up like a new business - complete with blond receptionist, who gives me a look of pure condescension as I walk in in street gear.
"Welcome to the offices of GCI. How may I help you?" I smile sweetly. This seems to worry her slightly.
"I'd like to see the manager, please."
"I'm sorry, he's not available at the moment."
"I have . . . business arrangements to discuss with him." The wad of money I put on the counter is real, it's just that the bill numbers got cancelled on the quiet a while back. She inspects them, fakes a smile, and directs me to the 'tradesman's entrance'.
The door is shabby, the alley smells of piss and stale vomit. I avoid breathing any of it, and knock sharply, three times, then two. Two hundred odd pounds of unnecessary muscle opens the door and levels a .45 at my nose.
"Nice welcome. I've come to see the boss." The sheaf of bills comes out again, gets inspected again, and I move a notch up in the meathead's expectations.
"Green Claw will speak to you. Perhaps we will do business." He steps back to allow me in, but the gun doesn't waver.
"I am unarmed. Perhaps if you were to search me, we could continue in a more civilised fashion." The search is not civilised, but it is reasonably professional, and proves I am actually telling the truth. Betty's got the rest of my personal armoury to keep her company, and if I need a gun I can always borrow meathead's .45.
We walk down a couple of corridors, and into the big man's audience chamber. He sits on a simple chair at the head of a wooden table, and he wears the same gang colours, but he is taller and thinner than the others - and actually seems to have some charisma. He almost smiles when I enter - but not quite, and gestures me to a seat at the opposite end of the table. I move to stand behind it.
"And you would be?"
"I am Chi, leader of Green Claw. I am aware of who you are."
"Excellent. Then, Mr. Chi, allow me to explain why I am here. You're new in town, and there are a few rules you need to follow if you want to work Medean."
"If your organisation wishes to take a cut of our profits, I'd be willing to -" I cut him off.
"That's not what I'm interested in. I have no need of your money."
"Then what?"
"Last night, a group of your men attempted to take some forceful recreation out of a young woman. That doesn't happen on my streets."
"You're saying you were responsible for the deaths of four of my men?!" The goons by the door tense up. Especially since there's one of me and only two of them.
"They were . . . upset . . . when I broke up their little party."
"Very well. They were on their own time, and it was their own lookout. I shall warn my men in future that such actions are . . . unwise."
"My thanks. However, there is a more important issue. Your attempts to move into the area around the Happy Snax warehouse have been crude, at the very least. The area is already occupied, and your methods of dealing with those who refuse to pay a second set of protection money were unacceptable."
"Unacceptable? Merely good business, I think." Awww . . . I've gone and upset him. I wonder if he knows his left eyebrow twitches when he gets mad?
"My request is simple : Either find an uncontested area - or stop doing drive-bys on pensioners, women and children."
"We are Green Claw. We see, we rule. Nobody defies us." His voice is as hard as mine, and he meets my gaze without flinching. Ah well, one last chance.
"My city, my rules. Or you leave. Your choice." He nods, and meathead, who thinks I haven't noticed him moving up behind me, jabs his .45 into the small of my back.
"Please leave quietly. I have no quarrel with you." Trouble is, I've got a ten-ton quarrel with him, and meathead has seriously underestimated my reflexes. I spin right, pushing the gun clear of my body; meathead's first and last shot thumps into the wall behind Chi's head as I break his arm with a chop from my left hand, catch the gun with my right and shoot him in the nuts. He drops screaming, and I hit both the goons by the door between the eyes while they're still trying to get their guns out. And turn back to Chi, who looks surprised more than anything else.
"You have forty-eight hours to leave Medean. After that anybody in Green Claw colours is fair game."
3:00 am
It took quite a lot of effort to overcome my reflexes, but I managed to let them follow me. The only thing that would have made them more obvious would have been if they'd still been wearing gang colours. Ah, well. I suppose they'd have done pretty well tracking your average streetpunk, but I've had a lot of pratice at this sort of thing. And now, finally, they're making their move. A quick look out the window showed the traditional oversized black sedan. And Chi in the front seat. Personal supervision - either I'm an honoured guest or his men are even worse than I thought. And then the vision hits me, and
A shadow with fangs bending over a corpse, Chi's corpse, trickling blood down his throat / white fire, reviving / Chi rises up with fangs, newborn hunger tearing at him / the shadow fades and is gone
Which explains why he didn't look scared at all when I pointed a gun at him. Chi's a monster, a vampire. Just like me.
The door is torn to shreds by the blast of at least two sawn-off shotguns, rather interrupting my revelation. Praticed reflexes take over, and my return fire is much more accurate, producing two satisfying thumps as bodies hit the floor. I let the blood I stole from their comrade earlier pump through my system, strengthening muscles and hardening skin, and I throw myself through the remains of the door, loading Betty full of buckshot as I go, which I discharge at suitable speed down the corridor. Unfortunately, I pick the wrong direction, and get shot repeatedly in the back. Not that I actually feel it - most of the bullets just bounce off - but I'm sure there are a number of unsightly holes in my coat which probably means I'll have to replace it.
All of which just make me mad.
Rather than reloading Betty, I pull a .44 Magnum out of a pocket, my katana out of its sheath down my back, and charge. The sweet music of death- screams and snapping bone, and the feeling of warm blood spattering on my skin do much to work off my irritation. Shame there were only half a dozen more, really, I could have done with the exercise. Slaughter over, I smear some of the blood handily lying around over my chest, go back into the apartment, empty the clip on the Uzi I borrowed from one of the corpses to produce and impromptu sound effect, and fall backwards out the window.
Three floors. Hurts like a bastard. Nothing broken, though.
Chi gets out of his car and comes over to look at my 'corpse'. And smiles. And shoots me a couple more times with a .45. Sensible, but not really effective.
"So, the angel of death is not so indestructible after all."
"Name's Azrael." I say, smiling right back at him. He has just enough time to realise three things - one, that I'm the same thing as him; two, that I'm immeasurably older and more powerful than he is; and three, that it's far, far too late for it to matter.
I'm done talking. Betty speaks for me.
The solid shell catches him neatly on the chin, and the force tears his head off. Three seconds later, there's nothing left of Chi but dust, which is quickly scattered by the backwash from the sedan screaming off into the distance, driver in an unsurprising state of total panic. And as it disappears round the corner, I realise that it's over. Green Claw won't last 24 hours without their leader, let alone 48, and perhaps a few ex- members will find a home here.
In my city . . .
Happy Snax Warehouse, Downtown, Medean
The crowd roars as the combatants in the ring face up to each other. Two men, caucasian, twenties, look bloody murder into each other's eyes as they wait for the referee to call a start. The ropes are made of razorwire, and they wear brass knuckles instead of gloves. One man, maybe the younger of the two, wears a white suit with a blood-red panther's head emblazoned across his chest. His hear is long, but for tonight it's tied up close to the back of his head and clipped tight down the back of his suit so it doesn't get in his way. The other man wears a night-black bodysuit and face- mask. The referee yells to the crowd.
"Have I got any White Panthers in here?" The corrugated iron warehouse, cleared of crates of semi-legal goods and a couple hundred boxes of ammunition to make room for the fight, rattles to yells, screams and battle cries. "Black Ninjas, give your man some noise!" The other half of the audience puts up an even louder din. "It's midsummer night once again, so let the pound-out begin! 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Go!" The referee vaults backwards out of the ring, and the crowd surrounding it grab him and hoist him up onto their shoulders.
All of which basically means that, being the referee, I get the best view.
The two of them lay into each other with a vengeance - this is the annual grudge match between two of Medean's biggest gangs, after all. Thing is, the guys doing the fighting have got so much muscle on them that they're hardly feeling it anyway. One minute in, and the only real effect is that both combatants have a couple less teeth. Since this is going on for a while, and there aren't really any rules to enforce, I let my mind drift back to twenty years ago, when this tradition first got started . . .
Midsummer Night
Panthers and Ninjas had first noticed each others' existence six months previously, and both started shooting the other side to pieces with great enthusiasm. The various people caught in the crossfire weren't so enthusiastic, and both gangs started losing protection money, goodwill and loyalty in their respective territories. That combined with the casualties was going to destroy them both, and they knew it, but neither wanted to be seen as having backed down. Which is where I came in. By some fairly energetic telephone work I'd managed to convince both gang leaders to meet in the Happy Snax Warehouse. I'd had the place modified for the occasion. They (and the half-dozen men they each brought as bodyguards) entered the warehouse through opposite doors, and were presented with the following sight : A glass wall, and maybe three feet behind it, a mirror wall. Isn't half-silvered glass great - but I digress.
The other thing they saw was me. Floor-length Afghan and the shades I affected up until about '84, when I realised they looked like shit and jumped up and down on them. I turned to face the Panthers (the Ninjas seeing me perfectly well in the mirror), smiled, and started talking in measured tones.
"I have had enough of Panthers and Ninjas spilling each other's, and everybody else's, blood on the streets of my city. I am telling you now that it is time for a truce - time to meet and find a solution that doesn't get the whole fucking lot of you killed." Both groups were now muttering about how they'd never be able to get within half a mile of a parley without getting ambushed, so I look straight down the centre of my little partition and whipped both fists out straight, shattering the silvered glass and leaving them facing each other.
Which is when the shooting started.
When they all finally ran out of ammunition and/or realised that the glass had actually been double-glazing and I hadn't shattered the outer, bulletproof layer, I yelled across the stunned silence before they started hurling insults.
"Don't you dare start fucking shouting or I'll laughing-gas the lot of you!" And they knew that I would. So they calmed down somewhat. So I carried on. "The turf that you're seriously contesting is what, a half-mile radius round this warehouse?" Murmurs and nods. "Right. In which case, I propose that your two leaders settle it, man to man, no armour, no weapons, tonight. Winner takes all. And yes, I'm well aware that whoever loses is going to be screaming for a rematch. So you'll get one. This night, Midsummer's Night, every year. Honour is satisfied, nobody loses face and I can go for a pint in the neighbourhood without risking getting my face blown off. Agreed?"
Nods, murmurs, mutters. I raise my voice, just slightly. "Agreed?" "Agreed" comes the reply back from both of the gang leaders, who've been sizing each other up while they were muttering and have both decided they're going to win.
The fight started ten minutes later, and was over in twenty seconds when a really crappy punch from the Ninjas' leader (crack shot with a gun, punched like a girl - you just can't get the staff, can you?) lucked out and broke the Panther head honcho's jaw. At which point I laughing-gassed the lot of them, just for kicks. And to stop the Panthers picking up guns and re-starting the war I'd just managed to end.
And as we left, looking for somewhere to get good and hammered, a monster hiding in the shadows nodded his approval and started getting ready to die.
Present Day
Buoyed up by hands from both gangs, I watch as the Ninjas' fighter smashes a flurry of blows into his opponent's midriff; I come back to reality just in time to catch the sound of ribs cracking. But the Panther just keeps on coming, smashes his opponent hard in the face and then picking him up bodily from the floor. While it's considered bad form to throw the opponent clear out of the ring, halfway out is perfectly acceptable, and I can see just the right muscles tensing in the Panther's body. Unfortunately for him, so does the Ninja, and as the Panther is just about to let go, the Ninja competitor uses the momentum to throw his body into a mid-air spin that brings both his feet into his opponent's chin. There's an unfortunate crunch, and the Panther goes rigid and collapses, neck broken.
The crowd screams, and half a dozen Panthers pull guns - only to be beaten unconscious by their wiser comrades. This generally happens, meaning I don't have to release the laughing gas more than about once every five years. I fish through my pockets, and find the radio mike.
"Well, after four straight years of the Panthers controlling the Happy Snax area, I guess it's about time the Ninjas got their own back. Naturally, both gang leaders will contribute significant sums to the funeral of the fallen warrior," they nod their assent, "may he rest in peace." The two gang leaders leap onto the stage, one to help his combatant to stand as adrenaline flees and he starts to realise how many cracked and broken bones he's got, and the other to close his man's eyes and lay his head at a less unpleasant angle.
"And now, with the fate of the district decided for another year, it's time for us all to go out and get horrendously drunk. And, to celebrate two decades since you came to your senses and stopped killing each other, the beer's on me!" The crowd cheers as one, thoughts of free alcohol instanrty eliminating their differences. Then some bright spark realises we'll never all fit into one bar, and asks where the beer is. I step down, evict the nearest gang member from the crate he's been sitting on, crack it open and throw a half-dozen bottles of beer into the air. Most of the bottles don't actually get caught, but both sides do catch on, and the biggest piss-up in the history of the two gangs begins . . .
Four days later
I'm walking the streets a couple of hours after sundown, trying to shake off a bad dream - a dream of a city, and a huge green claw cutting it in half. Except I'm pretty sure it wasn't just a bad dream, because the streets feel wrong. There aren't as many people out as I'd expect, and the ones that do look like they don't want to be there - it's almost as bad as during the shooting war twenty years ago. The hairs on the back of my neck are starting to twitch.
Then I hear the scream.
I break into an instant run - long practice has given me a gait completely unnafected by wearing a floor-length coat - analysing the scream as I go. Female, young, and very, very afraid - although not in mortal danger. Yet. I round the next corner, and there, in an alleyway, there's a girl, maybe sixteen, seventeen, trying to burrow into the wall of an alley with her shoulderblades. The smell of cold sweat rolls off her, and the four Vietnamese bruisers wearing green jackets and leering expressions give me a good idea of the reason why.
They've not actually done anything yet except scare her, and I've not seen these gang colours before, so I figure they're new in town. Time was I would've given them a scare and a warning, and let them go. Time was I was a lot nicer than I am now. And they haven't noticed me yet. Too bad.
Betty comes out from under my coat and barks three times. Three of the four collapse with shotgun shells embedded in their hearts. I grin at the last one. "And you would be?"
"We are Green Claw."
"You're new in town, aren't you."
"We are Green Claw. We see, we rule."
"Rules of Medean. No children, no women who weren't pulling a gun on you already, no rape. You break the rules, bullet to the head is death by natural causes. Ask any ganger in the city."
"I have heard of you. Green Claw does not believe in angels of death. We see, we rule." This is getting repetitive, and I'm getting bored. So I ask the essential question.
"Does Green Claw believe in shotguns?"
Bang.
Shortly before midnight
"HQ, we got three bodies on the floor, one crucified upside down on the wall. The body on the wall is headless, completely drained of blood, and some of it's been used to paint 'rapist' on the wall above it."
"Car 67, more detail on the bodies please."
"Unfamiliar gang colours - green and black."
"Must be new in town. They'll learn the rules soon enough."
"HQ, are we ever going to catch this psycho?"
"Why bother?"
Midnight
I've made half a dozen phone calls, and now I know where Green Claw's base is. Thing is, any gang trying to set itself up in a new city is going to have to buy in at least some hardware and ammo. And I've helped out most of the big-league arms dealers in this city in one way or another, so they were more than happy to return the favour. Plus I know what they've been buying - pretty high-class stuff. Half a dozen AKs, plus a smattering of Uzis and .45s. Assuming they brought a load with them, that adds up to quite a significant amount of firepower - borne out by the somewhat explosives fates of those who refused to pay protection money on Green Claw's first pass through the district. Approximate casualties : Fifty civilians, a dozen gang members and half a dozen police.
No-one else has found them yet, and I figure I might as well ask them nicely.
The building is set up like a new business - complete with blond receptionist, who gives me a look of pure condescension as I walk in in street gear.
"Welcome to the offices of GCI. How may I help you?" I smile sweetly. This seems to worry her slightly.
"I'd like to see the manager, please."
"I'm sorry, he's not available at the moment."
"I have . . . business arrangements to discuss with him." The wad of money I put on the counter is real, it's just that the bill numbers got cancelled on the quiet a while back. She inspects them, fakes a smile, and directs me to the 'tradesman's entrance'.
The door is shabby, the alley smells of piss and stale vomit. I avoid breathing any of it, and knock sharply, three times, then two. Two hundred odd pounds of unnecessary muscle opens the door and levels a .45 at my nose.
"Nice welcome. I've come to see the boss." The sheaf of bills comes out again, gets inspected again, and I move a notch up in the meathead's expectations.
"Green Claw will speak to you. Perhaps we will do business." He steps back to allow me in, but the gun doesn't waver.
"I am unarmed. Perhaps if you were to search me, we could continue in a more civilised fashion." The search is not civilised, but it is reasonably professional, and proves I am actually telling the truth. Betty's got the rest of my personal armoury to keep her company, and if I need a gun I can always borrow meathead's .45.
We walk down a couple of corridors, and into the big man's audience chamber. He sits on a simple chair at the head of a wooden table, and he wears the same gang colours, but he is taller and thinner than the others - and actually seems to have some charisma. He almost smiles when I enter - but not quite, and gestures me to a seat at the opposite end of the table. I move to stand behind it.
"And you would be?"
"I am Chi, leader of Green Claw. I am aware of who you are."
"Excellent. Then, Mr. Chi, allow me to explain why I am here. You're new in town, and there are a few rules you need to follow if you want to work Medean."
"If your organisation wishes to take a cut of our profits, I'd be willing to -" I cut him off.
"That's not what I'm interested in. I have no need of your money."
"Then what?"
"Last night, a group of your men attempted to take some forceful recreation out of a young woman. That doesn't happen on my streets."
"You're saying you were responsible for the deaths of four of my men?!" The goons by the door tense up. Especially since there's one of me and only two of them.
"They were . . . upset . . . when I broke up their little party."
"Very well. They were on their own time, and it was their own lookout. I shall warn my men in future that such actions are . . . unwise."
"My thanks. However, there is a more important issue. Your attempts to move into the area around the Happy Snax warehouse have been crude, at the very least. The area is already occupied, and your methods of dealing with those who refuse to pay a second set of protection money were unacceptable."
"Unacceptable? Merely good business, I think." Awww . . . I've gone and upset him. I wonder if he knows his left eyebrow twitches when he gets mad?
"My request is simple : Either find an uncontested area - or stop doing drive-bys on pensioners, women and children."
"We are Green Claw. We see, we rule. Nobody defies us." His voice is as hard as mine, and he meets my gaze without flinching. Ah well, one last chance.
"My city, my rules. Or you leave. Your choice." He nods, and meathead, who thinks I haven't noticed him moving up behind me, jabs his .45 into the small of my back.
"Please leave quietly. I have no quarrel with you." Trouble is, I've got a ten-ton quarrel with him, and meathead has seriously underestimated my reflexes. I spin right, pushing the gun clear of my body; meathead's first and last shot thumps into the wall behind Chi's head as I break his arm with a chop from my left hand, catch the gun with my right and shoot him in the nuts. He drops screaming, and I hit both the goons by the door between the eyes while they're still trying to get their guns out. And turn back to Chi, who looks surprised more than anything else.
"You have forty-eight hours to leave Medean. After that anybody in Green Claw colours is fair game."
3:00 am
It took quite a lot of effort to overcome my reflexes, but I managed to let them follow me. The only thing that would have made them more obvious would have been if they'd still been wearing gang colours. Ah, well. I suppose they'd have done pretty well tracking your average streetpunk, but I've had a lot of pratice at this sort of thing. And now, finally, they're making their move. A quick look out the window showed the traditional oversized black sedan. And Chi in the front seat. Personal supervision - either I'm an honoured guest or his men are even worse than I thought. And then the vision hits me, and
A shadow with fangs bending over a corpse, Chi's corpse, trickling blood down his throat / white fire, reviving / Chi rises up with fangs, newborn hunger tearing at him / the shadow fades and is gone
Which explains why he didn't look scared at all when I pointed a gun at him. Chi's a monster, a vampire. Just like me.
The door is torn to shreds by the blast of at least two sawn-off shotguns, rather interrupting my revelation. Praticed reflexes take over, and my return fire is much more accurate, producing two satisfying thumps as bodies hit the floor. I let the blood I stole from their comrade earlier pump through my system, strengthening muscles and hardening skin, and I throw myself through the remains of the door, loading Betty full of buckshot as I go, which I discharge at suitable speed down the corridor. Unfortunately, I pick the wrong direction, and get shot repeatedly in the back. Not that I actually feel it - most of the bullets just bounce off - but I'm sure there are a number of unsightly holes in my coat which probably means I'll have to replace it.
All of which just make me mad.
Rather than reloading Betty, I pull a .44 Magnum out of a pocket, my katana out of its sheath down my back, and charge. The sweet music of death- screams and snapping bone, and the feeling of warm blood spattering on my skin do much to work off my irritation. Shame there were only half a dozen more, really, I could have done with the exercise. Slaughter over, I smear some of the blood handily lying around over my chest, go back into the apartment, empty the clip on the Uzi I borrowed from one of the corpses to produce and impromptu sound effect, and fall backwards out the window.
Three floors. Hurts like a bastard. Nothing broken, though.
Chi gets out of his car and comes over to look at my 'corpse'. And smiles. And shoots me a couple more times with a .45. Sensible, but not really effective.
"So, the angel of death is not so indestructible after all."
"Name's Azrael." I say, smiling right back at him. He has just enough time to realise three things - one, that I'm the same thing as him; two, that I'm immeasurably older and more powerful than he is; and three, that it's far, far too late for it to matter.
I'm done talking. Betty speaks for me.
The solid shell catches him neatly on the chin, and the force tears his head off. Three seconds later, there's nothing left of Chi but dust, which is quickly scattered by the backwash from the sedan screaming off into the distance, driver in an unsurprising state of total panic. And as it disappears round the corner, I realise that it's over. Green Claw won't last 24 hours without their leader, let alone 48, and perhaps a few ex- members will find a home here.
In my city . . .