A Blade's Ballet
Ganymede
October 22, 2068
1:30 A.M.
Outside Pak Ratz All night Bar
It was a dark night on Ganymede. The stars seemed to have eluded their post for the evening, and no light was supplied as usual, except, of course, for the street lights. Very few roamed the streets, and the ones that did, seemed to be concealing something with their oversized trench coats and bowler hats. It seemed as if something was wrong, fear roamed the streets freely, and swam in and out of the constant shadowy alleys and back-ways. It was a night for wrongdoing, a night for evil.
Two men stumbled drunkenly from the Pak Ratz nightclub. One was extremely fat, and had a grizzled, black beard that consumed his face, and deep, swollen eyes from countless nights of lost sleep. He had a red T-shirt on, and a pair of long blue jeans. He held a bottle of whiskey, and in between laughter and random banter between himself and his friend, he would take a quick swig of it. The other man seemed rather drunk, yet more sober than the other. He had a large black trench coat on, but it was obvious that he was a lean man, with a pale face that seemed to be deprived of something. They both stumbled away from the loud music inside the club, and down the back-alley to go find their car.
"Umm, Mikey, uhh...guess wha'?" asked the fat man.
"What the hell do ya want Stan," asked Mike?
"Why do we hafta go man, I was gettin' it on, man, with that chick in 'dere!" said Stan.
"What the hell are you talking about? You was sittin' at the bar the whole time ya doofus!" said Mike.
"Wha...wha cha' talkin' 'bout man?" asked Stan, as he drank a bit more whiskey.
"Dude, it ain't matter! What does matter, though, is that we gotta get back ta head quartas! We ain't supposed ta be here! Mr. Guinera will kick our asses, not to mention give us each a bowl a lead salad if he knew we was here!" screamed Mike.
"You need to lighten' up man! Take this whisk-"
A clicking sound cuts off Stan.
"Wha was that?" asked Stan.
"I d-"
Mike is cut off by yet another clicking sound.
"Oh no," he says, "its the Red Dragon-"
Before Mike could finish his sentence, a bullet rips through Stan's chest. The whisky falls from his hand, and he slams lifelessly against the brick wall, painting it with blood, and then he was dead.
"Oh fuck!" screamed Mike.
He pulls out his Berretta and begins shooting in random directions. Before he could do any damage to anything but brick, another shot is fired, and it pierces Mike's hand, whilst his gun fly's out of his hand and farther back into the alley.
"Ahhhh!" screams Mike in pain.
He cradles his hand in his arm and looks frantically around in the darkness for the sniper. He runs down the alley, towards the darkened parking lot. A car is heard starting up, and a green Z3 convertible drives up in front of Mike.
"Get da fuck in!" yells the driver.
Another shot is fired. It breaks the front left window, and enters the driver's head. He slumps over the wheel, dead. Mike opens the door, takes the man's Desert Eagle, and pulls the driver out of the car, and desperately tries to drive with one hand. He backs up into the brick wall, crushing the back of the car.
Yet another shot is fired, and this time it hits Mike in his waist. He screams in pain, and slams on the pedal, speeding away. He looks back in his rear-view mirror, and notices a tall man, holding a sniper rifle, watching him flee. On the man's shoulder sits a large crane, it also watches him, as if it realizes what is going on. Mike is perplexed by this, but decides not to care, and he drives as fast as possible through the darkened streets towards the mafia don's hide-away.
2:05 A.M.
Mike races down the darkened, evil streets of the night, swerving in and out every which way just to lose the tail of the assassin. He knows that the Red Dragon syndicate is ruthless. They do what they say, and if the man they send to do the job doesn't accomplish his or her job, they are killed themselves. The assassin that killed Stan will be killed if Mike survives, which means Mike can't stop driving, or he'll die. The cell phone in Mike's trench-coat pocket rang. He picked up the phone and stared deeply at it, as if staring evil in the eye. He pushed the send button, and a deepened, intimidating voice spoke on the other side of the phone line.
"Hello, Mike," said the voice, as if trying to scare Mike into a trap, a trap that will put the assassin back on track, and knock Mike completely off it.
"Who-Who is this?" Mike stuttered.
"Just call me Vicious," said the voice.
"What the hell do you want from me?" asked Mike.
"You know what I want. There's no point in running. I'm the best of the best," said Vicious.
Mike snickered to himself.
"Best of the best, huh? Well you didn't get me, and I'm just a bodyguard!" laughed Mike.
"Au contraire," said Vicious, "I haven't got you, yet."
It seemed as if the darkness was home to Vicious, darkness in darkness, evil in evil. Mike wasn't innocent either, but Vicious seemed to be at home in the darkness, and it was certain he had some pretty big sins that would be hard to forgive. It was predator and prey now. Mike had no chance.
It seemed like time stopped. In a second another shot was fired, going through the front windshield, narrowly missing Mike, but the glass shattered on him. He searched for Vicious and saw him standing on another building ahead, watching him pass, with the same staring crane on his shoulder, and the sniper rifle in his hand. Mike looked away towards the road, then to his rear-view mirror. Vicious was gone.
His heart skipped a beat, not realizing where Vicious was, until a dark blue Viper screamed out from the back-alleys behind the building he was just atop of. Vicious meant business, and he was not intending to fail his assignment. He drove full speed ahead, regardless of any oncoming traffic. Mike's Z3 was no match for Vicious's Viper. Vicious was quickly catching up.
Mike drove through a red light, and a police car put on its sirens, ready to pursue him, but Vicious was ever to foolhardy, and swerved to not hit head on into the car. Vicious was smashed against his window; cutting his cheek and sending blood down his face. The police car flipped over twice, and the policeman inside was sent flying through the windshield, and slammed onto the pavement. His body was sprawled out in a twisted and morbid fashion, his fingers twitched, his legs attempted to move, but it was too late. He died.
Vicious, not caring about anyone or anything but his job, backed up and sped forward down the road after Mike.
Mike quickly came upon Joe's Sub-O-Rama, a secret front for the Guinera crime family, Mike's bosses. He slammed on the breaks, covering the parking lot with tire marks, and jumped out of the car and stumbled into the sandwich shop, with his Desert Eagle in hand. The man at the counter looked in horror at the blood seeping from Mike, and just stared as Mike went into the back.
"You must be new," grunted Mike. "You'll be seein' this shit pretty damn often, so get used to it"
"Uhh...uhh...yes'ir," stuttered the man.
"Shuddup..."
The back door led to a half an acre large complex of rooms and hallways, the home of the crime syndicate.
Mike knew his way around like that back of his hand, but considering his massive blood loss, and the assassin following him, he didn't know where to go. He stumbled down the stairs and followed the hallway, leaving a trail of blood behind him. The first door he opened had five bodyguards noshing on donuts inside. When Mike busted open the door, every single one aimed their guns at him.
"It's O.K. guys, its me," said Mike, cuffing his hand over his waist, while the other hand clenched the Desert Eagle.
"There's this crazy asshole after me! Ya gotta help me!"
A man near the back of the room slammed his hand against the wall, and a small door popped open, revealing it to hold four shotguns. He handed the shotguns to the others, while the remaining man helped Mike to a back room.
3:15 A.M.
One of the bodyguards stared through the peephole in the entrance to the hideout, to watch for anyone coming. The door to the shop opened, and in walked a man with something strapped to his back, and blood dripping down his face. He looked stern and cold, waiting for something, or someone.
The bodyguard observed the man at the counter going over to the man who entered, and telling him that the store was closed. The man put his hand on the clerk's shoulder, smiled, then squeezed the clerk's shoulder, incapacitating him. The man pulled a large katana out of the now apparent sheathe on his back, and smiled as light in the store glinted from its flawless blade. He came to the door, and stopped, blocking the peephole's view.
A second bodyguard came to the base of the stairs.
"Jake, don't be a fool! If you stare through the hole, you can't ready yo'self for anyone that's wants some ass kickin'!" said the bodyguard.
"Fuck you man, my job's to look out, and I'm look-"
Jake is cut off, as a katana slices through the door, and his head. The katana is pulled out of the door, and Jake falls back slowly and slides down the stairs, and to the other bodyguard's feet.
"No! You son of a fucking bitch!" yelled the bodyguard, as he pumped an entire MP5 clip into the door, and screaming out in vain to avenge his friend.
He reloaded his gun and rammed through the door, surveying the area. The lights had been turned off, the darkness had overcome the shop, and now the bodyguard, as the katana sliced into his gut. A man with white hair stared before him, grinning.
"Who the hell are you?" asked the bodyguard.
"Vicious. Remember my name in hell," he said, and pulled the sword out of the bodyguard's gut, killing him.
Evil was coming, enveloping, and consuming everything. No one would survive.
Vicious darted down the stairs and into the hallway, silent as a mouse, deadly as a cobra. He slowly put his hand on the doorknob, and turned it. The door was barely open, and Vicious peeked inside. One man was inside, with his shotgun. He was at the table, sweating like a hog, and as fat as one too. Vicious grinned his evil smile, and slowly pushed the door open.
The fat man stood up and aimed his shotgun at Vicious, who ducked out of the way, as bullets ripped through the wall and door. He ran forth, into the hallway, and turned right. Before he could aim, Vicious cut the barrel from the shotgun, and powder spilled on the floor. The guard stood, gasping, as he dropped his shotgun, and fell to his knees.
"Please, I was only defending what I had to! Please don't kill me!" he pleaded.
"No time for talk, I must be on my way!" said Vicious, and he decapitated the guard, and moved on.
Meanwhile, Mike sat, in bandages, with an MP5 in his uninjured hand. He aimed it at the door, waiting for Vicious. Then he dropped his gun. There was no point in trying. Vicious was going to kill him. He got up, exited the room, and went down the hallway, to the secret sewer escape.
Vicious, meanwhile, had killed two more guards, and was moving on down the hallway. He came to the last room, and saw a puddle of blood under a chair, and some bandages, a Desert Eagle, and an MP5 clip on the table. A few more drops led from the room, and to the secret exit.
Vicious came into the sewer and spotted someone down quite a ways, turning the corner, with an MP5 in tow. Vicious pursued the man.
The sewer tunnels were dark and gloomy, yet another victim of the darkness. Mold and fungi grew, making the place smell like a pigsty. There were many ways to go, but only way one to leave. Up, up from the manholes.
Before Vicious turned the corner, he heard the sound of heavy metal being pushed. Mike had found a manhole cover.
Vicious turned the corner, as he saw Mike's feet dangle out of sight and onto the street. Vicious ran forward to the ladder leading upwards, sheathed his sword, and began to climb. When he got to the street level, Mike had just escaped via taxi. He was going to escape, unless Vicious could get a car.
Vicious put his hand out and stopped a gray Sedan driving forward. He took out his sword, quickly ran to the window, and put the sword to the driver's neck.
"Get out!" he commanded.
"Y-Y-Yes sir," she said, and got out of the van.
He took the Sedan and began to drive to where the taxi holding Mike left. Suddenly, his cell phone rang.
"Is it done?" said a gruff, manly voice.
"Yes, it's done," assured Vicious.
"Then return to the headquarters, we have more plans in store," said the man.
"I can't right now. I..," he pauses."I have other business to attend to."
"Do you honestly think I give a shit? Get to H.Q. now!" screamed the man.
"Yes....Sir," said Vicious, reluctantly.
3:53 A.M.
Vicious drove down the streets, cursing the Red Dragon Syndicate leader constantly. He was so close. Had he just driven straight through the traffic, and made a right, he could have stopped Mike, and killed him. Simple as that. No hustle and bustle, just a quick slice from his blade, and ta-da- job done. But no, it was all ruined.
Vicious returned to the headquarters, a small, abandoned warehouse. It was the main headquarters, but not even half of the syndicate was ever there. Nobody ever suspected it to be on Ganymede, a simple moon, full of simple folk. But Vicious always thought, in the back of his head, that the most feared syndicate known to human kind, that operated around the universe, that killed countless people but was never caught, that had flawless executions, was reduced to working in an abandoned warehouse used to hold buns and hamburger patties that were used by some old, long gone, fast-food restaurant called McDonald's.
Vicious, begrudging, entered the warehouse, and got out of the car. A man in a suit, with a pointed goatee, and large, circular glasses, sat at a small wooden chair, under the warehouse's only source of light, a hanging light bulb that swung from side to side, revealing boxes filled with contraband, guns and ammo, and other things. Vicious walked to the table, and the man motioned Vicious to sit down on in the chair opposite his.
"So, Vicious, they are gone, are they not?" he asked.
"Yes Mr. Kaustrik," answered Vicious.
"Good, because we want to ask you, why did you go to their base, and kill nine of their men?"
Vicious's eyes widened, but he looked toward the ground to hide his astonishment. They knew, but how? He had killed everyone in sight.
"Excuse me? I did nothing of the sort, Sir," said Vicious, acting dumbfounded at the fact that they blamed him for a small mass murder.
"You didn't? That's strange, because we found a man, with a hole in his stomach who says, or shall I say said, that a man, fitting your profile, stabbed him through the stomach, and his friend through the head, at the don's hideout."
"With all due respect, I only killed two men, the bodyguards who were invited to the party at that bar. I drove there, waited, killed them, and was on my way back here."
"Why did it take you so long? And why do you have a van? You took the Viper, the same Viper that was at the don's hideout," said Mr. Kaustrik.
"I stopped for a burger; I get hungry after a kill. And I took this van from some apartment complex; I never took the Viper," answered Vicious.
"Well the Viper is gone. Who took it?" he asked.
Vicious searched quickly in his mind. He was still thinking about Mike, and was distracted. He said the first thing he could think of.
"It was Spike. He took the Viper. I saw him; he left around one twenty."
"Spike eh? Are you sure?" asked Mr. Kaustrik.
"Yes," said Vicious. In his mind, he was cursing himself for saying anything.
"Well Spike just got us in deep, deep shit. Lucky for us, he wasn't able to go trigger-happy on the entire family. The guys that were there were just there to keep a look-out on the don's personal piggy bank. Unluckily for us, the ones that aren't dead are coming for us. We'll probably be able to take them, but its gonna be one messy motherfucker."
"I see," said Vicious. He knew what Mr. Kaustrik would say next.
"Sometimes, your greatest friends, are your fiercest foes. It takes a good eye to find the flaws in a man, and I apparently lack it. No matter, a bullet will solve my problem. Tony!" said Mr. Kaustrik.
"Yes Sir?" asked a man in the corner, who was apparently Tony.
"Dispatch Agent Quinn. Tell him his target is Spike Spiegel, our own."
"Yes Sir," answered Tony.
Tony went to the desk that Mr. Kaustrik was sitting at, picked up the phone on the desk, and dialed a number.
"Yes. Spike Spiegel. Yep. Good...hey! He cut me off, the bastard," said Tony.
Mr. Kraustrik pulled a Glock from his shirt, and without moving his head or eyes from Vicious, put the gun to Tony's neck.
"Say that again, and your brains will be our new wallpaper," said Mr. Kaustrik.
"Y-Yes'ir!" squeaked Tony, slowly backing away from the gun.
Mr. Kaustrik stands up. He motions for Vicious to stand up.
"Guys, lets get a move on. I don't want this place to be flooded with blood by the time this war is over."
The men gather into three caravans, and speed off into the night.
Good Luck, Space Cowboy...
