Showdown On Venus

Venus

October 23, 2068

9:13 P.M.

Inside Freelance Jazz Nightclub

The night crept closer into the world, as a small nightclub known only as Freelance Jazz took it's chance to light up the night with their weekly "Sax Solo Saturday" where men and women from all around would come and play their saxophones. That was why it was called "Freelance", every song was an improvisation, no notes were written, nothing memorized, just on the spot sax freak-out. The saxophone always has sadness about it, even though its tunes can be very high pitched. It naturally speaks for people, speaks for their grief and sorrow, for things long past, or recent happenings, whatever the reason, it was an instrument of the mind, heart, and especially the soul.

A lonely looking man sat at the bar. He himself played the saxophone; the reason he came there in the first place. Under his long, brown trench coat was a blue suit. His hair was green and outgrown, almost resembling an afro. He was tall and slender; he was a man of strength and complexity, yet it was all held in tight by his outer simplicities. He was a man of one-word sentences, soft-spoken, but oh-so fun loving. He went by the name of Spike Spiegel.

Spike sat at the bar, in the only empty bar stool; for all the others were taken. The place was packed, though no one spoke. Everyone just sat back, sipped on their drinks, and listened to the sadness floating about, projected from the sax players. The man on the stool next to Spike's turned to him.

"Hey, you's gonna play? You look like someone full a sadness. Let it out brother. Tell the world. Our ears are listening; our hearts are wide open," he said in a deep, almost Caribbean tone.

Spike just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. The man could tell Spike had the skill, but not the instrument.

"You can always borrow my sax. Feelings flow through everything, not just personal possessions. Go ahead, give it a go."

The man smiled. His smile was deep and humble; he had obviously played his feelings for longer than many; his life was past the petty principals of sins. He neither told the truth, nor lied. He was himself, the only thing that mattered.

Spike subsided, shook the man's hand in thanks, and went onto the stage as the preceding performer left.

A simple, wooden stool sat in the middle of the stage. A spotlight hooked to a cheap crane-like metal piece on the ceiling pointed into Spike's face. He couldn't really see the crowd, but it didn't matter, he wasn't nervous. He stared down at the floor, and at the saxophone that the man lent to him. He pursed his lips on the mouthpiece, and let flow his heart and soul.

It seemed like an eternity; the two minutes he spent playing that saxophone. They were easily the best two minutes of his life. His eyes were tightly closed; his mind was shut off. His body had turned all of its resources, to playing that sax. He thought of his troubled past, and how the only way out was to join the Red Dragon Syndicate with his friend, Vicious. Their thoughts were childish and immature. They had no idea how ruthless the syndicate really was. He scolds himself everyday for the decision to join the syndicate. He had no one else but Vicious as a friend, yet Vicious seemed to be drifting away from his side. Vicious was almost blood thirsty, forgetting about the money he needed in the first place, and thinking more about the job and the lives he would soon take. Vicious was, or possibly already has turned into a sad and morbid creature of a man, a man with no soul. Living only by night, and having his crane as his real companion, he used his trusty katana as a silent weapon. It was sad, all so, so sad. Spike let it flow; flow like the truest water. Everyone was silent; astonished that such a master of the instrument had entered their presence. Silent tears flowed; the music was beautiful beyond belief.

And then the silence was ruptured. Ben Hutchinson, a fellow syndicate member, had arrived. He ran through the open front door, and screamed to Spike.

"Get down!"

A panic broke out as from out of nowhere, bullets flew at the stage. People screamed and cried. Everyone dropped to their knees and attempted to dodge the bullets.

Spike flinched as he had barely moved a millimeter, and a bullet grazed his ear lobe. Ben ran onto the stage, and pushed Spike to the floor as a small barrage of bullets hit the wall behind the stage.

"Run, god dammit Spike, run!" yelled Ben.

Spike jumped off the stage as another bullet ripped through his blue suit's collar. Ben was only a few feet behind Spike, already holding his gun. Spike found a backroom and hid in there. Ben came in and shut the door.

"The window, go now!" Ben yelled again.

Doing as told, Spike jumped through the window; glass cutting him as it fell upon him. Ben jumped out and fired some bullets through the window as Spike quickly jumped to his feet, and grabbed Ben so as to follow him. Spike came to an old blue spacecraft, it was worn from many space battles, but it still ran; which was the point at the moment.

Both Spike and Ben jumped into the ship, and lifted off the ground. The would-be assassin jumped through the window, and shot every bullet he had at the exterior of the ship, only adding to its ware and tare. Spike piloted the ship away, catching a last glimpse at the man below; still holding his dual pistols high and aimed at the ship as they flew away.

9:32 P.M.

The ship soared through the sky. The ship was a big, blue hunk of metal with some hovering mechanics lazily strewn around as needed. It was obviously improperly assembled, it was just another piece of crap that the syndicate gave its newest recruits; just so they can move around, and stalk their targets. Spike had been in the syndicate for quite some time, and he was still hovering around in this piece of shit. No matter, Spike had accumulated cash over time, and he was ready to buy just the right ship. But that's beside the point, the point now was to run, or rather fly, his ass off. This was even more apparent when a green ship hovered out from nowhere and under Spike's ship.

It was the assassin. He now made it clear that he was not giving up. His ship was long and narrow, with two wings jutting from the left and right of the ship, and another wing on the top of the back of the ship. There was a small cockpit in the middle, and one could barely make out the man inside. The ship was built for speed, and the extra mini-gun hooked to the tip of the ship would certainly make up for the lack of firepower.

The ships came together, the window of the assassin's cockpit almost scraped the bottom of Spike's hull, but before the assassin could strike, Spike came to a small apartment complex, and the assassin had to move out of the way of oncoming houses. He flew to the left, avoided an outdoor patio, and ripped the tip off of his right wing.

Spike flew upwards, soaring high above the outskirts of Venus, and into the darkened sky. The assassin followed, in hot pursuit. Suddenly, over Spike's telecom, a picture appeared. A man sits with a face, untouched by emotion, on the monitor. His hair was in dreadlocks, tied in a ponytail. He had a noticeable tan about him, though a natural one. He had square glasses on that sat at the tip of his nose, simply as a style statement. He stared blankly into the screen.

"Spike Spiegel?" asked the assassin.

"Yeah?" Spike answered casually.

"I've come for you."

"Congratulations, now get the hell away from me."

"Don't waste my time Spike, you know who I am, and you know why I've come!"

"I know who you are, Quinn, but I don't know why the hell you've come!"

"Damn Spike. Stop asking questions. You know what you did, and anyone with half a brain would know the consequences of it. So lets just get this over with."

"Fuck you, Quinn. I'm outta here."

Agent Quinn sighed.

"Too bad Spike, you could have died courageously, but now I have to slaughter you like a cow."

Quinn began firing his mini-gun at the ship. Spike was getting pummeled, there was no way out.

Suddenly, Ben had an idea, and without explaining anything, he grabbed the steering handles, and began turning the ship.

"Get ready to jump," he warned.

He pushed the engine to its maximum, the ship went as fast as possible, and everything was just flying like a bat out of hell- straight towards Quinn. He pulled out an Israeli issue Jericho pistol.

"Keep it, you'll need it."

Those were his final words, as he pulled out his own pistol, and blasted the cockpit windshield into pieces. He grabbed Spike just as Spike had shoved the Jericho into his pants, and they jumped. From forty stores high, they jumped.

It seemed that the explosion that occurred after would have obliterated Quinn. That is what they were hoping considering they had just landed on the ceiling of an apartment and crashed straight through it, making it hard for them to fight back anytime soon. Spike bruised his wrists, and Ben bruised three ribs, a lucky consequence considering they fell seven stories onto the building.

Wherever they had landed, the owner was gone. The apartment was fairly acceptable, with many things broken. It was hard to tell if they had broken anything, or if it was already like this. The floors were all made of tile, but some green mold had grown in all the crevices in between, and there was only one other room which was a small room with a stove, sink, and bath tub. It was a strange place indeed, but Spike and Ben didn't give a second thought to their surroundings, they just needed help.

"You know there gonna kill you too," said Spike.

"Yeah, I know," said Ben in a solemn tone.

"So, why are you here?"

"I heard they were sending Quinn. He's good ya know? It's sorta a compliment for a large syndicate to send one of their top assassins after you. Shows your true skill."

Ben smiled a frail smile, as his ribs were aching. He continued.

"Heard that someone was sent to kill a few mafia men, just a little warning. It was done, but someone went fricken' crazy and slaughtered like nine guys are the base. For some reason, they blamed it on you, and I know that you it was not. We may not be best of friends, but we've been through our share of crazy shit together, and I don't want to see you blown away for something you didn't even do. Anyways, they said this someone was not using a gun, but a sword, because they were definitely not shot. I don't know why they think its you, because you don't even have-"

"Vicious," interrupted Spike

"What?" questioned Ben.

"Its Vicious, he's the one. Why wouldn't they pin it on him, its so obvious. The bastard. So what are we gonna do? Keep running until he finds us and blow his head off?"

"Well in the five seconds I've had to get here and save you, I have a small plan worked out.

"And that is...?"

"There is a man, named Mr. Trieton. He owns a small protection agency. He could help us kill Quinn."

"Why would he help us?"

"He's a friend, plus he owes me five thousand woolongs."

"Good, let's go."

9:44 P.M.

Ben and Spike surfed in and out of the shadows, finding any cover they could get as they made their way to an old strip bar by the name of Open 24. It was a front for Dan Trieton's business. He employed around twenty men who could protect someone around the clock, for the right fee, of course. Ben and Spike didn't have more than twenty woolongs in their pockets, but Trieton's debt to Ben would certainly help.

The two were hiding in the shadows made by a mortar wall piece that jutted out of a wall for some reason. They both tightly gripped their guns, ready to unleash hell as needed. Spike had no idea where Mr. Trieton's club was, but Ben did, so Spike hooked his eyes to Ben, and was ready to follow.

They had been sitting under the mortar wall for ten minutes; Spike had no idea why. Ben kept peering around the corner, as if something was coming. Spike noticed that a piece of the handle of Ben's gun was cutting him because of his tight grip, yet Ben did nothing, and kept an eye out for passer-bys.

Spike sat for a moment, remembering the past, and how he met Quinn, or Agent Quinn, as he was formally known.

His weapon of choice had always been a six-shooter. Some say his first victim had a revolver, and that inspired him to make the choice. But, for whatever personal reasons, Agent Quinn carried two Magnums. They were big and shiny, and packed plenty of punch.

Spike remembered one time when he, Quinn, and another man by the name of Terry were casually walking down the street, talking about the latest baseball game, or rather Quinn and Terry were, and Spike was listening. Out of nowhere, a shotgun totting mob man ran into the street, and fired at Terry. It hit him in the chest, most likely killing him at the very moment. Quinn had pulled out one of his Magnums and raddled off bullets at the man. Every single bullet hit the man, in an inclining fashion. One bullet in the foot, then the knee, the crotch, the lower stomach, the chest, and finally one right between his eyes. Quinn simply spun his gun in his hand, and put it into his chest-holster, and closed his jacket. Spike had been amazed, but he had no time to stare, because he had to take Terry's body before any cops came. That was what started the small war between the Guinera crime family and the Red Dragon Syndicate.

Spike was brought back to reality as Ben tapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on!" he whispered.

Spike got up, and followed Ben, who went to the front of a nearby-parked car, and ducked behind it.

"We might have a tail," he said, his eyes still on the street behind them.

"Then let's go, we can just make a run for it," said Spike.

"You gotta be kidding," retorted Ben. "Let's do it."

Ben put his gun in his holster, and Spike shoved his gun in the back of his pants, and they both sprinted off down the road.

Ben turned to the right, and Spike followed. People on the streets stared as the two ran by, but they made it. They stood at the door to Open 24 and checked the area. They entered.

To their surprise, the place seemed to be closed. No lights had been turned no, no perverted men stared hard at strippers dancing on the poles on the stage in the middle of the room, nothing.

"This isn't good," sighed Ben.

"No kidding," said Spike.

Suddenly, Spike noticed an open door down a hallway at the end of the building.

"Lets check in there."

He walked across the room, surveying his surroundings. Near the hallway with the open door, Spike saw a small wet bar, complete with red leather stools, and shelves of booze. Another large bar surrounded the stage. A bunch of wooden chairs and stools were next to the large bar. Old beer bottles and loose change were on the bar; it seemed to be long out of use.

He made his way down the darkened hallway, to the door. He slowly pushed open the door, standing out of view of anyone inside. It creaked as it opened, no other sounds came from in the room, and it seemed to be empty.

Spike entered the room and was astonished to see a man at a desk.

"I'm a friend of Ben's," he said.

"I see," said a man at a desk. He sighed. "Sit down."

Spike looked around, and saw there were no seats. He also noticed that the room was extremely bare. The room also seemed to be darker than the club is. The desk that the man sat at was an old, cheap desk. It seemed to be something a head of a magazine would use; it had plenty of drawers to store plenty of notes and information. The desktop had many imperfections that were visible because of nothing covering it. The only objects on the desk were a pencil, a crumbled paper with a few scribbled notes on it, a half full bottle of vodka, and a small, fully loaded, revolver that sat in the very middle of the desk, right in front of the man.

The man himself was just as bare as the room. He had on a pair of khaki shorts, and a button-up, white shirt. He was bald, though he had a small goatee. His face seemed to have been drowned in sadness, and the bottle of vodka. He was certainly in a very bad position, for an unknown reason.

The room had just a hardwood floored, and brick walls. There was no light source. A small poster of Betty Boop singing on stage was on the wall farthest from Spike.

The man at the table mumbled some words.

"They're gone...all gone," he said, and downed some more vodka.

"Mr. Trieton, I presume?" asked Spike.

Mr. Trieton seemed surprise when Spike spoke, and reached for his revolver. Spike quickly aimed his Jericho at him before he could do anything.

"I'm not here to hurt you; I just need your protection," said Spike.

Mr. Trieton lowered his gun and placed it on the table. Ben walked into the room, and Mr. Trieton didn't seem to care.

"My protection? That's what you want kid?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's all."

"Too late."

"Late? Late for what?"

"Wait, are you Spike Spiegel?" he asked.

"Yes," Spike answered.

Mr. Trieton's face turned into a deeper frown. He drowned his sorrows with the rest of the vodka, and tossed the bottle at the wall, breaking the bottle.

"So you're the motherfucker that got my crew killed, huh?" said Mr. Trieton, in a small, demeaning voice.

Spike and Ben said nothing, they didn't even look at each other, but they were both surprised.

"What?" asked Spike.

"They knew you would come to me. So they killed my crew before you could use 'em. The clients, the reason, even the money. All a fucking fraud. Thanks a bunch, asshole," Mr. Trieton said.

Ben walked to Mr. Trieton's desk, and leaned forward to his face.

"They're all dead? Every single one?"

Mr. Trieton began to sob.

"Yep, every single one. I had to paint myself with Eddie's fucking blood and lye down for an hour just so I could escape! It was just one man, one asshole of a man. We thought this guy who'd hired us just needed us for a meeting with some other gangsters. Turned out, the moment we all entered the place, he pulled a fast one on us, and slaughtered them all with a hidden machine gun."

He put his face in his hands, and shook his head.

"It's all your fault! They're all fuckin' dead because of you!" he shouted. He reached for his revolver, but Ben grabbed it away.

"It's gonna be alright. No ya got reason to quit the bis-"

"Quit? I love this job! I get paid better than my strippers!"

"Come on Ben; let's get outta here," said Spike.

"Ya know kid, you aren't gonna make it outta this alive?" said Mr. Trieton.

"I know." Spike sighed. "I know."

Spike turned to leave.

"And by the way, I'm not a kid."

10:07 P.M.

Spike and Ben left Mr. Trieton's office, but they stopped when they heard the front door open.

"He's here," they both said in unison.

They both turned around, and ran into a room that led to some stairs leading upward into some sort of storage room. They passed Mr. Trieton's office, whom had also heard the door opening. He sighed and reached into his drawer. He pulled out an Uzi and ran into the hallway.

"Run, guys, I'll hold him off!" he said.

They rammed open the door, and began to run up the stairs as they heard Mr. Trieton unloading his clip at Agent Quinn. Mr. Trieton was screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Eat lead you bastard! Ahhh!"

He ran out of sight, and then a few single bullets tore through the short silence. A sound of someone falling emitted from outside the hallway. Mr. Trieton was dead, and Quinn was right behind them.

Spike was ahead of Ben, and he had already reached the door. He kicked it open and pulled out his Jericho. He looked down as Ben was coming up the stairs.

"Take this!" Ben yelled.

He pulled Mr. Trieton's revolver out of his pocket and threw it at Spike. Spike caught it, and waited for Ben to run up. But he was too late.

Quinn came around the corner, and in a split second, a bullet ripped through Ben's left leg. He stumbled and fell on the stairs. His body fell slowly to the ground.

There was nothing Spike could do. He slightly closed the door, peering through the crack between the door and wall.

Ben lay at Agent Quinn's feet. Ben was holding his leg; an extremely pained look plagued his face. Quinn just stared down at him. His face had no expression. He aimed his Magnum at Ben and fired into his chest. Ben flinched and grabbed his chest. Quinn shot him again, and Ben began to stop moving. His shirt was now stained with blood, not to mention the blood flowing from his wounds and making a puddle under him. Quinn shot him again. Ben stopped moving, and his hands fell to his sides. It eyes were open in horror, but he was certainly dead. Quinn shot him a last time, and stepped over his body.

Spike moved away from the door and sat poised and ready to fire. The final shot from Quinn's gun pierced the brown, wooden door, spewing wood splinters everywhere. Spike didn't even flinch.

He waited, not moving, only aiming his gun at the door. His finger was getting itchy; he had a full clip, and nowhere else to go. Quinn began to speak.

"So, it's just you and me Spike. Mono et mono. How long 'sit gonna take you to stop bein' yellow, and face me like a man?" he asked.

Spike didn't answer.

"I see. Well I was planning for this, to be truthful; I actually wanted this to happen. How's about we settle this like our ancestors. Not in a fight to the finish, not in a gory, heart-pounding action sequence. Naw, that's for fools. And fools we ain't. So how's about we have an old-fashioned showdown?"

"What the fuck?" Spike said out of nowhere.

"So you're alive." Quinn smiles. "So?"

Spike sighs. "OK, whatever."

Quinn laughs.

"Outside, the street, now," he said, and left to go outside.

Spike knew he couldn't run forever. He walked down the stairs, but stopped when he heard gun shots and screaming. He shrugged it off, having heard many screams, and even more gun shots, and came outside, to see Quinn standing on the opposite side the street. People around were hiding; the gunshot was just to scare them out of the way.

"Here," said Quinn, "take my Magnum."

"Nah, I got my own six-shooter," said Spike.

Quinn shrugged his shoulders, and emptied his gun. He bent over and picked up one bullet.

Spike took out his revolver, and looked at it for a second. It was Mr. Trieton's. If he killed Quinn, then this would end up being like some weird revenge kind of thing, like from the movies. He unloaded his gun, except for one bullet. He cocked the gun, and placed it into his chest-holster.

Quinn put the bullet to his mouth.

"One last shot," he said, and spat on the bullet. He then loaded his gun, and placed it in the holster on his waist.

"On three," Quinn said.

"On three," agreed Spike.

Time seemed to freeze, or at least slow down, as Spike heard Quinn say each number.

"One."

Spike put his hand over his chest, and stretched his fingers, ready to pull out his gun.

"Two."

Spike remembered Ben, and how Quinn slaughtered him. And how Mr. Trieton had been shot in the head, as Spike saw when he walked past him. This was Spike's last chance for revenge, and his only chance to survive.

"Three! Draw!"

Time returned to its normal state, as Spike went for his gun and shot at Quinn. Quinn had already ducked down; the bullet easily missed him. Spike just stared. He wasn't astonished, or at all surprised. He just figured it was his destiny. He dropped his gun, and just stood there.

Agent Quinn pulled out his Magnum and aimed it at Spike's head.

"Goodbye, ol' fri-"

A shot fired through the night air. Everything was silent again. Quinn seemed fine, that is, until he fell to his knees, and then headfirst into the asphalt ground. He had been shot in the back, but by whom?

A lone man crept from the darkened alley across the street.. He wore a black trench coat that flowed to his ancles. He held an S&W Sigma; it was now by his side, gripped tightly in his sweaty palm. His hair fell to just above his shoulders, his white hair. A brown and black crane stood firmly on his shoulder, staring at Spike, as if a second pair of eyes to the man.. He sat staring forward, at Spike.

The man, was Vicious.

One Last Bullet, Space Cowboy...