Chapter 9: Red Lining
(Thursday, September 2nd, 2123)
"Okay everyone, settle down… I said settle down!" Playa barked loudly, glaring at the noisy gangsters who'd gathered in the Mission.
"Thank you!" he said when the murmuring stopped, and everyone gave him attention.
"So, we've had a busy week! Our big reveal at the Culex Stadium was a resounding success, and we even humiliated a pair of heroes, so we can call that a nice bonus victory," Playa said, speaking to the assembled members of the Third Street Saints who were sitting in the pews, listening to him speak up at the altar, where the priest would normal do so. At his side were his Holy Trinity, watching patiently.
"We've also had a good turnout for the sales of our merchandise. Most people are buying them as gag gifts or novelty items right now. Memorabilia, mainly. But it will change soon once we get bigger! And that's why we're here today!"
"Now, some of you may be wondering when we're going to strike out at the Big Three and start cleaning up the streets. Well, good news! That day is today!" Playa announced, earning loud cheers from the men and women underneath him.
"Our first target is none other than the Brotherhood," Playa continued, smirking as several of them, mainly people with mutation type Quirks, booed at the hated name. "Please give your attention to Pierce, who will inform you about our plans."
"Hey all, how's it going?" Pierce said, nodding at some of the members he knew in the crowd.
"He has an oddly informal way of talking," Playa muttered to Johnny, who snickered.
"Pierce was a middle school teacher," Johnny replied.
"No shit, seriously?" Playa blinked in surprise.
"Yeah, surprised me too," the gunner of the Saints chuckled.
"First off, we will be striking the businesses along these streets that pay the Brotherhood protection fees," Pierce explained, and Playa and Johnny tuned in to listen to him. "We force them to pay us that money instead of the Brotherhood, and beat up any goons who try and respond. This will be a multi-week plan."
Pierce then swept his gaze over the group. "That's not all, of course. The main place we'll be after is the Truckyards district. The southern side of the city as well as the docks are where the Brotherhood is strongest, but the Truckyards are bordering the Sons controlled Redlight District, so the Brotherhood's presence is light in some places, heavy in others. We steal those businesses from the Brotherhood, we'll carve a major chunk out of their finances. Unfortunately, because it's so public a space any retaliation against us will have to be done elsewhere. That leaves us open to being attacked anywhere along our old places. So, heightened security measures are gonna be put in place, and we'll have double the number of patrols on the streets for the next few weeks as we roll over the Brotherhood's territory."
"I have more information for everyone that they'll get when I assign them the stores and businesses they'll be in charge of converting over the Saints' side," Pierce continued, waving a sheaf of paper around. "Do what you can, and don't pressure anybody with violence unless they start it first."
The Saints let out a cheer as well as chorus of assent, and when their names were called, came up to Pierce who gave them their assigned locales.
"Can we talk in private?" Pierce asked Playa as the Saints filed out of the meeting.
"Sure. See ya, Johnny," Playa said, gesturing for Pierce to follow him into the office in the back.
"I have a place I'd like you to hit personally, boss," Pierce requested when they were alone in the office.
"Sure, what do I need to do?" Playa asked.
"There's a place called Tee'N'Ay. Know it?"
"I sure do, it used to be where the Saints would relax after a hard day of pimp-slapping the other gangs," Playa said fondly. "Best damn nachos in the city, too."
"I know, right? The fully loaded nachos are amazing!" Pierce agreed, before coughing. "Anyways, back on track, it's now under the control of the Brotherhood, even if the territory technically belongs to the Sons of Samedi."
"Yeah, I ran into those redshirts when I dropped by the club after getting out of jail," Playa nodded, recalling the red décor as well as the red-shirted mooks he'd had to smack around.
"The current manager is a man named Sykes. He's a minor member in the Brotherhood, and he runs an illegitimate escort business out of the place," Pierce said.
"Wait, you mean he forces the strippers to have sex with customers?" Playa demanded, eyes narrowing. There were several things the Saints had tried to stop when they'd fought the gangs five years ago. Forced prostitution had been one of them.
"He does. And any girl who complains gets fired and then raked through the mud, making it hard to find a new job," Pierce revealed.
"And the cops are in on it too, right?" Playa guessed.
"A few dirty cops know. They're the ones the Brotherhood pays off, so no charges get filed," Pierce said with a nod.
"You want me to deal with Sykes, then? Shut down his operation?"
"I do. And we have an insider who can help," Pierce claimed. "A bartender named Barry knows where Sykes hides his dirty money, as well as the deed to the business. Help him bring down Sykes, and Barry has agreed to turn the Tee'N'Ay back into Saints territory."
"Ah, good old Barry," Playa said fondly, before smiling viciously. "Tell me what to do."
That evening, Playa swaggered into the Tee'N'Ay, a disguise hiding his identity from the world. Though given it was just a baseball hat and shades, it wouldn't fool anyone looking hard enough.
'Still, the place is dark enough, and some random person is not what most of the guys here will be paying attention to,' Playa mused to himself as he looked around. There was quite a crowd out, with a sprinkling of Brotherhood goons showing their colors. They were all distracted by the dancing beauties up on stage, and paid Playa no heed as he made his head to the bar.
"Barry, my man!" Playa said happily as he plopped down onto a barstool in front of the portly bartender. "I'm back!"
"Good for you. What do you want?" Barry demanded, barely even glancing up.
"Hmm. Shame you don't recall the fun times we had together. Maybe you'll remember this?" Playa said slyly, sliding a drink coaster over to the man. The plump man took it, looking confused, before his expression sharpened as he saw that it was an old coaster with the Saints logo on it. Something that hadn't been in the bar for years, now.
"Pierce sent you?" Barry inquired cautiously.
"He did," Playa said, slapping a stack of cash onto the table. "Also, I'm here to pay off a tab, and some damages I did last time I was here."
"Tab and damages?"
"Yup! I ordered some nachos, and broke a bottle, then a stool, over some ugly Brotherhood mugs," Playa said with a smirk. "Made a mess."
His eyes widened in recognition, which only grew wider when he finally placed just who was sitting at his bar.
"Playa?" he whispered in disbelief. "Phil Playa?"
"The one and only," I said proudly. "I told you, Barry, that I was back."
"I also didn't want to believe it," Barry murmured. "Didn't want to get my hopes up."
He then looked around the area, before whistling at another bartender. "Oi, Mark, I'm taking a smoke break. Cover me for ten in case Sykes stops by."
"Sure thing, Barry!" his fellow worker said with a thumbs up.
Barry then led Playa into a back room away from the pounding lights and music of the strip club.
"Do you know what you're here to do?"
"Find Sykes' stash of dirty money and the deed to the place," Playa said.
"That's right," Barry said with a nod. "Now, I know where he keeps it. In a safe in his office, behind a painting of some nude chick. But nobody but Sykes knows the code to get into it."
"No problem, I have ways around that sort of thing," I assured him. "Do you want me to beat some stuffing out this guy while I'm at it?"
"As satisfying as that would be, I think it would be just safer to steal the deed and give it to me. That way I can take care of Sykes legally," the bartender declared after thinking it over. "You can keep the money for services rendered. Ought to be a cool five grand at least tucked away in there."
"Got it, one deed to a strip club, coming up!" Playa promised. Before he could get to work on that, there was a commotion outside.
"Barry! Come quick, it's Jemma!" someone shouted as they rushed into the break room.
"What?" Barry uttered angrily.
"Jemma, she, she refused to give a 'private dance' to some guy from the Brotherhood, and Sykes hit her, and now she's in trouble!" the worker, a stripper from the stage, cried out.
"Fucker!" Barry swore, before turning to Playa with a steely gaze. "Okay, change of plans. Fuck up Sykes and whoever is trying to put the moves on Jemma. Then steal the deed."
"My pleasure," Playa declared, cracking his knuckles menacingly. "Got a bottle I can borrow?"
111 ^^^ &&& ^^^ 111
Playa was led into the back of the club by the stripper who had alerted Barry to the incident, a bottle of cheap booze in hand.
"I don't remember these being back here," Playa muttered, seeing a row of doors along a side of the hall.
"Sykes had them installed," the stripper muttered out. "They're for, uh, private dances."
Playa frowned. "Well, shit." He then looked over them. "Which one is Jemma in?"
The stripper pointed to one of the doors, a brass number five on it, and he strode over it.
"You might want to leave," Playa suggested, raising a foot. "Plausible deniability and all that."
The woman nodded, before her eyes narrowed. "Make it hurt," she said, before hurrying away.
Playa kicked down the door, exclaiming "What's all this, then?" in an over-the-top British accent.
The room was small, but there was enough room for a Twin-sized bed, a nightstand, and maybe something else. The wallpaper was a garish red color, and the ceiling was mirrored.
There were two people inside the room, one of whom was on the bed, the other standing over them. The latter was a squat man, slightly obese, and with grease-stains on the front of his shirt. He was wearing a red biker's jacket with a wolf's head on the back, marking him as being part of the Brotherhood.
However, it was the person on the bed that caught Playa's attention. He noticed three facts about the stripper named Jemma as he barged in on the scene. The first was that she had a cat-type Heteromorphic (aka Mutation) Quirk, with eyes, ears, and tails of a feline while the rest of her was human.
It was a sad fact, but people with animal type Quirks tended to be fetishized a lot by society. It was over the top in some ways, and as an unfortunate result, a lot of people with this particular type of Quirk were often looked down on because it was assumed they were sex workers, or sluts, or something else along those lines.
The second thing was that Jemma, if that even was her real name, looked way to young. College age at best. Was stripping at the Tee'N'Ay a part time job for her? Playa didn't know, and didn't care. That was because the third thing Playa saw when he looked at Jemma was a bruise on the side of her face and tears in her eyes.
"Who the fuck are you?!" the Brotherhood goon demanded, and Playa caught a whiff of his breath. Add in the slightly wobble and unfocused eyes, the leader of the Saints had a feeling this wasn't going to be a problem.
'Drunk, huh? You're making it too easy for me,' Playa chuckled to himself, before swinging the bottled against the side of his head.
It didn't break, the glass was quite durable as it turned out, but the bottle was solid and heavy and the member of the Brotherhood in the room dropped like a sack of bricks.
He stared at him, and so did Jemma, neither speaking. Eventually, Playa looked at the bottle in his hand, squinting at the label.
"Man, this is one strong drink," he said, before shooting Jemma a wink.
A startled snort of laughter at the terrible joke escaped her, and she flushed red with embarrassment.
"Okay, kid, get out of here," Playa instructed her. "And tell Barry to send someone to throw this chump out of the club. I think a nice dumpster sounds like the best place for him to sober up."
The girl nodded and ran out, leaving Playa behind. He kicked the gang member in the ribs to make sure he was unconscious, then rifled through his pockets, taking his gun and his wallet, as well as his car keys. That done, he walked out, heading to Sykes' office.
'Time to finish this,' he thought to himself.
The office was up a flight of stairs, and when he reached it, he smirked at the sight of the gaudy Brotherhood sigil branded on the door. Literally. It looked like someone had taken a cattle brand and burned the Brotherhood's wolf head onto the front of the office door.
"Knock-knock," he said, grabbing the doorknob and twisting it, opening it up. The office was like a sleazy 1970's porn room, with colored beads over the windows, red-tinted lamps providing light, and a thick red shag carpet on the floor. A lava lamp glooped lazily atop a desk, behind which a blond man was looking at something on a laptop. And behind the blond was a big replica of The Birth of Venus painting hanging on the wall.
"Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in Sykes' office?" the possible strip club owner demanded, his voice tinged with a vague French accent.
"Um, are you… just to be certain, are you Sykes? Manager and owner of the Tee'N'Ay?"
"That's right!" Sykes declared.
"Why are you talking in the 3rd Person?" Playa asked, bewildered. "And why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?"
"Sykes can do what Sykes wants," Sykes retorted.
"Cool, whatever," Playa shrugged, and pulled out the gun he'd stolen from the Brotherhood member earlier.
"Yo, what the fuck?!" Sykes demanded, scrambling up onto his feet. "What are you doing?!"
"Consider this a change in management," Playa declared. "The Third Street Saints are taking this place back."
"Fuck you!" Sykes growled, and he reached up to his face and yanked the sunglasses off his face.
Playa yelped and threw himself to the ground as yellow eyebeams shot out from Sykes' eyes, revealing his Quirk.
"You think you can come in here and challenge Sykes?" he growled, shooting another yellowish beam at Playa, forcing the Saints' leader to roll away. "You think you can mess with the Big Dog?!"
"Is that your villain name? Because I think you need a better one," Playa taunted, glancing at the spots Sykes' eye beams had struck. They had left scorch marks in the wall and carpet, but at the same time, they weren't very big, and he hadn't felt any heat from them when they'd passed by him. Still, he wasn't going to let them hit him, and he dodged another barrage from Sykes.
'I see, he's blind for about half a second before and after he fires one of his eye beams at me,' Playa noted, watching the way Sykes had to glance around after firing his laser beams to find and track Playa after the glow faded from his eyes. 'And I'll bet they also have to be open.'
'Let me take advantage of this!' he thought, and after Sykes fired another beam at him, he jinked to the side and pointed his gun at the blond club owner's head.
Playa pulled the trigger, firing off a shot which managed to slam into Sykes' left shoulder while he was blinded from his own attack. Sykes howled in pain and dove behind his own desk, which incidentally saved his life from two more bullets Playa fired at him.
"Sykes will kill you like the scum you are!" the French-sounding thug screamed from behind his desk. A second later, he rose up with a shotgun in hand.
"Shit!" Playa shouted, and he ducked down again, grabbing one of the red lamps and chucking it at the laser-eyed man. It was blown apart by the shotgun, he narrowly avoided another round of lasers to the face from Sykes' face.
"Well, since you showed me yours, I'll show you mine!" Playa sneered, transmuting his sweat into a foul-smelling perfume that quickly filled the cramped office. It was both stinky and spicy, making his opponent dry heave when the odor hit him.
"Agh!" Sykes coughed, eyes watering. Unable to use his beams with his eyes squeezed shut from the He fired his shotgun wildly, but the shot went wide, and Playa had also dove down in front of the desk.
Sykes' weapon was not an automatic shotgun, and after three more random, wild shots which blew holes in the offices' walls and ceiling, it clicked empty, and Playa grinned, jumping up to his feet.
"Smell ya later!" Playa snarked, uttering his old catchphrase.
"Wuh?" Sykes uttered, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes, but he never got the chance, as Playa emptied the handgun's clip into his head, killing him.
"Well, this was… messy," Playa muttered, looking down at the dead owner. "And loud. Better find that safe before the police show up."
The safe wasn't hard to find. It was behind the picture frame just as Barry had claimed. Playa ran a finger over the hinges, and a sizzling filled the air as he turned his sweat into a potent oxidizer. In seconds the hinges of the safe were rusty, and then a quick application of a super acid, also made from his sweat, destroyed the safe's hinges.
Playa pried the door off, grunting as he let it fall to the floor with a thud. He spotted a bunch of documents within, as well as several bundles of cash. He took everything, tucking the money into his pockets while keeping the files with him as he hurried out of the office, and down to Barry on the ground floor.
"He's dead, then," the bartender said when he saw Playa return.
"Heard the gunshots, did you?" Playa asked, and the portly man nodded.
"Won't shed no tears over him," Barry replied. "Do you have the deed?"
"Should be in here. I decided to grab everything from the safe, just in case," Playa replied, which earned him a nod from Barry.
"Smart. We'll frame it as a robbery gone wrong when the cops come by," Barry said as he leafed through the documents Playa handed him. "You better go now, though. Some customers got jittery when they heard the shots, and it won't be long before someone decides to snoop around. I'll call Pierce, let him know things are settled here."
"Alright, then. Pleasure to be back in business with you, Barry," Playa said, tipping an imaginary hat to the man, who nodded back.
"Godspeed, Phil. I hope you can clean these streets up soon."
Playa inclined his head, agreeing whole-heartedly with Barry's request.
'All in all, this wasn't a terrible night,' Playa mused to himself as he got into the car that belonged to the Brotherhood goon he'd knocked out. To his surprise, it was a Baron, and in good condition too. It probably wasn't the gang member's personal vehicle. He probably was just borrowing it to show off. Still, the Baron was a good, sturdy piece that could tank quite a few bullets, even if it was a tad slow on the turn.
Slap a coat of purple paint on to cover up the Brotherhood Burgundy and swap the plate and some parts, and it'd make a nice new ride for his own use. Couldn't keep relying on Jonny to drive him everywhere, after all.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, he smirked as he saw the police lights in the distance, once again too late to do anything.
'Just you wait, coppers. This is just the beginning!'