.
.
Huff, puff.
.
.
Ah, the putrid stench of today.
One could lurk in this mire for hours on end 'til their nose gave out and wilted. The sickly dry, teasingly humid air of the city never forgave anyone for being blessed with the sense of smell.
That's why I'd usually throw it all to hell and succumb to some decadent escape.
Cigarettes, booze, glowing injectoids, whatever the hell the Sicilian boys could cook up. Sometime's we'd sit back with a crate of Columbian cigars, sometimes we'd wallow and growl at the boots of an LGD armored squadron. Some other times we'd huff nose candy to rounds of poker, whereas another; rush a pal or two to a hospital, wiping the foamy froth off their gobs. It's all very decadent, the Sicilian lifestyle - that's what they've told me. I never really had the makings of what one would consider the "peak" example of a crime-man from their youngest years, someone rotten to the core with nothing but the coin on their mind. No, I've wormed my way into the game a little later than that. Call it a stroke of luck, call it a change of occupation.
Call it a different pace.
Lungmen's been drying me out.
Even from the very beginning, I never understood the hassle of waking at the crisp hour of six in the morning just to box yourself in a metal rattler that goes down a concrete river filled with other, equally miserable people in their own little rattlers. I never understood the diligent working hours, the staying-after-closing to earn a few silky LMD more. Never got the whole bootlicking thing either. Polish your boss' knob for the slim chance he'd consider your name when assigning a new shit-analyst brigade's leader.
Work in a sterile cubicle, save your money for the elder years. Don't indulge, but also consume as much as you can. Lungmen's such a strange place.
I guess that's what drew me here so much. The whole switch-up, the ordeal that turns Lungmen's neons to nigh nothing but a fading honeycomb. Here, the tinted gleam of an ancient jukebox is the closest thing one gets to an advertisement's shrill glow. Here, life flows on its own accord with no whips or buskers to hurry.
Here, we're all decadent. We're all Sicilian-illy decadent.
We don't like change, we don't like what the rolling city enforces.
.
"So we just break it then, yeah?" I take a puff of my cig and nudge the bundle of expensive suits by my side. "We take the norm and crack it over a knee."
"Yeah, yeah. Yeah's 'bout the gist of it all, mhm." Aldo shoots back, his voice muffled. I can't see his face, but I know for a fact the bastard's huffing on a cigar the girth of my thumb. "We say it, um…" He searches for a Victorian alternative but comes up blank. "... We say - quando necessario, ah? Quando necessario, non esitare a infrangere le regole per i tuoi ideali. It's a pretty way of saying "when they muzzle your gob, bite until blood flows." Legally, of course."
"Of course." I say, enjoying my illegally acquired pack of Astra Whites. "Things just happen to fall off trucks sometimes."
"Exactly, amico. Truck hits a bump, loses a crate of cancerous tobacco. What are we supposed to do, not pick it up? Eh, dai. It's our duty as Sicilian-Lungmenite citizens to act." A chuckle bubbles from his lips, and he ashes the monstrous cigar. The smoldering flakes hit his prized recurve crossbow on the way down and he groans. "... Speaking of merch, caro, be so kind and fetch me something for my dry throat. Will ya?"
"The usual?" I ask.
"Oh, not the usual. Sick and tired of the usual cazzate. Surprise me." Aldo pats me on the back, and I cast my cigarette stub off the balcony. It disappears down below in the abyss of nightly nothing, extinguished before it sparks the ground.
.
.
Surprise him, the bastard says.
Sure, I leave him be and I go "surprise him."
Off the balcony, the first thing I'm lackadaisically assaulted by is the lack of the cool and fresh night air. Locking the door behind, my ears swell with gratitude, swayed by the gentle tunes of a jazz quintet's languid standard. A new world opens before me, one that borders and firmly contradicts everything that goes on outside - contradicts Lungmen itself.
The bustling streets in the far distance?
I see no streets. Here, there's only the lifted corridor I shuffle through, the spiral staircase leading down to the main hall. Chic and antique, they match the friendly faces and expensive suits that I pass by. A certain Paulie lifts a glass of golden brown goodness, I quirk my eyebrows and smile.
"You good, Frankie?" He asks, and I politely nod.
"All good, Frankie-boy?" Marco, that fat lard by his side, he asks me the same question. I see he's already hogging a pack of that over-the-top-expensive Siracusan prosciutto under his jacket, and a plate of cold cuts in his hand.
"All good, like never before."
I politely wave them both off, flick a new cigarette in my mouth before they can bore me to death with the most recent doings of Big Tone and his violently colorful hits.
It's just how life spills around here. Down the spiraling staircase, I light my tobacco to the sound of laughter and paper shuffling on green tabletops. Music, guitar noodling and slow-paced stick tapping, it permeates my every step towards the area we call our "lounge."
Saturday nights are for the wives', but Sundays are when they have to go to sleep early to make it to work at 6 AM Monday stat. Sundays are for the guys.
Sundays are for us to lounge around. For cards to fly and booze to spill. We get the fancy meats and cheeses out, we stir up something foul in the air with tobacco. Ashtrays fill really quickly with this many chain smokers around, so we had to ask the boss to make up a special budget for more at some point. We were sick and tired of ashing our shit in whiskey glasses, then having to hand-wash everything at the end of the night. Nobody wants to drunkenly scrub fifteen fucking glasses clean of reeking ash. I know I don't.
"Heeeey, Frankie!"
I hear the booming voice of Vito, our "handler" per se. The most decadent out of all these fine gentlemen, he's the one who likes to keep things slow here like no one else. Big man can really afford it though. He can move as slow as he wants, 'cause he doesn't really need to move for anybody. Not once, not twice have I heard him babble on and on about how Lungmen's giving him and our guys no respect, no respect fit for a Sicillian anyway. He keeps up the spirits, barks like a true Lupo, tangents on and off about the "homeland" and how much better everything used to be there. How even the reek of cigarettes and rain was better in Siracusa than it is in Lungmen.
"Mr Monti, pleasure." I shake his hand and worm right into his good wills. A round of retchy laughter collectively shakes the poker table as everyone follows with their own grabby fingers.
Next to Vito, Antonio. Antonio's a bit of a mutt, and his Perro mug bares me all his pristinely polished teeth. As much of a filthy mutt he is, I've never seen no other filthy mutt donning a fifty thousand LMD three piece. And a watch worth twice as much.
I shake his hand.
"Frankie, my man."
Rocco shoves himself between my fingers and I can't even say nothing. The definition of a strong, silent type stands up from his chair to greet me with a massive grin, and I can't help but grin back. I've seen that Lupo help his old nana get her Friday groceries done just as many times as I've seen him crack the skull of some indebted fin-ball stand owner. Guy's got a grip, shit makes me twitch. I grit my teeth, and his smile stays oblivious. It's just another handshake to him.
"Alright, alright, you're gonna break that fuckin' kid's fingers, you dumb mutt."
Domenico stands from his seat, rips the handshake apart in my defense. Everyone laughs and collectively ashes their tobacco as we exchange pleasantries. They say money can't buy you happiness, but it certainly can net you a whole heap of respect. You got this short, balding scruff of a Lupo who can say just about anything about anyone and their mother, and nobody can do shit to him. Why? 'Cause they're all sitting deep in his pockets.
Shit, even the bartender across the room. Guy gets a fat stack of blue each night just for keeping the ice cubes cold. It's like a zoo out here sometimes, and Dom's the one holding our leashes. Except Vito's, maybe. And Antonio's, sure.
"Hey, hey, Frankie."
Last one, Luciano, from the far end of the table. This mousy - which is quite funny, considering he's a Feline - little type scurries up to me. With the utmost respect, I shake his hand and nod, and Domenico slams him over the head for shits and giggles. "What the hell?!" He yells, and everyone wheezes with laughter. Shrill bunch, I think and say absolutely nothing.
"Pardon me gentlemen, eh… Scusi." I say, sharpening my Siracusan on their whetstone ears. "Up there, on the balcony, Aldo and I are catchin' some air. Sent me here for a little something to drink, didn't tell me outright what he wanted, just said "surprise me." Got a clue?"
"Surprise me?" Antonio cackles, casually upping the ante by throwing a couple tokens into the game's pot. I glance and find them to be worth about as much as my wife makes in a month. "Bastard wanted a surprise, ah? Didn't get enough surprises last week on the cigar run?"
"Oh, don't even remind me." Rocco dims, folding his hand neatly and discarding a lonely pair of sapphic queens. "You know who got a real surprise that night? Those fuckin' LGD bastards who deducted it'd be a nice time for a routine check. Proper surprise they got: bang, and bang!" He whips up his massive fists, fur flying everywhere. Rounds of cackling laughter follow.
"Yeah, and where were ya when that shit went down two nights ago, ah? Boys could've used some muscle like you, shit for brains." Domenico dusts some loose change into the pot. The money they're playing for currently could probably retire me and my entire family. I stand and do nothing, Rocco raises a brow. If he catches a glimpse of my greedy blues on the cash, I'm a dead man.
"Two nights ago?" He asks.
"Two nights ago." Dom nods, ashing his cigar into Luciano's whiskey glass. "One, two. Fourty eight hours ago. Guys at Ire's End got hit so fuckin' hard not even Big Tone would've been able to salvage that shit."
"Ey!" Vito puffs up, and I beg the Lateran Law for his shirt not to burst. If that thing goes, the buttons shoot for my brain and lobotomize me on the spot. "Big Tone's would've handled that business with one eye closed, another willingly blindfolded. You don't downplay the man himself."
"Well, I guess, yeah…" Sourly, Dom agrees. "... But, boss, ya gotta understand…"
"Boss, it was the Wolf's work…" Luciano yelps quietly, working overtime to paddle the ash from his drink.
Everyone seems to go quiet at the mention of that weird name. Even the jukebox stutters.
Wolf, yeah? Some name she's made around the lounges and whatnot. Hitting our little operations all around Lungmen left and right, she and that cantankerous band of hers. At this point I don't even know what's true or not when it comes to that crazy broad. I heard somewhere that she can apparently kill with her sight, while others pulled me to the side and started saying that it's all bullshit, that they saw what she's capable of and no man could ever truly grasp what that monster's like, because she has no mercy and leaves no one breathing. Reaps all pulses.
I asked the guys how come they knew then, and they shut it for good.
"... Wolf or not, she ain't got shit on Big Tone." Vito cuts it short. "When he stops runnin' hits for Capone, we'll slip him a little something in the waistpocket and ask nicely to go after that insane bitch. Oughta put her in the ground."
"I dunno if it's gonna be that much of a cakewalk, boss…" Antonio seems a little jittery when he speaks, glancing around the other boys' tables like he's sniffin' for a rat. "... Y'hear who's comin' over from the mainland? I heard someone pulled some strings, ruffled some feathers, managed to net us, Lungmenites, a visit from that Gambino knob. Just to deal with the Wolf's shenanigans, apparently."
This "Gambino" fellow, I do not know. While Big Tone remains steadfast in my memory as the know it all, do it all assassin wonder of the eleventh century, "Gambino" rings no bells. Must be a pretty big deal, 'cause the table's gone silent.
"From the mainland?" Dom forgets all about the pot.
"Gambino?" So does Rocco. "Just for the Wolf?"
"Apparently, yeah." Antonio draws them all in, holding us in a net of growing suspense. Even Luciano and Dom put their differences away for a moment, leaning arm in arm to hear the tattletale. "Some outsider managed to make him a deal he couldn't refuse, and the bugger latched onto the moolah in an instant. I don't know the deeper pictures here, but that's all I heard. All I say tonight, anyway."
"You can't just leave us hanging like that…" Luciano mewls quietly, but stops the moment Dom's hand rises off the table.
And it slams right back into it.
"You're not doing this again, Anton. Not with this, not like that." Dom points fingers, specifically points at Antonio. "Spill."
"Alright big man, settle down." He scoffs at the display, and everyone can tell he feels invincible with that monstrous pricetag dangling off his suit. "Don't get your panties in a twist, might ruin 'em for your mistress."
"I swear to God, you greasy motherfucker, if you don't start spilling right now, I'm gonna…!"
He reaches for something at the waistband of his chic-cut suit pants, but Rocco's already there, already trying to stop him, already working on preserving Antonio's pulse. God bless his soul.
"Let go. Let go of my hand, you shit for brains. Let go!" He bubbles with rage, nannyed by Rocco's firm and assertive head shakes.
"C'mon, Dom! Put that thing away, no one wants to see you lose your shit tonight." Antonio scoffs, clicks his tongue, goes back to the cards. "You gonna get yourself packed up if you go waving that piece around like ya dick at a whorehouse."
Everyone shares a small chuckle at Dom's contemporary folly. Even I manage a little something, just hoping to get my damn drink and cut all this racket loose.
"Yeah, a whorehouse I said." Antonio adds fuel to the flame. "Like the one ya mother used to frequent through the back door, y'know what I mean?"
And the whole table bursts out laughing. I gotta say, I got a little kick out of it too.
"MOTHERFUCKER!"
Dom breaks from Rocco's iron grasp somehow, hell if I knew how. Guy flips the entire table, sends all the chips and glasses flying; one thing I see – buncha guys enjoying a spotless game of Siracusan stick'em, or whatever it's called over there. Then? Hell let loose.
"SAY SOMETHIN' ABOUT MY MOTHER AGAIN. SAY SOMETHING!"
Vito shoots to his feet, Dom grabs that smirking mug of Antonio's by the scruff and shoves a .38 snub nose down his throat. Now, I dunno if he could actually light that thing, no idea if he got the whole shtick of firing Originium bullets down or not. Still, you see an eminently agitated man with a loaded gun, you don't question his Arts-handling abilities.
"O-Okay, Dom– I'm sowwhy, awwhighght?" Antonio mumbles, and I can tell that barrel between his teeth brings him some trouble voicing himself. I'd call that a downright unfair move to pull on a man who's supposedly meant to beg for his life. "Shit, Dom, pull 'at thing out."
"LET'S HEAR IT AGAIN, SAY SOMETHING ABOUT MY MOTHER!"
"Dom…" Rocco de-escalates, voice soothing. Gentle giant, or whatever. He starts negotiating for the mutt's life, and Vito pulls me aside. Now, I know I haven't mentioned what Luciano's been doin' all this time but that kit just straight up ditched under the nearest table the moment Dom's mother was mentioned.
"Look, Frankie, why don't ya leave us to it and go get that drink you wanted, hm?" Vito lovingly pats me on the cheek, affectionately holds my hand and tenderly shoves a roll of at least 500 LMD into my pocket. "Pick out somethin' nice. For Aldo, yeah?"
"Yeah. yeah."
"Dom, put the gun down…" I hear from behind his shoulders, but the rest of his massive, stripe-y frame blots out the sight.
"Yeah. Get him some of that new import. That Iberian tequila, you know which one."
"Yeah, yeah." Of course I do. I repossessioned a crate full of that stuff myself. "Will do, boss."
Guy pats me on the back, sends me on my way. "Domenico! Put that thing down, don't ever pull it out in front of my eyes again!" I hear his voice booming from behind when I saunter for the bar.
That's about as decadent as it gets around here.
Just like the old world, the old country. That's what they say at least. Between the countless rolls of cold cuts and cheeses that smell like vomit, I'm not sure what to take at face value and what to actually believe in. Sure, the banquets are nice sometimes. The suits, the expensive watches and all. Cars, paying off speeding tickets with a nod and a knowing smile. Yenwu's dogs, some of them at least, they mostly sit in our pockets and let us do whatever as long as we cut them in from time to time. The lower-privileged ones at least. God knows what kinda monstrous bribe it'd take to get that stone-faced bitch Ch'en to budge. Matter of fact, I don't think ANY kind of bribe would work on that broad. You flash your wallet in front of her, you get a beating and a one-way ticket to the joint.
The joint, right. I take my tequila, tip the bartender with a 20 from that 500 Vito slipped me, carry on forward. Pass some faces, exchange pleasantries, yadda yadda. More than half of these people have had a brush with the law at least once in their lives, and not a single one of them's been pretty. They say what they wanna say, they talk about how no one gets locked up unless they wanna get locked up, how prison's like a kingdom for them, the kings, where all the small fries grovel at their feet and kiss their toes to make it day by day.
But me?
Nah, I know prison. I know it's mostly bullshit.
That's why I steer clear. Operate where the law don't look. Never glance a gift horse in its mouth, never stick my head out too much. I clamber up the spiral staircase to the voice of Tone Benny-et singing about making it from rags to riches, and I gotta wholeheartedly agree with the guy. If more people cared, maybe I would, too.
I pass by Paulie and Marco again. The fat man's already finished with his charcuterie board, hungrily eyeing the box of prosciutto under his arm; I pass 'em by, bite down on my cig, lead the way with the tequila.
"Ey, Frankie."
Paulie taps me on the shoulder.
"Yeah? Got some booze here for Aldo."
"Good. Keep him boozed up, but not too much." He chuckles, leans in and gets serious in an instant. "... I'm not standin' here with that tub of lard for no reason tonight, alright?"
"Who you callin' "tub of lard?" Marco huffs in, but Paulie just flicks him off.
"Listen, Frankie. Keep Aldo happy, but also keep him sharp, yeah? Ain't got another sniper like that in all of Lungmen, and our circumstances are…" His face scrunches and he sways his hand. 50/50. "... You know how they are. With the hits on our guys lately, better have a keen eye out on the street at night."
"Yeah, I know how it is, Paulie." I nod. These guys like hearing their names spoken respectfully, so I try to do it a lot. Part of me also wishes he wouldn't have told me about his worries, though. Realizing that you're basically cannon fodder for the Wolf if she decides to drop by? Not pleasant.
Still, he pats me on the back.
"Yeah, so get to it. Watch his glass."
I nod, he nods. Marco elbows his back.
"Who'd you call a fat lard earlier…?"
"Oh, for God's sake…"
I leave their bickering alone.
With each inhale of smoke, I thank the CEO of Astra White for calming my head personally. Guy probably doesn't even know I exist. Hell, guy probably doesn't even realize how many people around Lungmen cough out their lungs each year 'cause of his tobacco. It's like being a Family hit-man without even realizing you're pulling the trigger on thousands daily. At least that Wolf broad has some morals, showing up personally to do her dirty work; not sitting in a comfy leather chair and watching the profits roll in, closing an eye on the coffins rolling out.
The Wolf. The Wolf again, huh…?
What's there to know about her? Guys around here don't wanna tell me her actual name, all I know is that she's ex-family too. Her whole family is actually ex-family, apparently. 'Cause it got liquidated over some feud I don't know anything and don't care about, all of it. My best guess is the girl's just looking for revenge to get some sorta closure with the off chance that she accidentally nails the actual perps in the midst of her constant bloodshed. It's like she's some sort of cryptid at this point. Like a shitty urban legend – No association except this shady "Penguin Logistics" brand, a mindless murderer who shows up in a van with a gunnin' angel or two, bares her yellow teeth and gets to work off the bat – asks no questions, deals no cards. No one knows if she's actually been there or not. After she's done, no trace of a living soul anywhere. Just leaves a whole warehouse of dead meat and blood-soaked cashmere.
That's why I always preferred to wear silk anyway.
.
.
.
.
"... Hey, Aldo." I close the balcony door behind and the cool breeze immediately starts playing with my face. "Got you tequila. Vito vouched."
"..."
But Aldo stays silent.
He stays by the railing, a little shorter than I remember him. Can't see his face, and I can't really see the smoke from his cigar anymore either. Doesn't help that the bastard put on some wide brimmed clown-hat on, God knows why. Maybe just the cold.
"Aldo?" I ask, approaching. His coat flutters in the wind, the gales sing when running through the vent holes of that stupid hat. It's so wide and low, like a cone. Some traffic cone, whatever. "You don't like tequila? I can go get you somethin' else."
"..."
And he still doesn't say anything. My mind reaches a quick conclusion; maybe he's already had enough, gone nonverbal. Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe he's just cold, maybe not.
I approach the railing, place the glass by his hand.
"... You alright?"
I ask, he doesn't answer. Guy just stands, stares at the gleaming cityline in the far distance. Colorful displays nudge me to buy a new vacuum cleaner, but I already have three at home. My wife's a practicing consumerist.
"..."
I sigh, too. Silence, after all, as well as the stubborn acceptance of new, is part of the decadent way of living. Maybe I just need to power through and accept Aldo's new self. Some mouthy wisdom itches to splurge from my lips, but I hold it in. Instead, I take a well deserved puff from my cig and glance around.
I look up, I see the stars. Bright and pretty.
I look to the right, I see Aldo. Quiet and blank.
I look to the left, I see the street. Silent, buzzing with the low growl of jazz.
I look forward, I see Lungmen. Big and flashy, smokes and mirrors. Skyscrapers matched in size only by the egos of those who own them.
Eh...
There are ups in life, there are downs. This path I've chosen, it's certainly the former. You can't have one without the other though, so I finally shake my head and look down.
I look down, I see Aldo hanging by the neck from the balcony.
.
My eyes shoot wide open.
.
"The fuck…?"
I barely catch a glimpse of his messy mop, and it leads me up the noose – his unbuckled belt – wrapped around the railing. My mouth falls agape, and the cigarette drops.
A swish cuts the air. The other "Aldo", the one next to me, catches the cigarette in the blink of an eye.
Our gazes meet for a moment. I stare into his eyes and see nothing but darkness, tenebrous nothing spilling from beneath that cone hat. The smoldering tip lights his face for a moment when he takes a drag, and I realize that he's not Aldo.
.
It's some young mutt. An unfamiliar sight. A complete stranger, dressed in Sicilian silks.
.
I can't feel my legs. Can't feel my head, can't hear my thoughts. There's just the growing, shrieking ring of blood in my ears. My whole body freezes, tumbling back on its own, and the shrill klaxon only intensifies.
The perp spits out the smoke. My smoke, from my Astra White.
He takes a sip of the tequila. My tequila, for my friend, Aldo.
My legs steady. I don't even wanna ask any questions, I just want to cave his skull in. I reach for the trench knife in my jacket, but before I can even attempt to grasp the handle, the kid twitches.
His coat flutters wildly, thrown open in a split second. Something brightly blue gleams through the thin white of his shirt, and his hand's already clutching the handle of some stick concealed within. I blink, and I miss him unsheathing the blade.
He shoves it full force into my shoulder.
"...?"
Everything starts rampantly rolling over. I see the disappearing cityline, my back hits the door hard. It swings wide open and I tumble backwards, the kid still pushing into my flesh. The force sends me tumbling over the inside railing and I feel my body taking flight. My clothes rustle when I float, everything feels like a slowed-down roll of film. I'm falling from grace, falling from the lifted walkway and into the lounge area, but everything still seems perfectly fine. Frankie Sinatra chuckles to me from the jukebox and asks "Ain't that a kick in the head?" Couldn't agree more. I chuckle back and enjoy the flight, I don't know what's even real and what's not anymore.
I see faces all around, slowly, very slowly turning to watch me go. Eyes surround me from all sides, but I can't return their gazes. I look at the walkway I've just been so unceremoniously flung from, seeing Paulie and the fatass Marco. They stand face to face with that kid, barely even registering his existence. One moment he's there, another, I see their shirts and suits bursting wide open when he slides his blade along their stomachs. Prosciutto flies everywhere, blood bursts. It's all so fast, he's done them in even before either can realize their guts are spilling like boiled pasta. The blood barely even manages to splurge on the walls, and the kid's already rushing down the spiraling staircase, already cutting down everything and everyone who stands in his way. I fly, I keep flying through the air, I see the widening eyes of Vito, the perking ears of Luciano, I hear Dom's infuriated scream and Antonio's effeminately earsplitting screech. Rocco silently watches me plummet right past his nose, reaching calmly for the machete by his belt.
And then I hit the table.
The boys must've barely got it back standing, and I'm already here, already ruining it again.
My back crashes into it and bends the fur-laid green up top. Whole thing just shatters like a matchstick house beneath my weight, the velocity and everything else I'm carrying makes quick work of any sort of defiant pressure. I tumble, I slide and I hit the wall to the sound of growing fury and fear. Shit hurts. My neck feels numb, I can't even move my fingers. My legs no longer exist.
I can only sit against the wall and watch. I can sit and watch the commencing chaos. An inferno grows inside our lounge, devouring everything and everyone it touches; and at the center of it all is some child I've never even seen before. I watch his blurred silhouette jump from table to table, I feel like I'm watching a painter swing a smudge of black around a canvas. Wherever the brush goes, bursting explosions of red follow as he carves his way through my comrades. My associates, my colleagues, my family.
The bartender catches him in a blade-lock with one of our mules, grabs the same bottle of tequila he poured me from before, and chucks it at the perp's head. I watch that little fucker catch it mid-air, break it over the mule's head and stab him rapidly, repeatedly, paced like I've never seen before, in the gut. Red gushes everywhere, and when he's done, he slings it back at the bartender; pops his right eyeball clean open.
.
"DO SOMETHING! FUCKIN' DO SOMETHING, SOMEONE, DO SOMETHING!"
.
Dom yells, and Vito follows. He moves slow, but the perp moves fast. The perp moves really, really fucking fast. In the time it takes me to blink, he's already ended two games of poker by decapitating all the players by the shoulder line.
Rocco stands in his way when the perp finishes painting the walls red with everyone else's innards. Their eyes meet, and Rocco tightens his grip over the gargantuan slab of steel he calls a "machete." I've seen him in action, I know what he's capable of. That machete of his, those iron arms. He works out, he's told me. Asked me to squeeze his bicep, I couldn't even refuse despite the homoerotic connotations, that's how large and scary the guy is. And it was solid. It was really, really solid. Like concrete.
The perp stops. Sizes Rocco, flashes that blade in the air, flaunts it around and shoves back under his coat. Rocco raises a brow, looks down at that conical hat of his (two heads of difference in height), asks, no, spits through gritted teeth.
"What? What, you rat bastard? You're done playing with toys? Wanna go at it like a man, cazzo? Fist to fist, skin to skin?"
Everyone else watches in complete shock. Frankie, my namesake, keeps cheering us up from the jukebox.
"No." The kid calmly replies, and I finally get a glimpse of his voice. Firm, soft. Quiet and short, too. As if he wasn't used to expressing much at all. As if he usually let the steel talk for him.
Rocco falls into confusion, the whole table follows. He raises the machete, but before anything else can happen, the kid shudders and violently twitches.
.
I haven't ever seen anything like this, not once in my entire life.
.
It happened in an instant. One second, I saw the kid with a hand on the pommel, and another - he was already standing behind Rocco. Just switched positions in a FRACTION of what's socially acceptable to be a second.
And now he looms there, blade fully outstretched to the side, soaked with blood, caked with guts. I can't see the expression on Rocco's face, but I'm guessing he must've been surprised too. Hell, surprised would be an understatement.
He drops the machete. It echoes dully through the lounge as he reaches for his stomach. I see his fingers desperately groping, tearing and clawing at his waistcoat to unbutton it, but the thing just doesn't listen.
He's whimpering.
I hear him choking.
And then the kid sheathes the blade.
Slams it into the scabbard in the blink of an eye, lets the wood engulf it whole.
Rocco, as he stood on his own two feet, he simply – well, it's, it was a, – it was a difficult process to describe.
Rocco tore in two.
A clean line of red burst through the middle, down along his spine. I see two Rocco's in front of me for a moment; I see Left Rocco and Right Rocco, and I think I must be falling into some sort of blood loss fueled daze.
Then, both Roccos fall to the floor in opposite directions. A gooey trail of sludge conjoins them, until it severs and plaps to the ground with a wet smack.
And the kid turns to us.
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"... Dio Santissimo…" Vito whispers quietly.
I've never seen the boss look so utterly hopeless. So soulless and empty. He's clutching to a little necklace, probably praying and begging whatever God he believes in for forgiveness and protection.
The perp doesn't seem religious at all. Calmly and politely, he produces the blade from its scabbard and inserts it up our boss' cranium.
A thud sounds next to me. I force my neck to crane just barely, and I see Luciano lying out cold, frothing at the mouth. Guy fainted and dropped. I can't find it in me to blame him.
"Y-You… Y-... You…" Antonio starts stammering, but a quick whish of steel from the kid shuts him up for good. I hear two thumps that follow; one for the severed head, another for the limp body.
"Y-You… You fucker, y-you…" Dom starts backing off, his eyes flickering wildly over the entire lounge. Blood wherever he looks, corpses riddle his path out. He makes it halfway across the room before remembering he's armed.
It's like some epiphany had struck him. I see him looking at the gun as if it's his own ticket to heaven.
He points at the perp, as he calmly wipes his sword with Antonio's five thousand LMD tie.
"D-DIE! DIE, YOU SON OF A B-BITCH, TU B-BASTARDO, MORDI LA SABBIA!"
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Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
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The entire cylinder goes off in about five seconds. I'm no gun expert, but six incisions, .38 millimeters in diameter, would probably be enough to put down most thing that roam Terra, even those weird fucking Wendigos or whatever else haunts Kazdel at night.
But the perp stands unmoved.
I don't know if it's the blood loss again, but it might. My shirt's already thoroughly soaked in my own juice at this point, and I'm beginning to suspect a spinal fracture. I'm no medical specialist, but I also can't feel anything from the neck down, so it's not exactly difficult to put two and two together.
I see drippings of lead tumble flimsily at his feet. Some of them roll, some of them sit still, apparently missing a chunk here and there.
He wipes the sword of any bullet-residue, calmly puts it in his left hand. Dom drops the gun, eyes and mouth agape.
"What the fuck…? What… W-What in the fuck…?"
He asks, but I'm not sure who. I couldn't find him an answer either, and the perp seems mostly unreceptive to any conversational attempts. He takes his scabbard in the right hand when Dom begins booking it for the main entrance, pulls the other one forward like a pitcher readying up a winning throw.
"Fuck… Fuck, fuck, fuck… fuck…"
And as Dom scrambles for a key to open the door, the perp hops from one foot to another.
Hop!
His arm swings wildly forward, as if accelerated by the might of all winds that rummage the summits of Yan. The scabbard flies, gracefully zig-zags across the room, and cracks the back of Dom's skull with the tip, entering halfway through.
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"F-F… F-ugh… ughhh…"
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His head hits the door hard. He retches a bit, vomits some blood. Green and red mix together, bathe in one another and pour abundantly from his mouth in a rather unpleasant display. Seems like the poor guy got lobotomized on the spot, blubbering away, only able to mill his thumbs around in search for the right key to open the door, forever condemned to card through them aimlessly.
"Tsk."
The kid clicks his tongue, as if disappointed with the throw. He aims again, this time with the sword itself.
Whoosh!
Blade crosses the length of the room in a second, slamming hard into the scabbard's gullet. It fits perfectly inside, the throw calculated to the most minute T.
Pushed by the velocity, the scabbard's tip bursts through Dom's right eyeball, tearing chunks of brain and skull out into the outside world. His movements subside in an instant, leaving behind not even a rigor mortis - his body falls limply against the door, retching waterfalls of blood and bile.
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"..."
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And that leaves us two together as the last breathing souls inside the lounge.
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Whish-whoosh.
A smudge of paint-blue crosses the room, back and forth. The kid retrieves his blade from Dom's cracked skull, letting the old man fall pathetically onto what was left of his face. A second later, he's already right in front of me.
Looming.
Something shifts by my side. In all the chaos, I completely forgot that Luciano was still with us, just out cold. His kitty-cat ears flutter up, twist around to catch any sounds indicating the end of the massacre, and then immediately die down when the perp drives his sword into his head. That, again, leaves just the two of us as the last breathing souls inside the lounge.
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I spit out some blood. Can't really do anything else but try to clear my throat and speak, not when my own body doesn't want to listen to my commands no more. I gaze up into the perp's murky eyes and see nothing. Curtains of black veil his face, a pair of tar, twisted horns makes my trepid side tremble. I've never seen a Sarkaz before, not in Lungmen, not anywhere else.
I don't want to see one today. My heart begs the heavens for my estimate to be wrong, but the gentle sway of his tail cements my suspicions in his favor.
His feet straddle my sides. Expensive silks, all wet and caked with innards, they ruffle and bend when he crouches on top of me. His eyes are almost curious when he studies my face through.
"... W-What?" I mumble, spitting blood. "What e-else do y-you want? Just finish it."
Nobody expects death to come, it's always a bucket of cold water. But being given the opportunity to know the clock's ticking down its final seconds before it does, that's a privilege not many are given. I feel almost thankful. I almost feel happy. I almost want to thank him for making it so that I don't have to go home, get yelled at by my wife. That I won't have to explain shit to Capone about the massacre, that I won't be the messenger everyone blames, but just another little tick in the tally, a number in the death toll.
The perp exhales. I notice now, he's had my Astra White between his lips this entire time. All of this, the entire slaughter, the loss of countless lives, and he hasn't even finished one cigarette. One dumb, fucking cigarette.
The smoke bites my eyes, and it turns the edges a little humid. I blink rapidly, close my eyes.
When they're open, I see him rummaging around his pockets.
And then he pulls a photograph.
My eyes latch onto it like a lifeline, like the last thing I was ever supposed to see. This mosaic of bleak colors and scruffed lines from folding, I scour each edge and line until the whole picture comes together.
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It's the perp. It's him, the kid. Even more boyish than now, the picture must've been a bit dated. But without a doubt, it was still him. Right there, standing with his blade out, wearing some dirty rags and a conical hat, similar to the one he's got on right now. But the one from the picture is like flint to a lighter when compared. It's just straw. Straw bundled together.
He's hitting a flair-y pose. Smiling somewhat, apparently. I keep scouring his face for any more value, but he reaches with a finger and leads my eyes away from himself.
Instead, he points to the guy to his left.
Tap-tap.
He taps the picture.
"... Do you know him?"
He asks, voice calm and collected. Not even the cigarette phases his throat.
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"..."
I have to sharpen my gaze. There's no whetstones around anymore, nothing to help me. I swallow and stare, rub my eyes over the silhouette, rack my brain like I haven't before.
It was a Sankta. Proudly holding up his fingers to the camera, forming a V with one hand, sporting some ragtag rifle with the other. Gray jacket, gray sweater, muddy cargos, untamed spillings of fluffy gray curls all over. And a gray halo to match, floating up top.
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And that look in his eyes.
I recognize the look in his eyes.
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Not personally, but I've heard from the boys. The boys that are all dead now. I've heard of a sad, gray angel who'd hit our warehouses with the Wolf sometimes. I heard they'd leave behind a massacre worthy of the one that had just transpired.
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"Y-Yeah." I yelp, itching to reach for the picture. My arms and hands all firmly deny motion. "Y-Yeah, I know. I know him."
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Something shifts in the kid. Some unforeseen glint fills his eyes, dissipates some of that murkiness and pumps them full of life. I see his tail picking off the floor, done with the idle sweeping, now wagging in full, rapid motions.
"Where is he?" He asks, inching ever so closer to my face. I take a sniff and I'm surprised to garner a lungful of something else besides sweat and cigarette smoke. He reeks of expensive perfume.
"I d-don't know. I don't know where he is…" My voice sounds unnaturally foreign. I can't recognize myself at the moment, it feels like there's the inner me and the outer me at play. Like I'm just watching the corporeal body draw its few last breaths on my way to the pale wide yonder. Persistently, the kid pulls his blade and puts it to my neck.
"Where is he?" He asks again, pushing the sharp edge into my neck. The uncomfortable heat it leaves on my skin forces me back into the current moment, and I'm startled to feel it. I'm paralyzed from the neck-down, but my throat's still fair game I guess.
"I d-don't… don't know…" I gurgle, watching my blood trickling down the steel. I catch a glimpse of myself reflecting off the surface, and I've never seen anything so pitiful before. God, I'm a mess. I'm a fucking mess and I'm going to die tonight.
I'm going to die unless I tell him something.
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"... P-... W-With the Wolf." I stammer.
The kid raises a brow.
"The Wolf?"
"Y-Yeah." My mind reaches back as far as it can, grasping at the thin veils of mystery that surrounded the only sort of connection I could draw to that insane broad.
"W-With Penguin L-Logistics." My voice puffs, the words mostly meaningless to me. "T-That's... Th-That's all I know."
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"..."
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But to the kid?
Oh, they must've meant something.
His tail coils. It springs back and forth, crossing wild shapes and sized beneath that longcoat. The blade stops at my neck, neither pushing forth or drawing back. Blood spills from my mouth and waterfalls along the edge.
"..."
An expression of thoughtfulness visits his face. Features shrouded in the cone's shadow, I can't distinguish; but I know he's considering something. He's caught onto a trail, and I was the one who helped him in the breakthrough.
I'm the co-conspirator. We're in this together, just as much as we're the only two left alive.
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"Thank you." He says.
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He thanks me absentmindedly. Coat flutters, his knees coil. Perp stands up, gets off of me. I stare into his eyes for just a moment more before he relays his final parting gift of thanks.
With an utmost casual motion, he slices my throat open.
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Skin snaps.
Muscles pop.
Flesh bloats.
And rivers of red begin tumbling down my body.
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"G-... Guh…"
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I gasp for air, but it doesn't matter. My windpipe's wide open, it can catch itself as much oxygen as it damn wants. My eyes dart across the room, latching onto the shuffling soles of the kid, languidly stepping across each and every corpse in this riddled minefield of rot. His oxfords avoid each lake of blood with grace, and I can't help but find myself getting lost in their deep, tantalizing obsidian gleam.
It's just black.
It's fucking black, Frankie. Not obsidian, black.
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It's just black, you dumbass.
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Black's all you see.
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Black is where your eyes go when your lids give out.
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Black is everywhere, and black is everything.
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Can't see, can't hear, can't feel.
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Can't spare a droplet more to pour.
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The click of a door teases my ears just one last time.
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Just one single time.
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One time before I bleed out.
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And before the Wolf takes his leave.
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Far, far away from the place of the massacre, far from the quiet mires and whistling winds – in the city's downtown outskirts, a safehouse stood quietly, but on duty. Resting, yet vigilant. Inconspicuous, the insides completely invisible to the naked eye of the uninitiated.
And inside, it buzzed with noise.
The rhythmic tapping, tallying of sound, carried on over even through the mighty oak doors that stood tall before Andy. They were a little more menacing than he remembered. Then again, it's been a while since he's visited.
"..."
He took a deep breath, let it all out. Steeled himself for what would come, scolded mentally for being such a wimp. He's called the guy before, the guy himself called Andy a "top gun!" That has to mean something, right? He's not just another homeless invader of the "Penguin Empire" or whatever, he's here to apply and he's here professionally. No, not professionally. Semi-professionally, he's here on casual-business. It's casual-business, nothing worth tearing his nerves for.
Andy took a step closer.
Law, the further away he got from the main entrance, the more anxiety's been piling up on his poor self. Even that Law-damned door, it just kept growing in size. Maybe Emperor's had some arts-flinger come in and curse this piece of wood to grow in the eyes of anyone who dared be stupid enough to bother him with useless whims.
No, that's not it. The door just had to be conquered.
Andy placed his left and only hand over the oak.
Yeah, that's right. It's just dead wood, nothing to lose sleep over. His cheek moulded nicely against the surface, and he closed his eyes. The soothing beats of hip-hop muffling from behind were flowing right into his ear, and it made his brain tickle with each snare.
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B-dum-thhh… Bd-dum-thhh… Bd-bd-bd-bd…
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It felt relieving, in a way. Wasn't his kind of music by a long shot, but it still felt somewhat familiar.
His wings were fluttering so softly to each sound, so content to be here at this time – here, in the safehouse. Not in Kazdel, not in Laterano – here.
Lungmen's already started getting a little too familiar.
Familiar enough to just fall limp against the surface, hug it as tight as he could, hold onto the wood and drift off to a never-ending, careless and completely unbothered…
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"... What're you doing?"
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A shrill wake-up call came instantly. The familiar voice made his eyes widen in befuddled embarrassment, and Andy jumped away from the door.
"N-Nothing?" He turned to check all corners like a proper army-man would. Upon deeming the room clear enough, he pointed at the source of his embarrassment – Texas, standing in the hallway. "What're you doing here?"
"I work here." She didn't seem amused by his antics. Texas reached into a box she held, taking out a chocolate-covered dough stick and pointing it at him accusingly. "You don't."
"I technically do."
"You're technically a collaborator, not an employee." Her eyelids fell half-way. "We close for non-employees at eight. It's two in the morning. Shoo."
"Look, I'm working on that. Just, just lemme show you something, wait…" Andy grasped his jacket, making an effort to unzip it with just one hand. Texas watched him struggle for a good thirty seconds or so before she reached over to do it for him. "... Thank you."
"Welcome."
"Look." He pulled a crumpled up piece of notebook paper from within, shoving it in her face. "I've got my CV written down on here and all, yeah? I got a whole interview with Emperor lined up, it's not like I'm just dropping by uninvited."
"Mhm." She lazily scanned the messy scribbles, munching on the candy. "... CV. You wrote this yourself?"
"Yeah!" He happily shook his head with pride.
"I can tell. Found an error already."
"What? What error?" Andy dimmed in an instant.
"Here." She flicked the top of the page. "You wrote "Andrew Reiff", not "Ricketts." You got your own name wrong."
"Reiff is my name." Andy curled a little inside, something told him to keep biting back, even if it hurt. "Ricketts was like an, uh… you know, like an alias. A codename."
"Didn't seem like a codename when you were flaunting it around documents before." She paid his face no mind, running her eyes over the various "achievemnts" he's jotted down. "... "Served under W?" Double-you, who the hell's "W?"
"A merc? A- A very good one, at that." Andy puffed up defensively, fondly remembering both W's and the all the anti-Sankta racial slurs they've hurled at him. "One of the better ones if I had to guess. As good as it gets in Kazdel, anyway."
"Mmm. Right, Kazdel." She murmured, suckling on the chocolate tip. "Forgot you've done time in that hellhole."
"Well, it wasn't really "doing time", I mean, it was more like…" He sought for a word, but any and all forms of explaining Kazdel to her would've just sounded like him openly admitting he was there for so long by his own will. Without a proper follow, he trailed off.
"... "Former CEO of a logistics company." She read off one of the last positions. "I don't think that's much of an achievement. Looking back and considering what your company's managed to achieve, I'd call that one a fluke."
"Yeah, no, I agree." Andy grumbled, reaching for a pen to cross the point out. "... You think I should add anything else on there? Like, you know him, right?"
She raised a brow.
"Emperor?"
"Yeah?"
"Mmm." Again, a lazy hum. "A bit."
"Yeah! So you gotta know some, like… like, qualities, what exactly he's looking for in people, in employees and–..."
"You want a tip?" She cut in, dissipating his eager excitement.
"Yeah?"
"Take this," Texas took his "CV", her touch a little rougher than usual. "Crumple it up, throw it away."
And just like that, her fists balled the paper into a projectile, promptly flung into the closest trash can. Andy watched in horror as his life's work sunk in the garbage.
"And c'mon." She grabbed his dangling sleeve, tugging hard towards the door. "... He doesn't like it when people make him wait."
"Wait! Wait, just like that?" Andy stammered while she dragged him up to the towering oak. It seemed a little too large for comfort.
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And Texas firmly gripped the handle.
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"Mmm. Just like that."
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