Generic empire
20-11-2005, 19:09
Ivan’s Guitar Dungeon was a small, squat brown brick building with a dark façade and black bars over the windows. It was a simple structure, one that you wouldn’t pay much attention to if you already weren’t aware of its existence or didn’t have business there to begin with. The south end of downtown Sofia, particularly Kreschnev Avenue on which this particular establishment sat was a haven of all manner of vice and debaucherous entertainment. The glow of neon signs overpowered the streetlights, and thus the faces of the roving crowds were always bathed in a bluish red tint, adding to the surreal nature of the district. Now, however, with sunrise only an hour and a half away, the streets were quieter, and many of the lights had been shut off.
Ivan himself, the proprietor of the custom guitar workshop that bore his name, was currently seated at his workbench, a thin grey undershirt draped over his thin grey form, his brow beading with sweat as his narrow eyebrows furrowed and his forehead creased. Deep brown eyes poured over the creation that sat on the bench before him, and he raised a spidery hand to push his long straight grey hair out of them.
The guitar was of monstrous complexity, and Ivan had been meticulously crafting it for the past three days, rarely leaving his workbench. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his fingers were bandaged in places from where callused skin had broken. It was a black solid body Mahogany, a seven strings, 8 notes per string, and a rich ebony fingerboard. Ivan would eventually come to hail the piece as his finest work, but now he cursed it as he slaved away in the process of creation.
But his deep concentration was shattered brutally as the door upstairs burst inward and a shout mingled with a thick groaning made its way down the stairs. He got to his feet and rushed to the edge of the stairs.
“Who is it?!”
“Lew!”
Heavu footsteps fell at irregular intervals as the groaning got louder, and suddenly Lew Zinkov’s face appeared in the glow of a hanging lightbulb. He hobbled forward, supporting a figure leaning heavily on him, a hand clutching at his stomach, moans of agony coming from deep within him.
“Jesus Christ…”
Lew, the young guitarist from the popular Generian metal band Machine Gun, looked up at Ivan.
“It’s Frank. He’s in bad shape.”
Ivan rushed to the opposite side of the moaning man and helped Lew carry him to a leather couch. They lay the body down, and the moans softened a bit. The hand came away from the stomach and the light caught his midsection to reveal his clothes soaked in blood.
“What the Hell happened?”
“He’s been shot.”
“How? Who?”
“I’ll explain later. Call a doctor.”
Ivan rushed upstairs and got on the phone. He was a man of influence and while he knew the nearest ambulance would take almost twenty minutes to get to this part of town, he also had other connections.
“Nigel, it’s Ivan. I need you to get here as fast as you can.”
A rough voice on the other end muttered an acknowledgement without asking questions. Ivan rushed back downstairs. Lew had opened Frank’s shirt and was applying a makeshift bandage to the wound.
“We were at a stoplight on south and Volska when a an old AM-70 pulled into the intersection and stopped. Passenger side window rolls down and the guy fires twice through the windshield. Gets Frank right in the gut. Bastards got off before anyone knew what was going on.”
“Did you get a plate number? Distinguishing features? Anything?”
“No plates, tags. Just one mark: a Yuri’s Guitar Emporium sticker on the back fender.”
Ivan stopped dead. Yuri had once owned a shop down the street, making custom guitars like Ivan. They had never enjoyed anything but casual competition, and both were held in equal esteem as masters of their craft. Then a few years ago Yuri moved his headquarters to Port Belgrade and opened a warehouse, selling carbon copies of his instruments. He had expanded his repertoire to include all manner of instruments, basses, drums, keyboards. Ivan had always thought he was a sellout, as did many of Ivan’s steadfast fans, but Yuri had made a good sum in the years since the move and gathered huge numbers of followers. Ivan still enjoyed excellent business however, largely due to the high quality of his merchandise and the support of more quality oriented musicians, but the arguments between preference had been growing in ferocity recently. Still, he could not comprehend such a simple question of taste turning to violence.
“You don’t think?”
“Not possible. It wouldn’t make sense. Probably just some kids high on Pwnage pure got their hands on a Magnum.”
“Fuck…”
the door opened upstairs and footsteps fell quickly down the stairs. The red bearded face of a middle aged man appeared in the light. Nigel Hawthorne was a Freudian expatriate who had for years worked as a doctor for organized crime families in the Sofia underworld. He was one possessed of extraordinary skill as a physician and was generally considered the best in the business, legitimate and otherwise, and had he not chosen to work the darker side of the spectrum, would most likely have earned notable prizes for excellence in his field. His eyes were red and bloodshot now, but he looked ferociously around the room, and seeing the figure on the couch, walked quickly over to his side, wordless. He dropped his large medical bag on the floor and knelt down, getting to work.
“What caliber?”
“Not sure. No exit wound though.”
“It’s still in there, then.”
Hawthorne grunted and removed a scalpel, slipping it into the wound of the man who had fallen asleep. He woke with a start and screamed. Ivan and Lew rushed to his side and held him down as the doctor pushed around inside the wound. He withdrew the knife and removed from his bag a pair of small pliers which he inserted into the wound. Frank let out an inhuman scream of pure agony. He dug around for a few seconds, clasped the bullet, and pulled it out, dropping it onto the floor, where it rattled about for a second before falling still. The others stepped aside as the doctor went on with his work.
Ivan himself, the proprietor of the custom guitar workshop that bore his name, was currently seated at his workbench, a thin grey undershirt draped over his thin grey form, his brow beading with sweat as his narrow eyebrows furrowed and his forehead creased. Deep brown eyes poured over the creation that sat on the bench before him, and he raised a spidery hand to push his long straight grey hair out of them.
The guitar was of monstrous complexity, and Ivan had been meticulously crafting it for the past three days, rarely leaving his workbench. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his fingers were bandaged in places from where callused skin had broken. It was a black solid body Mahogany, a seven strings, 8 notes per string, and a rich ebony fingerboard. Ivan would eventually come to hail the piece as his finest work, but now he cursed it as he slaved away in the process of creation.
But his deep concentration was shattered brutally as the door upstairs burst inward and a shout mingled with a thick groaning made its way down the stairs. He got to his feet and rushed to the edge of the stairs.
“Who is it?!”
“Lew!”
Heavu footsteps fell at irregular intervals as the groaning got louder, and suddenly Lew Zinkov’s face appeared in the glow of a hanging lightbulb. He hobbled forward, supporting a figure leaning heavily on him, a hand clutching at his stomach, moans of agony coming from deep within him.
“Jesus Christ…”
Lew, the young guitarist from the popular Generian metal band Machine Gun, looked up at Ivan.
“It’s Frank. He’s in bad shape.”
Ivan rushed to the opposite side of the moaning man and helped Lew carry him to a leather couch. They lay the body down, and the moans softened a bit. The hand came away from the stomach and the light caught his midsection to reveal his clothes soaked in blood.
“What the Hell happened?”
“He’s been shot.”
“How? Who?”
“I’ll explain later. Call a doctor.”
Ivan rushed upstairs and got on the phone. He was a man of influence and while he knew the nearest ambulance would take almost twenty minutes to get to this part of town, he also had other connections.
“Nigel, it’s Ivan. I need you to get here as fast as you can.”
A rough voice on the other end muttered an acknowledgement without asking questions. Ivan rushed back downstairs. Lew had opened Frank’s shirt and was applying a makeshift bandage to the wound.
“We were at a stoplight on south and Volska when a an old AM-70 pulled into the intersection and stopped. Passenger side window rolls down and the guy fires twice through the windshield. Gets Frank right in the gut. Bastards got off before anyone knew what was going on.”
“Did you get a plate number? Distinguishing features? Anything?”
“No plates, tags. Just one mark: a Yuri’s Guitar Emporium sticker on the back fender.”
Ivan stopped dead. Yuri had once owned a shop down the street, making custom guitars like Ivan. They had never enjoyed anything but casual competition, and both were held in equal esteem as masters of their craft. Then a few years ago Yuri moved his headquarters to Port Belgrade and opened a warehouse, selling carbon copies of his instruments. He had expanded his repertoire to include all manner of instruments, basses, drums, keyboards. Ivan had always thought he was a sellout, as did many of Ivan’s steadfast fans, but Yuri had made a good sum in the years since the move and gathered huge numbers of followers. Ivan still enjoyed excellent business however, largely due to the high quality of his merchandise and the support of more quality oriented musicians, but the arguments between preference had been growing in ferocity recently. Still, he could not comprehend such a simple question of taste turning to violence.
“You don’t think?”
“Not possible. It wouldn’t make sense. Probably just some kids high on Pwnage pure got their hands on a Magnum.”
“Fuck…”
the door opened upstairs and footsteps fell quickly down the stairs. The red bearded face of a middle aged man appeared in the light. Nigel Hawthorne was a Freudian expatriate who had for years worked as a doctor for organized crime families in the Sofia underworld. He was one possessed of extraordinary skill as a physician and was generally considered the best in the business, legitimate and otherwise, and had he not chosen to work the darker side of the spectrum, would most likely have earned notable prizes for excellence in his field. His eyes were red and bloodshot now, but he looked ferociously around the room, and seeing the figure on the couch, walked quickly over to his side, wordless. He dropped his large medical bag on the floor and knelt down, getting to work.
“What caliber?”
“Not sure. No exit wound though.”
“It’s still in there, then.”
Hawthorne grunted and removed a scalpel, slipping it into the wound of the man who had fallen asleep. He woke with a start and screamed. Ivan and Lew rushed to his side and held him down as the doctor pushed around inside the wound. He withdrew the knife and removed from his bag a pair of small pliers which he inserted into the wound. Frank let out an inhuman scream of pure agony. He dug around for a few seconds, clasped the bullet, and pulled it out, dropping it onto the floor, where it rattled about for a second before falling still. The others stepped aside as the doctor went on with his work.