NationStates Jolt Archive

Max made his way quickly to the toilet bowl, just in time to heave up the contents of his stomach. The stench of various kinds of booze and some sort of fried meat hit him in the nostrils, making him puke yet again.

"You okay in there, honey?"

The night before started coming back to him. The SongBird Club, happy hour, the twins....oy vey, the twins. They were identical except for the hair color. Green eyes, slightly olive complexion, pearl-white teeth, 36-24-32. One was blonde, one was brunette.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Uh, what was your name again?"

"Dont'cha remember honey? After all we been through together?"

'Christ', he thought. 'What the hell have I done now.' "Quit the guessin' games, doll. What's your fuckin' name?"

He heard her high-heels bang on the floor, and there she was, standing over him, a towel in her hand. "I'm Myra. Flora's sister. Dont'cha remember?"

"If I fuckin' remembered I wouldn't be askin' ya, ya dumb bitch."

She went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Y'know, ya really oughtta be more careful wit the gun. We almost got caught."

That straightened him out. "Gun? What the fuck you talkin'?"

She looked at him. "You really don't remember, do ya honey? Well, it's neither here nor there. The guy in the club can't ID ya."

He calmed down a bit. "Well, that's good. Can't have every screw-head makin' up stories, y'know?"

"Yeah. He won't be talkin', either. After ya poked his eyes outta his head, you cut his tongue out wit that big knife ya found in the kitchen."

He sighed. "Okay, out with it. The whole story, toots. Don't leave nuthin' out."

"Okay, honey. Well, it started wit that midget on the way into the club......"

Johnny lit another cigarette, peering through the smoky haze at the girl doing her thing on the pole. She was built like a brick shit-house. The only thing she had on was a long silk scarf that whipped around her as she danced.

He waved at the waitress. "Hey, Toots, how's about another?" He liked this sassy broad, short red hair, short T-shirt, short skirt and short temper notwithstanding.

"Da name's Brenda, buddy. Forget it again and you can get yourself a drink." She turned to leave and he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him. She wound up on his lap, nose-to-nose. "You don't seem to unnerstand, Toots. You get me a fuckin' shot of Royal Crown or you go back to whatever shithole country you crawled outta. Got it?"

Brenda glared at him, pure hate in her eyes. She whispered, soft and low. "I'll get you your'e drink, Johnny, but just remember this. One of these days, I'm gonna make you an' every other asshole who gave me trouble pay....and pay bigtime."

Johnny laughed. "Yeah, well, I guess when I start worryin' about every skank that's threatened to get me it'll be time to quit drinkin'. In the meantime, get that drink....Toots."

If you didn't know for a fact that the City was there, it'd be almost impossible to prove. Heading west on I-38 all you can see are cacti, desert vistas, and road-kill. The closer you got to the City, the fewer smashed animals you saw. As if they were trying to escape the morass that was Olde Towne.

Olde Towne was, obviously, the oldest section of the City. There was nothing good that could be said about Olde Towne. Some suggested that it was literally an outpost of Hell. But one man's Hell is another man's Heaven.

The City itself had been called various names throughout it's sordid history. Dodge, Tombstone, Auschwitz, countless other names synonymous with perversion, lust, death and destruction. It's current name was Ssyn. But Olde Towne was a special place, evil beyond imagining in a city known for anarchy.

Not total anarchy. No, there was a semblance of order. About ten-percent of the cops were honest, the rest on the take to one degree or another. The only area that was sacrosanct was the hospital. It was kinda like Switzerland. Neutral, and nobody messed with it because of all the "treasure", real or imagined, that lie within it's walls.

Olde Towne was like the ghettos in Europe before the war. High walls, four feet thick. Narrow gates which were closed when darkness fell. You didn't want to be caught in Olde Towne after dark.

Olde Towne was actually only about six city blocks square. It was ancient. No one knew exactly how old it was, but records had been found in a dank sewer of a fire in the area back in the 1200's. Before that...who knew?

Once you leave the interstate, youv'e got about 200 feet to slow down and pick one of the two exits, either the City itself or Olde Towne. Hardly anyone took the Olde Towne exit. Those few that did were either hard-core criminals on the lam, stupid people who didn't know the difference between the two, or VERY stupid people who thought that they could handle it. "Well, y'know, Babe, I mean, how bad can it be? I mean, well, it can't be THAT bad. C'mon, let's check it out." These are the ones who wind up as whores, addicts, or even worse.

What could be worse?

There's the story, embellished every time it's told, about a doctor who took refuge in Olde Towne after a couple of questionable surgeries. Word leaked out that there had been a crazy old surgeon who experimented on some of those stupid people who didn't think it could be THAT bad. Long story short, the descendants of those stupid people were still skulking around the lower level of Olde Towne, subterranean, blood-drinking, flesh nibbling, creatures who liked nothing better than to grab hold of a young girl, drag her down to the cellars of Olde Towne, and rape her while she screamed herself raw. If the girl produced a child, she was returned to the surface, somewhat different in mind and body. If no child, she was barbecued.

This are the thoughts that sped through Jason's head as they snuck into the City. It was after dark, which was insane enough. But he had purchased info that directed him and is friend Chuck to a little known "back door" to the City. It was a 48-inch pipe that emptied the City's waste into a deep river basin. If you wanted to get into the City bad enough, the horrendous smell wouldn't deter you. Neither would the six-pound rats.

Max dropped Myra off at her place after promising her that he'd call her later. As he pulled away from the curb, the DeSoto purring like a kitten, he thought again about his new client.

He was sitting in his office, feet up on his mahogany desk, cigarette burning away in the ash tray when SHE walked in.

Tall, long-legs, curves in all the right places. She had on an expensive, grey silk outfit topped off with a pillbox hat, the kind with the little veil in front of it. Clutching her matching purse, she said breathlessly, "Mr. Moran, I need your help!"

That's what they all said. "Don't you know how to knock, lady?", Max asked. He acted pissed, but he already knew that he was going to take her case.

"Oh Mr. Moran, I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid and I didn't know where else to go 'cause you see......"

"Okay, okay, slow it down, sister. Take a deep breath and start from the beginning. First, who are you, and second, what the hell are you afraid of?"

"May I sit?"

"Of course."

She sat in the old wooden chair, primly smoothing her skirt. "My name is Vivian DeLyon. I live over on Capitol Lane."

He thought, 'Capitol Lane, huh? Where the elite meet to eat'. "Ritzy address, Miss DeLyon."

She blushed. "Well, Daddy has done well over the years. But even HE can't help me now!"

Max smiled wryly. "Money would seem to be a big help in times of trouble, Miss. I can't think of a single instance when it didn't buy someone out of a shitload of happenstance."

She flinched ever so slightly at the expletive. 'So', he thought, 'she's Daddy's overly-protected little girl.'

"What can I do for you, Miss DeLyon?"

She was about to speak when tears came to her eyes. She reached into her purse and pulled out a delicate little hanky, dabbing the corner of her eyes. "Mr. Moran...."

"Please, call me Max."

"Okay. Max. Max, I'm being followed. And I think it's one of those....creatures....I've heard tales about. You know. The ones who live beneath the City."

Deacon and the Prophet were quietly moving through the dank passageway when Deacon held up a hand, then put a finger to his lips. Prophet froze instantly. He was already half out of his mind with a fear that gripped his spine in a hammer-lock.

About thirty feet down the passage, a nightmarish figure shambled through the muck and filth, pausing every few feet to sniff the fetid air. The two intruders could barely make out the shape of the creature. Hunched over, greyish-blue skin covered in patches of brownish-black hair. It's head had a low brow, small piggish eyes squinting in the dark, it's fangs breaking fiercely out of it's lower and upper jaws. It was dragging a body, or at least a part of a body, behind it as it moved slowly down the passageway. The combined stench of the creature and it's dinner was overwhelmingly horrible, causing Prophet's stomach to lurch.

It was a were-cat. A five foot tall, misshapen mockery of an animal that Deacon knew was actually mostly human. Another one of the offspring of the insane doctor who so many years ago experimented with human genetics.

The were-cat turned down a side passage. Deacon waited a minute, listening, then signalled to move forward.

OOC:

Tagged, this is excellent.

Max watched the traffic rolling up and down 18th street, cigarette smoke mingling with his breath on this chill night. When the sixth Caddy sedan stopped in front of the alleyway he figured it was what he was looking for.

Pulling his wrinkled London Fog tighter, he walked directly to the alley and headed down the left side, hugging the wall. Periodically, he saw a door open and a couple of people go in. He stood across the alley, in the shadows, sizing up the situation. In a minute, he had a plan.

Crossing to the door, he wrapped three times in succession, paused, then twice again. The peephole door opened, a pair of bloodshot eyes and a gravelly voice. "What the fuck you doin' here? He'll kill you if he sees you."

"Yeah, well, I'll take my chances. Open up."

A bolt slid across, and the door opened a couple of inches. "I can't let you in. I'll lose my job." Max moved quickly, grabbing the doorman by the throat. "That's better than losing your teeth, 'aint it?" The doorman saw it his way, opened the door wider so Max could slip in. Not yet relaxing his grip, Max asked, "Where is he?" The doorman indicated by cocking his head to the right. Max let him go and tossed him a twenty.

He slowly moved across the hazy room, getting a little more light-headed with each step. Men and women were laying on make-shift beds, that dreamy, unfocused stare that was common to the opium addict on each face. At length he came to another door and just walked through it, no knock.

Max stood in the doorway for a second, glanced around the small room, then fixed his gaze on a man sitting at a table making subhuman sounds as he ate the most vile-smelling shit Max had ever seen.

Bones were piled high on the table next to the man's left hand, spilling over onto the floor. With hardly a breath in between bites, he gobbled and slurped his way through a huge platter of broiled rats, each about five inches in length, gutted and skinned. His feral eyes noticed Max but he kept eating. At length, he grunted, blew his nose onto the already filthy floor, let out a deep belch, and said, "What the hell you doin' here, Max? I oughtta kill you, you prick. You cost me a hunnerd grand." He blew his nose onto the floor once again then pulled a Colt 45 out of his shoulder holster. "Think I will." He cocked the hammer and pointed it at Max.

A sneer formed on Max's lips. "You ain't gonna kill me or anybody else, Gronski. Ya wanna know why? "Cause your'e a chicken-shit, two-bit pimp who eats rats. And because you need me to get your money back. So put it away before I take it from you."

Gronski glared at Max for a second or two, then gently eased the hammer of the Colt back down. "You got balls, Moran. I'll say that for ya. Excuse me for a minute." Gronski jumped up, ran to an open window, and with a sound most horrible, vomited up most of what he just ate, brite red specks of blood showing at the corners of his mouth. Drawing the back of his sleeve across his mouth, face ashen, hand trembling, he said, "Cancer. Found out this morning."

Max was unmoved. "So you come here, stuff your face fulla fried rat and opium, and you expect me to feel sorry for you? Your'e an idiot."

"Broiled, not fried, Moran. And yeah, I come here. Better than the cancer ward, no? Dey 'aint got any whores in da cancer ward."

Max grinned. "Ya got a point there, Gronski. So...you called me. Whattya want?"

After the fourth 'last drink', Johnny staggered out the back door of the club and almost passed out when the fresh air hit him. He lurched down the narrow lane, oblivious to the stares of the homeless, the addicts, the drunks, and the perennially less fortunate.

Jonathan William Fontaine, youngest son of a wealthy son-of-a-bitch manufacturer of military goods. He'd wanted Johnny to join the company and become a soulless bastard like himself, but Johnny wanted none of it. All he wanted was to write about the demons screaming their outrage at being caged in his mind. He was a damn good writer, well on his way to a Nobel prize for Creative Literature. His son-of-a-bitch father typically thought less of his son's talent.

"Fuckin' fags are writers. Fudge packin' morons. You want people to think your'e queer?"

Johnny stared with what he hoped wasn't revulsion. 'How in the hell did I survive this asshole all these years'?, he thought.

At any rate, here he was now, in an alley behind a seedy club. Despite the foggy miasma that was penetrating his brain at the moment, he couldn't help but notice the couple that emerged from an almost-hidden door about thirty feet from him. Well-dressed, jewels flashing at wrist and ear. They had an odd, vacuous, shit-eating smile on their faces and the woman giggled as the guy ran his hand up the inside of her thigh. They continued to the street where a uniformed driver opened the door to a stretch Mercedes 500.

'Wonder what the fuck that place is', he thought. He stood in front of the door, set deep into the wall, and rapped on it. The peephole opened and shut in less than three seconds. 'What the fuck....' He started pounding on the door, and presently two ape-sized bouncers came out, picked him up by his arms and legs, and were about to toss him into the middle of 18th street when Max Moran stepped out and sized up the situation.

"Hey. Bobo. Nicky. Let the boy alone. Ya know who he is?"

Nicky answered. "I don't give a flying fuck who he is. We got orders to deal wit assholes. Dis is how we do it."

Max waved a C-note under Bobo's nose. This enough to let him live?"

Bobo grabbed at the bill. "Shit. I woulda let him alone for half that. Let's go, Nick."

The two bouncers set Johnny down and went back through the door. All was again quiet in the alley. "Thanks, mister. I don't think they were gonna let me go without some pain involved."

Max smiled. "I think your'e right, son. Name's Max, and if I'm not mistaken, your'e Jon Fontaine."

"How'd you know that, Max?"

Another smile. "Hell...you'd be surprised at what I know. Buy ya a drink, Johnny?"

Max dropped Myra off at her place after promising her that he'd call her later. As he pulled away from the curb, the DeSoto purring like a kitten, he thought again about his new client.

He was sitting in his office, feet up on his mahogany desk, cigarette burning away in the ash tray when SHE walked in.

Tall, long-legs, curves in all the right places. She had on an expensive, grey silk outfit topped off with a pillbox hat, the kind with the little veil in front of it. Clutching her matching purse, she said breathlessly, "Mr. Moran, I need your help!"

That's what they all said. "Don't you know how to knock, lady?", Max asked. He acted pissed, but he already knew that he was going to take her case.

"Oh Mr. Moran, I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid and I didn't know where else to go 'cause you see......"

"Okay, okay, slow it down, sister. Take a deep breath and start from the beginning. First, who are you, and second, what the hell are you afraid of?"

"May I sit?"

"Of course."

She sat in the old wooden chair, primly smoothing her skirt. "My name is Vivian DeLyon. I live over on Capitol Lane."

He thought, 'Capitol Lane, huh? Where the elite meet to eat'. "Ritzy address, Miss DeLyon."

She blushed. "Well, Daddy has done well over the years. But even HE can't help me now!"

Max smiled wryly. "Money would seem to be a big help in times of trouble, Miss. I can't think of a single instance when it didn't buy someone out of a shitload of happenstance."

She flinched ever so slightly at the expletive. 'So', he thought, 'she's Daddy's overly-protected little girl.'

"What can I do for you, Miss DeLyon?"

She was about to speak when tears came to her eyes. She reached into her purse and pulled out a delicate little hanky, dabbing the corner of her eyes. "Mr. Moran...."

"Please, call me Max."

"Okay. Max. Max, I'm being followed. And I think it's one of those....creatures....I've heard tales about. You know. The ones who live beneath the City."



Max looked at her with a combination of alarm and pity. "Miss DeLyon, surely you don't believe those old stories about the mad doctor and his goings-on, do you?"

He was trying to stall her. He believed those old stories because he had seen the horrors of the lower levels with his own eyes. But this is the first time anyone had claimed to see them above ground.

"Max, listen to me." She leaned a bit closer, an inch of cleavage making his attention less tenuous. "Three nights ago, I was coming out of the SongBird. You know the place, don't you?"

He nodded, not saying a word. This was starting to feel bad.....real bad.

"Well, I was almost to my car when I heard a sort of snuffling sound. You know, like a dog nosing through garbage. I looked over my shoulder and for a split second saw a pair of brite blue eyes surrounded by the dark shadows of the alley. They were full of pain and unimaginable anger. Oh...and they were about eight feet off the ground."

She paused, lower lip tremblig. "Go on, Miss Delyon."

" I managed to get the door open and the car started as the eyes came closer. Just as I slammed it into gear, I could see a partial outline of whatever it was in the alley. It had wings and at least three arms."

The hair stood up on Max's neck. One of the Angels. Oh Christ, not an Angel....

Max managed to hold it together for a few moments. "So, Miss DeLyon, what do you want of me? I'm no hero, nor am I a bodyguard."

She got up and walked around the desk, facing him. She was now outwardly shaking. "Max, I think that whatever that thing was was tracking me. Not stalking, not meaning to do me any harm. At least not yet."

He was loathe to ask, but ask he did. "And why do you suppose it was tracking you, Miss DeLyon?"

"Max, I have reason to believe that whatever that creature was, it's one of the original mutants created by old Doctor Nobilius. It's tracking me because I have a pure bloodline, no mixture of races. No disease. No mental insufficiencies. Except......"

Here it comes. "Except Miss DeLyon?"

"Except that fact that my father is part of that pure bloodline, as was his father. As a matter of fact, it's a pure, unadulterated bloodline that goes all the way back to Doctor Nobilius........my great-great grandfather."

OOC: Tagged. Great story, you definitely have a talent for writing.

The Ruling Council, such as it was, was now convened.

John Cortelyous banged his three-pound hammer on the rough-hewn table and growled. "All right, gentlemen. Settle down. We got some serious shit to discuss." Cortelyous, known to all as "Southside Johnny", glared at each of the other four men sitting around the table. The only one who had the balls to glare back was "Black Jack" Kirk, former High General of the armed forces of Orcathau.

"Anyone got anything to say before I get started?" No one spoke, so Cortelyous went on.

"I called this meeting partly because we ain't had a meeting in over a year, and partly because we may have a problem brewing within our Region." A glance over to the general who didn't blink an eye.

"OK, as an overview, business is good. The whores, gambling, and drugs have increased our profits by 17% over a year ago. Jesse, dat SongBird Club of yours is a real moneymaker."

Jessika Stryker looked at him for a brief second, then resumed her bored expression. "Tell me somethin' I don't know, SJ. The only reason it 'aint 25% is because you assholes are too timid to expand." General Kirk hid a smile behind his hand.

Cortelyous pointed a finger ather. "Watch your friggin' mouth, bitch. You 'aint talkin' to one of your drug-addict customers. A little respect."

She stood up, thin silk gown doing little to hide that magnificent body, and said, "Respect is earned, Southside, not demanded. And you 'aint earned jack shit as far as I'm concerned. You let one of the creatures out of the lower city level. Anyone else would be dead right now for such an infraction." She leaned on the table. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Because I need you and you need me, thats why. Now sit the fuck down!" If looks could kill, he'd be dead, but sit down she did.

"I'll make this short and sweet. General Kirk has informed me that a bi-regional summit is being held in the ruined fortress of Azeroth in the land formerly known as Taleloron. The regions of Mercenary Lands and The United States of America are becoming VERY buddy-buddy. They are just 1700 hundred miles apart at their closest point, which puts them within striking distance of almost 200 countries. Including all of the countries in our region, Mog Druthin."

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. So tell me something I don't know or I'm outta here." This from Stryker.

"OK, bigmouth. Here goes. You all know that the nations of this region are descendants of those who rebelled against the Xeraphian Empire under the vampire General Azulun, right? It's been quiet, but we've not forgotten." He glanced over at Kirk. "General?"

Kirk stood, hands clasped behind his back. "People, we've got a good thing going here. The USA/Xeraphian plan is to shut us down. My plan is simple: kill them all............"

OOC: Tagged. Great story, you definitely have a talent for writing.

Thanks

Max watched the traffic rolling up and down 18th street, cigarette smoke mingling with his breath on this chill night. When the sixth Caddy sedan stopped in front of the alleyway he figured it was what he was looking for.

Pulling his wrinkled London Fog tighter, he walked directly to the alley and headed down the left side, hugging the wall. Periodically, he saw a door open and a couple of people go in. He stood across the alley, in the shadows, sizing up the situation. In a minute, he had a plan.

Crossing to the door, he wrapped three times in succession, paused, then twice again. The peephole door opened, a pair of bloodshot eyes and a gravelly voice. "What the fuck you doin' here? He'll kill you if he sees you."

"Yeah, well, I'll take my chances. Open up."

A bolt slid across, and the door opened a couple of inches. "I can't let you in. I'll lose my job." Max moved quickly, grabbing the doorman by the throat. "That's better than losing your teeth, 'aint it?" The doorman saw it his way, opened the door wider so Max could slip in. Not yet relaxing his grip, Max asked, "Where is he?" The doorman indicated by cocking his head to the right. Max let him go and tossed him a twenty.

He slowly moved across the hazy room, getting a little more light-headed with each step. Men and women were laying on make-shift beds, that dreamy, unfocused stare that was common to the opium addict on each face. At length he came to another door and just walked through it, no knock.

Max stood in the doorway for a second, glanced around the small room, then fixed his gaze on a man sitting at a table making subhuman sounds as he ate the most vile-smelling shit Max had ever seen.

Bones were piled high on the table next to the man's left hand, spilling over onto the floor. With hardly a breath in between bites, he gobbled and slurped his way through a huge platter of broiled rats, each about five inches in length, gutted and skinned. His feral eyes noticed Max but he kept eating. At length, he grunted, blew his nose onto the already filthy floor, let out a deep belch, and said, "What the hell you doin' here, Max? I oughtta kill you, you prick. You cost me a hunnerd grand." He blew his nose onto the floor once again then pulled a Colt 45 out of his shoulder holster. "Think I will." He cocked the hammer and pointed it at Max.

A sneer formed on Max's lips. "You ain't gonna kill me or anybody else, Gronski. Ya wanna know why? "Cause your'e a chicken-shit, two-bit pimp who eats rats. And because you need me to get your money back. So put it away before I take it from you."

Gronski glared at Max for a second or two, then gently eased the hammer of the Colt back down. "You got balls, Moran. I'll say that for ya. Excuse me for a minute." Gronski jumped up, ran to an open window, and with a sound most horrible, vomited up most of what he just ate, brite red specks of blood showing at the corners of his mouth. Drawing the back of his sleeve across his mouth, face ashen, hand trembling, he said, "Cancer. Found out this morning."

Max was unmoved. "So you come here, stuff your face fulla fried rat and opium, and you expect me to feel sorry for you? Your'e an idiot."

"Broiled, not fried, Moran. And yeah, I come here. Better than the cancer ward, no? Dey 'aint got any whores in da cancer ward."

Max grinned. "Ya got a point there, Gronski. So...you called me. Whattya want?"


Gronski let out a derisive laugh. "You 'aint got da time to listen to what I want. But sit down an' I'll tell you what I need." Max sat down. "As I said, I 'aint got long ta live. And I can't take it with me. I want you to have it all."

Max didn't move a muscle, just kept staring right at Gronski.

"Here's da deal. I got a grandaughter. Name of Eve. She'll be sixteen soon. I want her to take over for me."

Max said, "What's that got to do with me?"

"For a million dollars, it's got a lot to do wit you."

Max allowed a small grin. "That's a lot of money, Gronski. Who do I have to kill?"

Gronski didn't return the smile. "Maybe a lot of people, Moran. Maybe a few. But dere's gonna be some killin' done. See to it that my grandaughter 'aint a casualty."

"And that's it? Nothing more? Just protect Eve. Why me?"

"Cause you got a rep for being honest. At least not as corrupt as most in this town. Will ya do it?"

Max stood up. "I'll get back to you, Gronski. See ya."

OOC: Several people have asked about posting here. Please do not do so. TG me and we'll see what happens. I have a VERY specific idea where the storyline is going as well as how I want it written. There are just a few who write this way, so don't get bent out of shape if I deny you. No hard feelings. I just want this done a particular way.

The Ruling Council, such as it was, was now convened.

John Cortelyous banged his three-pound hammer on the rough-hewn table and growled. "All right, gentlemen. Settle down. We got some serious shit to discuss." Cortelyous, known to all as "Southside Johnny", glared at each of the other four men sitting around the table. The only one who had the balls to glare back was "Black Jack" Kirk, former High General of the armed forces of Orcathau.

"Anyone got anything to say before I get started?" No one spoke, so Cortelyous went on.

"I called this meeting partly because we ain't had a meeting in over a year, and partly because we may have a problem brewing within our Region." A glance over to the general who didn't blink an eye.

"OK, as an overview, business is good. The whores, gambling, and drugs have increased our profits by 17% over a year ago. Jesse, dat SongBird Club of yours is a real moneymaker."

Jessika Stryker looked at him for a brief second, then resumed her bored expression. "Tell me somethin' I don't know, SJ. The only reason it 'aint 25% is because you assholes are too timid to expand." General Kirk hid a smile behind his hand.

Cortelyous pointed a finger ather. "Watch your friggin' mouth, bitch. You 'aint talkin' to one of your drug-addict customers. A little respect."

She stood up, thin silk gown doing little to hide that magnificent body, and said, "Respect is earned, Southside, not demanded. And you 'aint earned jack shit as far as I'm concerned. You let one of the creatures out of the lower city level. Anyone else would be dead right now for such an infraction." She leaned on the table. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Because I need you and you need me, thats why. Now sit the fuck down!" If looks could kill, he'd be dead, but sit down she did.

"I'll make this short and sweet. General Kirk has informed me that a bi-regional summit is being held in the ruined fortress of Azeroth in the land formerly known as Taleloron. The regions of Mercenary Lands and The United States of America are becoming VERY buddy-buddy. They are just 1700 hundred miles apart at their closest point, which puts them within striking distance of almost 200 countries. Including all of the countries in our region, Mog Druthin."

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. So tell me something I don't know or I'm outta here." This from Stryker.

"OK, bigmouth. Here goes. You all know that the nations of this region are descendants of those who rebelled against the Xeraphian Empire under the vampire General Azulun, right? It's been quiet, but we've not forgotten." He glanced over at Kirk. "General?"

Kirk stood, hands clasped behind his back. "People, we've got a good thing going here. The USA/Xeraphian plan is to shut us down. My plan is simple: kill them all............"


Cortelyous stared for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Just like that. We take on the Xeraphian Empire." He snorted. "A regular fuckin' David and Goliath story. Are you out of your friggin' mind? If seventy-five percent of Xeraph's military were out of commission we still couldn't beat 'em!"

General Kirk waited until the room settled down. "By kill them all I mean the rulers. The Regents, nobles, high-ranking officers. That narrows it down quite a bit. About two hundred people."

Jessika sat with her arms folded. "And I suppose you have a plan in mind, eh?"

"Why, yes. However did you guess?"

Cortelyous said, "Mind filling us in?"

"Not at all." Kirk began to pace around the room, all eyes on him. "You all know that I am a devotee of Master Sun Tzu. His famous quote 'All strategy is based on deception' has become my driving force in life. We obviously can't beat Xeraph and it's allies by brute force. But we can cripple 'em long enough that they'll fall apart in no time."

Stryker said, "No time at all, huh? How long will it take to implement your plan, and how long before we can hurt Xeraph?"

Kirk paused at the large bay window, looking out at the filthy neon-lit streets of Olde Towne. "Six to twelve months, if all goes according to plan. And as far as implementation of my plan, it has, in fact, already started."

He quickly walked over to the large map of their sector of the planet, which included the regions where Xeraph, Auralinia, Knave's Rock, and Ssyn were located.

"As you can see, Mercenary Lands and TUSA are relatively close to each other, with our region, Mog Druthin, just 2200 miles north of Xeraph's northern reaches. The Botany Territorial lands, wherein lies Knave's Rock, is southwest of TUSA, only 760 miles from TUSA's southwesternmost point." He paused and turned to face the group. "Just 48 hours ago, I dispatched an operative to Knave's Rock to perform a little job for me."

Cortelyous felt his stomach tighten. "Job?"

"Yes. In approximately 16 hours, this operative will assassinate Queen Ann of Knave's Rock. He will leave behind ample evidence of both Auralinian and Xeraphian involvement. At the same time, another operative is on her way to Ravennii, capitol of Xeraph. There she will take pre-proscribed steps to kill all of the upper class Xeraphians who would have any say in running the government."

Jessika interrupted. "Hold on. You must be well aware of Xeraph's well-documented policy on foreigners in their land. None, except diplomats, are permitted in the country. And they can't leave their compounds without express permission of the Regents."

"All taken care of, my dear. All taken care of."

Deacon and the Prophet were quietly moving through the dank passageway when Deacon held up a hand, then put a finger to his lips. Prophet froze instantly. He was already half out of his mind with a fear that gripped his spine in a hammer-lock.

About thirty feet down the passage, a nightmarish figure shambled through the muck and filth, pausing every few feet to sniff the fetid air. The two intruders could barely make out the shape of the creature. Hunched over, greyish-blue skin covered in patches of brownish-black hair. It's head had a low brow, small piggish eyes squinting in the dark, it's fangs breaking fiercely out of it's lower and upper jaws. It was dragging a body, or at least a part of a body, behind it as it moved slowly down the passageway. The combined stench of the creature and it's dinner was overwhelmingly horrible, causing Prophet's stomach to lurch.

It was a were-cat. A five foot tall, misshapen mockery of an animal that Deacon knew was actually mostly human. Another one of the offspring of the insane doctor who so many years ago experimented with human genetics.

The were-cat turned down a side passage. Deacon waited a minute, listening, then signalled to move forward.


Jason, eyes wide with abject fear, tapped Chuck on the shoulder and made the universal sign for 'let's get the fuck outta here.' Both had seen the were-cat, both had glimpsed the two shadowy figures across the intersection of passageways in the underworld of Ssyn. Fortunately, Chuck and Jason were deep in the shadows, unseen. The two hooded figures sixty feet from them were partly visible in the murky light coming in through a grate in the street above them.

They were acolytes, followers of one of the many cults that flourished in Ssyn. Chuck couldn't tell which cult these two were part of, but that didn't matter. The simple fact that they were down here meant that they were of one of the more fanatical sects. Perhaps one of the groups that revelled in blood-ceremonies, sacrificing whatever living creature they could get hold of to their demonic god.

As he watched the acolytes follow behind the were-cat he saw tattooed on the hand of one of them a curious pattern. He'd seen it before....somewhere. He couldn't place it for a moment, then with a rush of horror it came to him.

Three intersecting crosses, the center of each encircled with an "X". He'd seen this once in a museum, in the pages of an ancient book whose pages were allegedly made of human skin. The symbol of a race of beings so feared that to this day it made people's skin crawl and their hair stand on end. Ancient, lost in the mists of time, the horrifyingly bloody stories still told around campfires. The Sorcerors of Acheron, that ancient empire of ages past, whose unimaginable reign of death and madness lasted thousands of years. The leaders of that insane empire had almost completed their conquest of the entire planet when a single man came forth and began to turn the tide..............

Jessika Stryker, currently known as Jezebel, felt fear for one of the few times in her life. She and her cohort Tsaphon had managed to rile-up the nine nations of Mog Druthin against Auralinia. And now it had all come to nothing. Seven of the nine were in ruins, defeated by the combined armies of Auralinia, Tarlag, Mandalore Prime and Xeraph.The other two were surrounded and presently contemplating their options.

Jezebel's little kingdom, Ssyn, was also all but occupied. All she had control of was the city itself along with Olde Town. There were over 20,000 armed forces inside the walls, about a third of them dead or dying. Romans, Orcathans, Baaliim, Allegmanii...you name it, they were crammed in here.

And now she had gone and called Tsaphon's arch-enemy, Amra, a piece of shit. Yep....she was in trouble.

She had an ace up her sleeve, though. She figured out that for some unknown reason that the enemy didn't want to destroy Ssyn as they had the other countries. An intriguing idea crept into her tired brain.......

Jessica Stryker peered at the man from behind a greasy, tangled and matted mass of hair that fell in front of her eyes. All but naked, she crouched in the dirt before the walls of Ssyn, a half-wild beast who growled deep in her throat, trying to come up with human words in order to answer this person.

"Who are you to speak to me, the ruler of Ssyn, human?"

The man chuckled. 'You don't look like much of a ruler of anything. So you are the woman Stryker, eh?"

She launched herself at him suddenly, but was jerked back violently by the chain fixed around her neck, a chain that was securely bound to the wall of the city.

The man didn't flinch. "Still the violent rebel, eh? Have the past decades taught you nothing?"

She growled. "Who the hell are you?"

"Name's Max. In another life I was a detective. I was here when the she-witch called up that big fuckin' demon who proceeded to grab your ass and was about to have you for breakfast when the witch had the demon drop you in front of the Xeraphian king, or whatever he was. He put you here, where youv'e been ever since."

She snarled. "And so youv'e come to gloat." She spat on the ground. "Just another big brave citizen come to look at the bitch who dared to oppose Xeraph. Loose me from this chain. We'll see just how fucking brave you are."

"Chill out, Jess. Your'e nothin' but a side-show freak these days. But if your'e interested, I might be able to change things for the better for you."

She sat on her haunches, darkly-tanned body filthy with the refuse that the citizenry still pelted her with even after all these years. Several noticable scars criss-crossed her body where she fought her captors, to no avail. The rough, scarred wrists and ankles where the original chains were fixed upon her. But with all of animal ferocity, her eyes showed a great deal of intelligence. "Talk to me."

"Like I said, chill out. I'll be back tomorrow. Then we'll see what's what." He turned on his heel, and heard the scream come from her throat as she once more tried to get to him..........................

The holiday dinner was finally ready. All the adults sat at the big table, the kids in the next room. Gramps was already spooning the mashed potatoes onto his plate when is daughter, Gwen, said, "Papa! Can't you wait for everyone to sit down?"

He looked at her. "No, goddamit! You been tellin' me for two hours that dinner will be ready any minute. My goddam stomach feels like it's stickin' to my backbone." He continued shoveling various foods onto an already heaping plate.

Joe, Gwen's mate, chuckled. "Leave him alone, babe. The old geezer has a right to first dibs after what he's been through."

He was, of course, referring to the horrendous goings-on of last year, when the Witch of The Priory of Aeternu loosed the gigantic demon on the remnants of the rebels holed up in the city. Gramps managed to get out of Ssyn before he too was eaten by it, along with a half-dozen others.

He had watched from a safer distance as the demon consumed almost twenty-thousand soldiers in the space of less than a minute, weapons and all. Then he watched as the Witch bade the demon drop Jezzy at the foot of the conqueror, Amra of Xeraph, who ordered the rebellious Jezebel stripped and chained to the outer wall of Ssyn, there to remain to her dying day. Which would not be anytime soon as the Witch, Sybelle, pronounced a curse of longevity upon her. It would be several hundred years before the one once known as Jessica Stryker would be allowed to die.

Little Bobby ran up to his Gramps and said, "Grampy, tell us again about the Witch and the Demon."

Gwen shooed him back into the room with the children. "You leave your grandfather alone. What with all those tale about demons and witches, I won't be able to get you to sleep tonight! Now git!"

Joe glanced at his father. "Have you seen Jez lately, Pa? Doesn't look like she's aged a day in all these years."

His Pa grinned. "Yeah, she's still got a rack on her, eh? Why just the other day I stood there with a couple of the guys and watched her.........."

Gwen slammed down the pot of potatoes. "Papa! Such talk at the dinner table! The children might hear!"

"Hell, Gwen, 'taint nothin' they 'aint heard already. Whattya expect with a looker like Jez chained up out front of the city. eh?"

"Never you mind! I'll not have that........woman........spoken of in this house!"

Joe put his hand on Papa's arm, shook his head, and resumed eating. The old man shook his head and mumbled, "A sad state of affairs when a man can't speak his mind. Yessir, a sad state of affairs....."