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#71
Archive / Change of life 1
Last post by Aria - March 21, 2017, 04:46:22 PMTWO YEARS AGO
In the warm heat of California, Los Angeles there lived a women who wanted to pursue a career but wasn't sure what she wanted to do exactly. Should she become a stripper? Or remain a hostess forever? Surely Aria wanted to move away from this lifestyle, although it paid well, it was not good enough. Aria always felt that there was something missing but what?
During her nightly shift at the club, Aria noticed a strange man eyeing her. The man was dressed in a sharp suit, with a drink in his hand. Aria began to walk towards him, smiling at him.
Hi, welcome hope you're enjoying your time here. I'm Aria by the way
Aria told the man as she stared into his green eyes, noticing him checking her out.
Anything I can help you with?
The man stared into Aria's eyes then smirked at her. Grabbing her hand gently he spoke in a deep seducing tone.
You must be a model.... I'm.... well just call me T
Excuse me?
You.... I asked if you were a model? Certainly someone with your looks doesn't only work as a hostess.... Unless you are a part-time stripper or something else I rather not say.
What? A hooker? Was that what you were going to say? And no I'm not a model.... I work here only, full time.... Why do you ask? If this is your way of hitting on me then.... I guess you need to work harder on your pickup lines.
The man chuckled. He had no interest in getting with Aria, but what he did want was for Aria to work for him. Reaching into his pocket, the man pulled out a business card, handing it to Aria.
I run a modeling agency, in Vegas but I'm in LA for the night. Anyway if you ever decide to change your life just give me a call.
Aria looked at the card, then at T, as he began to leave the club. Aria had four more hours of her shift left, and once that was over she was out, heading back to her apartment, Aria pulled out the card that she received earlier from T, and decided to give him a call.
.... This is T.... whom am I speaking with?
Hi it's me, Aria.... We met today, couple hours ago at the club?
Oh! Yea, Aria! Glad you called so what do you want to talk about?
Well I kind of thought about what you told me at the club, and would like to take up on that opportunity.
That night Aria's life had changed for the better. Leaving her job as a hostess, Aria moved to Vegas where she modeled for a respectable modeling agency. Of course it took sometime for her to get used to this lifestyle; but who could complain about it? Getting to go around the country in private jets, getting paid, meeting new people. Aria was pretty much living the dream.
#72
Helena, Montana
17 years ago.
17 years ago.
The young man was pacing nervously back and forth down the hallway of the Shodair's Children Hospital. The light blue walls were covered with colorful and cheerful children's drawings, every single examination's room door painted in pastel shade, one for each of the rainbow colors. A woman, almost certainly his wife, was sitting on one of the chairs, staring at an indigo door. The plate on it reads
HEATHER ZALUSKI M.D.
As the door opened, a blonde little tot rushed out of it, running straight into her mother's arms. His contagious big smile worked a miracle, washing away in the blink of an eye the concern from her face. Her husband came closer soon enough, ruffling the kid's head while resting his hand on the woman's shoulder. The doctor, a tiny short-haired brunette left the room, holding her hand behind her back.
DOCTOR ZALUSKI: Ethan, you forgot your prize for being a good patient!
She handed him a colored lollipop, the best reward a kid could ask for. He unwrapped it, obviously tossing the paper on the floor with the typical nonchalance of a 8 years old. The doctor was looking at him, kindly smiling before turning her attention to the couple waiting for the response.
ETHAN'S DAD: So doc? What's wrong with Ethan? Is he sick?
DOCTOR ZALUSKI: Your son has a condition called Synesthesia.
Maybe it was the fancy word, maybe the cold and professional, almost detached tone in her voice, but the news caught them off guard. They exchanged a quick, worried glance before looking back at the doctor.
ETHAN'S DAD: Is... Is that serious doc?
His wife was now standing next to him, caressing her pregnant belly.
ETHAN'S MOM: Is it genetic?
DOCTOR ZALUSKI: No to both. Synesthesia is a neurological condition. Although little is known about how it develops, all the studies concur that there are no physiological or genetic factors leading to it. Nor there is a way to treat it.
ETHAN'S DAD: Are you telling us that our son has some mental disease and there's nothing we can do about it?
His voice cracked.
DOCTOR ZALUSKI: Just look at him...
By that time, Ethan already stopped playing. He was standing next to his mom, those green eyes open wide in bewilderment, seemingly on the verge of tears, staring at his father.
DOCTOR ZALUSKI: Ethan is perfectly sane. His brain just works in a different way, Sounds, voices in his case, provoke the synestethic experience. It's like a firework, an explosion of colors in front of his very eyes. What I find fascinating is how emotions can influence his perception. In most cases pitch, tone and other characteristics of the sound are what define the perceived hue and brightness of the triggered color. For your son, it's the speaker emotion. Hence why he looks so concerned, even though he doubtfully understands what we are talking about.
All eyes turned on the blonde kid. He wrapped his arms around his mother's waist, hiding his face against her stomach.
DOCTOR ZALUSKI: Mister and Misses Thompson, you have a wonderful kid, very smart for his age. His condition will certainly affect his life, but not necessarily in a pejorative way. Good luck with him, and with your second-born. Another boy or a girl this time?
ETHAN'S MOM: It's a baby girl.
Finally a smile on her lips. She glances at the doctor, than at his husband who seems relieved too. Eventually, her eyes fall on that toddler who was hugging her. Their eyes, both green like the forest locked as he looked up at her. She ruffled his blonde hair.
ETHAN'S MOM: Ethan already decided to call her Heidi. Heidi Thompson... I like the sound of it
Helmand Province, Afghanistan
November 2015
November 2015
The Sergeant Major was sitting in his office, intent reading a letter. The envelop resting on his desk carried the Montana's Lewis and Clark County seal.
SERGEANT MAJOR WHITE Shit...
He shook his head.
SERGEANT MAJOR WHITE: Does he know anything yet?
The other official nodded no.
CORPORAL MILLER: I thought that, given the delicate circumstances, you wanted to talk with him privately, sir.
Reading the paper once again, the Major lit up a cigar.
SERGEANT MAJOR WHITE: Did you reach out the local police? How's the girl?
CORPORAL MILLER: Physically? Bruised, a couple of stitches over the right eye, a cracked rib. But these things leave a scar, deep inside. She keeps asking for her brother.
Puffing from the cigar, he took some time checking on a file.
SERGEANT MAJOR WHITE: We keep him in the dark.
CORPORAL MILLER: With all due respect sir...
He slammed a fist on the desk, his face slightly turning red, the vein in his neck pulsating.
SERGEANT MAJOR WHITE: Are you questioning a direct order Corporal? Thompson's tour will be over in a week, and he proved to be a great asset for us with that... Thing he does.
Let's just pretend this letter never arrived."
CORPORAL MILLER: He will try to contact home sir. How do you think he'll react when he gets no answer to all his calls?
The old officer took some time to think about a solution, leaning back down on the chair and blowing circles of smoke over his head.
SERGEANT MAJOR WHITE: Communication lockdown. Nobody is allowed to call home until further notification. Understood?
CORPORAL MILLER: But Sir...
SERGEANT MAJOR WHITE: I said did you understand?
No point in arguing. The Corporal walked out, shaking his head. That kid from Montana grew on him recently. Despite his solitary attitude, he was always kind and gentle, willing to help and, unlike many others very respectful. But an order is an order, and a good soldier must respect his superior, no matter what.
Days later...
How long have I been sitting here? Hours, Days, Weeks... Time has no meaning when you stop giving a fuck about it. I don't care how long I have been here, I don't care how long they will keep me locked in.
I just want to go back to Heidi.
Fuck my life, I was so close. Four days and this goddamn tour was over. But I couldn't let this slide. Everything happened so fucking fast.
Him, congratulating and enlisting me for a medal for my services to this country.
Me, asking to make a call home despite the communication lockdown.
Me, realising he was hiding something.
Him, getting all fired up and confirming my suspects.
Me, punching his fucking face.
Them, dragging me away and locking me here.
Insubordination. Article 90. Bullshit.
"Any person subject to this chapter who strikes his superior commissioned officer or draws or lifts up any weapon or offers any violence against him while he is in the execution of his office; or willfully disobeys a lawful command of his superior commissioned officer; shall be punished, if the offense is committed in time of war, by death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct, and if the offense is committed at any other time, by such punishment, other than death, as a court-martial may direct."
Lucky me this is not time of war.
Corporal Miller was kind enough to come talking with me yesterday. With the outcast. The reject.
If anything, to tell me what I should expect.
Dishonorable discharge. Forfeiture of all pay and allowances. A ten years confinement.
They can't keep me locked in.
Heidi needs me. I need her.
He said he is pleading my case. He has connections in the upper ranks. People believing that, if this story will ever leak, if I ever get the chance to tell to the press how the US Army deliberately omitted to inform me about how my father sent my sister to the hospital just to keep me for four more days, that wouldn't be any good for the reputation.
I guess I shouldn't tell him that I would never do such a thing. That I don't care to throw more shit on a place that already stinks so much. That, considering all the things I saw in the past six months, that would most likely be the least of their problems.
He said chances are they offer me an agreement to buy my silence.
A month, maybe two in this fucking cell instead of ten years.
No honor. No money.
I take it.
I stopped giving a shit about my honor or my duties the same moment I knocked the motherfucker down.
I will find a way to provide to all Heidi's needs. A job. Honest or not, it doesn't really matter to me.
Just let me get home to her for fuck's sake!
A month, maybe two. How long does it take? I don't know, but it sounds like so much time.
Time is all I have now.
Time to think. Time to live with all my regrets. Time to hope that everything will be sorted out.
There's only one thing more precious than our time, and that's who we spend it on.
I am alone with myself.
The worst company I could ask for.
#73
Archive / The Chambers Chronicles I.II
Last post by Lara Chambers - March 21, 2017, 01:59:00 PMThe Chambers Chronicles
By Lara Chambers
Losing yourself in search forever. That was what LARA CHAMBERS felt most of her life. Not even sure what she was looking for. Honestly life had gotten to a point where the search itself was interesting. Sometimes the things you would find had the power to destroy. But not always.
What can destroy you, can also give you higher power.
The past was the past. There was no way to erase it, even if the papers said different. But on the inside it was living on. Memories. Flashbacks. Déjà vu. If you didn't fight on a daily base, you would become a slave. Funny thought. The human race knew all about slavery. To one thing or the other. Drugs. A rich lifestyle. Sex. It was all there and one way or another flourishing. Youth was no excuse for poor decisions. Lara knew that. Living with a rollercoaster of emotions was a good reminder.
Adapt or perish?!
That's what people said without ever thinking of thethird option. Raising your middle finger higher than ever before. This was no fairytale. There was no happy ending promised. At points it wouldn't be fun. So what made life worth living? A little thrill here and there. A pat on the back every now and then. Not satisfying enough. In general it was never enough. It was the mentality of a fighter to dive into uneasy situations. Looking for the advantage in disadvantage. Growing out of the pain that was only temporary. Finding their smile when the world was on fire, knowing you added your bit to the pot.
Who Am I? What is my purpose?
I am Lara fucking Chambers. Ready to unleash the beast that resides on the inside.
G R O W I N G P A I N S
Queens, New York [Bar Ragnarok]
10th of February 2017
Ever met one of those people that screamed trouble without ever saying a word. They made you feel uneasy. Not scared. But giving you an urge to scratch your skin off. Made you feel dirty with their eyes falling onto you. She had been there. She had seen people trying to tear her down with their sheer presence. It hardly worked. These days it was hard to get under this pretty, coloured skin. Her facial expression never giving away what kind of storm was battling on the inside.
Maybe I should play poker with the gang?!
The thought amused her when serving another drink to a regular customer. It was then that the door kicked open. The noise from the street was almost overlapping the music from inside. Her eyes wandered to the 'intruder' and remained there. He didn't fit. And that although he wore a rather expensive suit. His hair ends having a flashy look with some blonde highlights. Pretty sure he was grey underneath. The wrinkles on his face telling a story that wouldn't fit the youngster look.
Look closer
A small shudder ran through her body, her eyes remaining focused. It was hard to say what threw her off, but something about this guy was not right. It made her feel itchy but at the same time peeked her interest. Knowing that Devon was in the background doing the shopping list, there was no way out. He took a seat a few inches away from her, lazily looking through the card. Putting on her professional face before strolling over.
"Good day. Have you found something already, or you need a little more time?"
There was an odd grin on his face when he looked up. Going as far as licking over his lips. Briefly but still viewable. He would put the card aside and started at her.
"You are prettier than they said... ."
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind. I will take a cold beer and some of your company."
She was used to being hit on. That had nothing to do with arrogance, just a fact. Every second waitress was used to it. The charme of the business maybe, or maybe not. Lara didn't think too much of it when filling his order. Returning to put the glass in front of him, his hand reached out. Faster than expected. His hand unnatural soft.
Like the one of a doll.
"I would advice you don't touch me."
Her voice was calm. Speaking every word rather carefully. This was not the time to cause a scene.
"Relax kotik. I seen your claws but there is no need to fight Lara Chambers. I am here to make you an offer you can not refuse. And when I say can't, that is exactly what I mean."
Russian. Maybe not full blooded. His accent was thick but here and there it didn't fit. She ignored the fact he held onto her hand, leave alone the petname. Instead she leaned over the bar, her face getting close enough to whisper.
"You can shove that offer up your arse, darling. I ain't doing this shit anymore. I am sorry you came all the way... from wherever. But you will leave empty handed."
"It was expected you react that way." His tone was somewhat amused. He fumbled with his jacket before laying a folder on the table. "Take a look. A close one. And then we start that talk once again. I don't want to start off on the wrong foot."
He would finally let go off her hand and nudging the papers into her direction. She opened it slowly not sure what to expect. And while the first page had a short rerun of her life, basic facts the second was something else. The headline was there. Bold, red letters.
Deathcore Wrestling owner Dick Fusco and his security Axel Kincaid missing. Mike Bell, Senator of Tennessee retires without public explanation.
A pounding headache was forming in the back of her head. A certain sickness that she had not felt in a very long time. She looked from the folder back to the man. His facial expression now fitting the tone of his voice. Sleazy.
"What do you want?"
"Cutting to the core directly, they will like that... ."
"Who are they?" She interrupted him. Her voice emotionless combined with an ice cold stare.
He took his time to taste the beer. Making it look like he hadn't been having a drink in years. Obviously testing her patience. The one thing that seemed to be wearing thing.
"I am pretty sure you know who sends me. Smart little girl I hear. You will understand that revealing their names isn't necessary. I am here to deliver a message."
"And you are? Or is that a secret too... let me rephrase this. You do not look important enough to hide your name."
"Danilo." He didn't seem offended in the slightest. Thinking about his kind of business, he was probably used to worse.
Lara ran a little scan inside of her head. Wondering if that name did sound familiar, although in all honesty it didn't matter. She poured herself a drink and leaned against the counter. Not for once letting go of the man.
"Well Dani, what do you want then? Knowing that i left that world a long time ago."
"And here I thought you are a clever girl." He sipped from the beer again. "No one ever leaves that life. Unless you leave this life completely. I have shown you the folder kotik. Wouldn't it be a shame if all of those informations came to light. Destroy your little, perfect life." Another pause. "You willing to listen now... or was the message in any way unclear?"
Tactics. She had learned all about them from Shawna back in the days. But the truth was that in this very moment they were useless. They had informations that and she didn't. It was like fighting windmills. Never ending satisfying. She nudged into his direction, signalising him to talk.
"That is a good girl. I have been sent here to recruit you for a new project. Unleashed. MMA fighting company based in Russia. And Miss Chambers you are wanted there. See this as your personal invite." Once again that sleazy grin.
"Invitation, right. You mean your attempt to to blackmail me."
"Is it really an attempt if it is successful? You know time is short and so are lives. Make the right decision here today. You are a fighter after all, dah."
There was no sharp reply to that. She emptied her drink and stared at him for quite some time. Weighing up his words. An inner monologue started that was close to tearing her apart. There was no easy solution. At least not at this very moment. Pushing herself from the counter she stood in front of him again. One of her hands resting on her hip.
"Where do I sign?"
"No beating around the bush. Such a rare quality with females." He put a hundred dollar bill on the wooden bar. "You will find your contract in your apartment. It was a pleasure doing business with you Lara."
I am sure bitchface. He was quick to get up from the stool but not without winking at her. It took every ounce of her self control to not jump on him. Ripping out his lungs just because she could. Not tonight. Instead she gave him her best fake smile. Watching him leave the bar right in the moment when she felt a soft hand approaching her waist. Followed by a small kiss to her head.
"You look like you have seen a ghost sweet tush."
"Nah. There was just a cockroach on the floor. We might have to get that checked." She replied with her thoughts being far away.
That night Lara became Unleashed. Not exactly on the terms she would have wished for, but facts remain the same. She was not ready for another dance with the devil, but she always wore her dancing shoes.
Human beings, we have dark sides; we have dark issues in our lives. To progress anywhere in life, you have to face your demons. ~ John Noble
S H A P E O F Y O U
Queens, New York [Bar Ragnarok]
15th of February 2017
It had been a long week. If she was honest, it had been a long year. Yeah. It is was only the middle of February, but that did not change anything. Lots of ups and downs. Seeing people come and go. Losing what she thought was the most important thing in her life. That was till her husband entered her life. DEVON RIVERA.
I never saw him coming.
She loved working in this bar. It was becoming one of her favourite things. Maybe it had to do with him. He made it look so easy. Like it was his one true passion. Apart from her. There was never a night they didn't spend together. And what was the difference to previous relationships? For the first time, Lara Chambers, didn't feel the urge to vanish. There was nothing inside of her that screamed for distance.
Lara Chambers. The girl that stopped running.
It was no special night. A regular Wednesday with the usual customers. Every Jack and Jill that had found a liking in this place. Hardly any time people would step out of line. And if so? Devon just as much as Lara knew how to handle it.
They had just finished filling the dishwasher when she leaned against the counter, doing a playful cough. The one that made sure he gave her the attention she was looking for. With that innocent smile, which hardly anyone had seen, she focused on him.
"Babe?" Her voice was full of sweetness. "I know it has been a long night... but I got a little something we should talk about."
Devon grabbed the bar towel, wiping his hands, that wolfish grin on his face as he looked over at her. "Yeah? Vertical or horizontal conversation?"
"Both, but in the order that you just named. Few days ago I had a visitor. One I didn't expect nor wasn't sure I should welcome." She hopped on the counter letting out a sigh. "You know how I told you about my past. Dishing out everything that has been and could have been. I believe truth matters more than most things in life. I have had an offer to wrestle again... ."
He cocked a hip against the dishwasher, tapping the button to turn it on as though needing the mute their conversation even though the bar was empty. "See, there's something more to it, isn't there?" Devon studied her for a few seconds, "is this one of those talks I'm not gonna like much?"
She couldn't help but laugh. It was almost scary how well he know her by now. Without a direct verbal response she waved him over. Opening her legs slightly so he could slide right between. Lara pulled him close and placed a kiss on his lips. A few moments passed before she broke contact.
"It is exactly that. But I better get it out before I wuss out. It is a place called Unleashed located in Russia. Which probably isn't the bad part." A small pause. "But the truth is... there is MOB business involved. Yeah. The one thing I did step away from."
He laughed. What else could he do, really? "What like they're fixin' the fights or something? Is this place a front?" He'd watched every episode of The Sopranos. Seen The Godfather movies. He knew enough about the whole organized crime thing in theory.
"I don't have very many details. The person that approached obviously was sent by higher people. You remember how I used to work for the Italians for a few years." She did not lower her voice in the slightest. "I would assume that is how they noticed me in the first place. But the details are still very unclear... for now. Thing is, it does interest me."
She was putting up a strong front. Not mentioning that the offer wasn't that much of an offer. It was an ultimatum just as much as a threat. One of those 'You better or..." situations. The strange thing though, she wasn't scared.
Had you seen what I have seen... fear holds very small value.
Devon nodded. "Russia? Or getting back into the ring?" He was teasing, trying to make light of the heavy subject as his hands slid up her thighs. "Because if I'm being honest here, babe? I definitely wanna see you in some skimpy number, rolling around and kicking ass." A chuckle and a wink. "Foreplay."
She laughed. It was that typical soprano like laughter that he seemed to enjoy. Her big, blue eyes falling onto his when she moved closer. Their bodies rubbing against each other. "That is one way to see it. Foreplay. I like your way of thinking. To tell you my side of the story, I don't know. I am curious about Russia itself, although they might send me to jail for my outfits alone. But the other thing, maybe the bigger part, I am feeling the itch. I love to fight."
"So, do it. Luke's back. We've got Sofia working the same nights he does. We've got the coverage if we need to pick up and go." His eyes were on her lips, telegraphing that kiss before he moved in, his lips as hot as his hands as they roamed over her body. "Do it," he whispered, breaking the kiss. "I'll follow you wherever you wanna go."
For a moment it was impossible to concentrate. Feeling his hands running over her body with just enough pressure. Never too hard. Never too soft. It was their thing. Lara just like Devon were rather passionate creatures. They loved to express their feelings for each other.
No matter when, where or around who.
"Everywhere? Even if I said let's move to Kansas?" It was an insider joke, causing him to chuckle again. "But seriously, I wouldn't leave without you. I am not ready to be apart. Not even for a few days. So Mister Rivera, would you honor me with your presence. Watch me destroy fake bitches and carve smiles into old men's faces?"
"Oh yeah." He grinned, those green eyes of his lighting up with gleeful lust, "wouldn't miss that for the world."
"This might explains why I have been training like a squirrel on ecstasy." She giggled, her British accent pushing through. "You know for a moment I expected you to talk me out of it. Like being all worried and not ready for that chapter."
"Would trying to talk you out of it work?" Devon shook his head. He knew her better than that. Talking to him about this was more her just setting the pieces right in her mind. The decision had all but been made already and he didn't mind. Her independence and her stubbornness were part of her charm - his favorite part, to be fair. "I'll be there. I know how to handle guns," he said it like a joke but there was a kernel of truth there, "you wanna hire me to guard this body, Missus Chambers-Rivera?"
"Actually I had it changed the other week. It is only Misses Rivera. But this is a business thing." She looked into his eyes wondering if it made him proud. She slowly licked over her lips. "Shannon is gonna tag along too. But I would love to get you involved. Because honestly, who would want to protect this body more than you?"
"If there's anybody out there who does," he paused, licking his own lips, "I'll fuckin' fight them to the death."
Lara pulled him closed once again, this time way more forceful. Her hands running under his shirt, sharp nails almost tearing his flesh apart. His breathing increasing along with their bodies heating up. They would spend many more moments in this bar before calling it a night. Doing what lovers do.
Probably preparing for cold russian nights.
F I X Y O U R S E L F B I T C H
Queens, New York [The apartment of Devon & Lara Rivera]
16th of February 2017
He was asleep. And although it was dark she could picture that goofy smile. Maybe prettier than most things in this world. Satisfying. A heavy stone had been taken off of her chest after tonight. Hiding shit from him was not her style.
Lara Chambers was a bitch.
BUT she never had been a liar. It was hard to say if she really had been surprised by his reaction. Different than most guys Devon didn't try to own a female. No mistake about it, he was possessive like a madman. Ready to slit someone's throat that approached her in the wrong way. But not jealous. There was a huge amount of trust between them. Like this blind faith you would put in the person that was meant for you. The one that made you feel that you literally could do anything in this world.
If you wanna be a unicorn, I will get you a horn.
She giggled. Covering her mouth immediately when he moved, rolling over to the other side. The blanket fell loosely over her curvy body when she got up. Making her way to the kitchen to get a drink, she noticed the vibrating noise.
Out of the gutter.
Her phone had been resting on the kitchen counter. She wasn't even certain how it got there in the first place. Shrugging her shoulders before walking towards it. It was fucking 3AM in the morning.
"You gotta be kidding me." She mumbled when seeing the Callers ID. The day of surprises so it seemed. Lara moved one of the chairs and let herself almost fall on it. Clearing her throat before answering.
"Hello Shawna... ."
Silence.
"Hello?!"
"I am here. Connection was a little shady." That dark laughter. It made her shiver. "I assume they found you."
Of course. It hit her right in the face. Lara almost was ashamed that she hadn't thought of it when Danilo appeared at her door. She had been living underneath the radar for so long. Once again SHAWNA MARTINEZ was a factor in her life. They hadn't split on bad terms, yet you couldn't really ever run from the MOB. There was always a connection. Always some kind of dirt sticking to you. It was a little something that Shannon once told her. And you listen when a schizophrenic tells you to pay attention.
The MOB does not forget. Good or Bad.
"You still there?" Shawna didn't sound impatient. Maybe motherhood had done her good after all.
"I am here. Just a little fuzzy in the head... considering the time."
"I had planned to call earlier. But the news just got to me."
Lara laughed. It was dry laughter. The word just was a joke. It had been less than a week since she gave in. Less than seven days that she agreed to step back in a ring. Cage. Hell. Whatever you wanted to call it.
"Yeah. You had a total delay there Shawna."
"Word still travels fast." Her voice still carried that Italian accent. Thick and somewhat alluring. "You really thought we have stopped watching you? Not for one day. I kept your secrets as you kept mine."
"So you haven't told... ."
"Of course not. The only way I can explain this... you became soft. And didn't clean your mess. If I would have wanted to share that information, I could have done it a year ago." Lara looked over her shoulder to see Devon moving, but still asleep. "Just like you could have reached out and get that mess fixed. When did Lara Chambers turn into an idiot."
OUCH.
There was no real answer to that. She could have gotten in contact after Deathcore, yes. Could have them take care of it. But she didn't. Maybe it was false pride. Or the fact that she didn't wanna owe anything to anyone again. Either way the dilemma was the same. And it was massive.
"It was all under control... or so I thought. There were no bodies. No evidence."
"That is all correct. You just forget one small detail. There was another person in the room. One you did not finish that night. Instead you let him get away. Was it your ego? Was it the bloodrush that had gotten to your pretty head?" Her voice was cold. Like this was a regular business meeting. "But the past is the past. They could have asked for worse Lara Chambers. And chances are there... that they will. But for now, try to fulfill your duties."
"You sound like my mother. No wait, you really don't."
She almost could picture the half amused face of Shawna in that very moment. In the background she heard the voice of a kid. Her son.] She was almost thankful for that interruption.
"What's done is done. Try to not get killed, yeah? I will have an eye on you."
"Like always."
Both females hung up. She did not expect to hear from her in the near future. But knowing she was there held a strange comfort. In the past she had no problem being fearless. Being reckless even. Everything changed with... him. Her tired eyes falling back on the sleeping creature in their simple bed. Trying to erase every bit of worry that clouded her mind she turned off the lights. Sliding back under the covers. Cuddling close.
"You okay baby?"
"Just had a bad dream. But now I am awake."
And she was. This was no movie. This was no fancy book. No one would write a song about her life. But, this was no scripted drama either. The audience was holding their breath. Waiting for the next chapter of the Chambers Chronicles.
By Lara Chambers
Losing yourself in search forever. That was what LARA CHAMBERS felt most of her life. Not even sure what she was looking for. Honestly life had gotten to a point where the search itself was interesting. Sometimes the things you would find had the power to destroy. But not always.
What can destroy you, can also give you higher power.
The past was the past. There was no way to erase it, even if the papers said different. But on the inside it was living on. Memories. Flashbacks. Déjà vu. If you didn't fight on a daily base, you would become a slave. Funny thought. The human race knew all about slavery. To one thing or the other. Drugs. A rich lifestyle. Sex. It was all there and one way or another flourishing. Youth was no excuse for poor decisions. Lara knew that. Living with a rollercoaster of emotions was a good reminder.
Adapt or perish?!
That's what people said without ever thinking of thethird option. Raising your middle finger higher than ever before. This was no fairytale. There was no happy ending promised. At points it wouldn't be fun. So what made life worth living? A little thrill here and there. A pat on the back every now and then. Not satisfying enough. In general it was never enough. It was the mentality of a fighter to dive into uneasy situations. Looking for the advantage in disadvantage. Growing out of the pain that was only temporary. Finding their smile when the world was on fire, knowing you added your bit to the pot.
Who Am I? What is my purpose?
I am Lara fucking Chambers. Ready to unleash the beast that resides on the inside.
G R O W I N G P A I N S
Queens, New York [Bar Ragnarok]
10th of February 2017
Ever met one of those people that screamed trouble without ever saying a word. They made you feel uneasy. Not scared. But giving you an urge to scratch your skin off. Made you feel dirty with their eyes falling onto you. She had been there. She had seen people trying to tear her down with their sheer presence. It hardly worked. These days it was hard to get under this pretty, coloured skin. Her facial expression never giving away what kind of storm was battling on the inside.
Maybe I should play poker with the gang?!
The thought amused her when serving another drink to a regular customer. It was then that the door kicked open. The noise from the street was almost overlapping the music from inside. Her eyes wandered to the 'intruder' and remained there. He didn't fit. And that although he wore a rather expensive suit. His hair ends having a flashy look with some blonde highlights. Pretty sure he was grey underneath. The wrinkles on his face telling a story that wouldn't fit the youngster look.
Look closer
A small shudder ran through her body, her eyes remaining focused. It was hard to say what threw her off, but something about this guy was not right. It made her feel itchy but at the same time peeked her interest. Knowing that Devon was in the background doing the shopping list, there was no way out. He took a seat a few inches away from her, lazily looking through the card. Putting on her professional face before strolling over.
"Good day. Have you found something already, or you need a little more time?"
There was an odd grin on his face when he looked up. Going as far as licking over his lips. Briefly but still viewable. He would put the card aside and started at her.
"You are prettier than they said... ."
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind. I will take a cold beer and some of your company."
She was used to being hit on. That had nothing to do with arrogance, just a fact. Every second waitress was used to it. The charme of the business maybe, or maybe not. Lara didn't think too much of it when filling his order. Returning to put the glass in front of him, his hand reached out. Faster than expected. His hand unnatural soft.
Like the one of a doll.
"I would advice you don't touch me."
Her voice was calm. Speaking every word rather carefully. This was not the time to cause a scene.
"Relax kotik. I seen your claws but there is no need to fight Lara Chambers. I am here to make you an offer you can not refuse. And when I say can't, that is exactly what I mean."
Russian. Maybe not full blooded. His accent was thick but here and there it didn't fit. She ignored the fact he held onto her hand, leave alone the petname. Instead she leaned over the bar, her face getting close enough to whisper.
"You can shove that offer up your arse, darling. I ain't doing this shit anymore. I am sorry you came all the way... from wherever. But you will leave empty handed."
"It was expected you react that way." His tone was somewhat amused. He fumbled with his jacket before laying a folder on the table. "Take a look. A close one. And then we start that talk once again. I don't want to start off on the wrong foot."
He would finally let go off her hand and nudging the papers into her direction. She opened it slowly not sure what to expect. And while the first page had a short rerun of her life, basic facts the second was something else. The headline was there. Bold, red letters.
Deathcore Wrestling owner Dick Fusco and his security Axel Kincaid missing. Mike Bell, Senator of Tennessee retires without public explanation.
A pounding headache was forming in the back of her head. A certain sickness that she had not felt in a very long time. She looked from the folder back to the man. His facial expression now fitting the tone of his voice. Sleazy.
"What do you want?"
"Cutting to the core directly, they will like that... ."
"Who are they?" She interrupted him. Her voice emotionless combined with an ice cold stare.
He took his time to taste the beer. Making it look like he hadn't been having a drink in years. Obviously testing her patience. The one thing that seemed to be wearing thing.
"I am pretty sure you know who sends me. Smart little girl I hear. You will understand that revealing their names isn't necessary. I am here to deliver a message."
"And you are? Or is that a secret too... let me rephrase this. You do not look important enough to hide your name."
"Danilo." He didn't seem offended in the slightest. Thinking about his kind of business, he was probably used to worse.
Lara ran a little scan inside of her head. Wondering if that name did sound familiar, although in all honesty it didn't matter. She poured herself a drink and leaned against the counter. Not for once letting go of the man.
"Well Dani, what do you want then? Knowing that i left that world a long time ago."
"And here I thought you are a clever girl." He sipped from the beer again. "No one ever leaves that life. Unless you leave this life completely. I have shown you the folder kotik. Wouldn't it be a shame if all of those informations came to light. Destroy your little, perfect life." Another pause. "You willing to listen now... or was the message in any way unclear?"
Tactics. She had learned all about them from Shawna back in the days. But the truth was that in this very moment they were useless. They had informations that and she didn't. It was like fighting windmills. Never ending satisfying. She nudged into his direction, signalising him to talk.
"That is a good girl. I have been sent here to recruit you for a new project. Unleashed. MMA fighting company based in Russia. And Miss Chambers you are wanted there. See this as your personal invite." Once again that sleazy grin.
"Invitation, right. You mean your attempt to to blackmail me."
"Is it really an attempt if it is successful? You know time is short and so are lives. Make the right decision here today. You are a fighter after all, dah."
There was no sharp reply to that. She emptied her drink and stared at him for quite some time. Weighing up his words. An inner monologue started that was close to tearing her apart. There was no easy solution. At least not at this very moment. Pushing herself from the counter she stood in front of him again. One of her hands resting on her hip.
"Where do I sign?"
"No beating around the bush. Such a rare quality with females." He put a hundred dollar bill on the wooden bar. "You will find your contract in your apartment. It was a pleasure doing business with you Lara."
I am sure bitchface. He was quick to get up from the stool but not without winking at her. It took every ounce of her self control to not jump on him. Ripping out his lungs just because she could. Not tonight. Instead she gave him her best fake smile. Watching him leave the bar right in the moment when she felt a soft hand approaching her waist. Followed by a small kiss to her head.
"You look like you have seen a ghost sweet tush."
"Nah. There was just a cockroach on the floor. We might have to get that checked." She replied with her thoughts being far away.
That night Lara became Unleashed. Not exactly on the terms she would have wished for, but facts remain the same. She was not ready for another dance with the devil, but she always wore her dancing shoes.
Human beings, we have dark sides; we have dark issues in our lives. To progress anywhere in life, you have to face your demons. ~ John Noble
S H A P E O F Y O U
Queens, New York [Bar Ragnarok]
15th of February 2017
It had been a long week. If she was honest, it had been a long year. Yeah. It is was only the middle of February, but that did not change anything. Lots of ups and downs. Seeing people come and go. Losing what she thought was the most important thing in her life. That was till her husband entered her life. DEVON RIVERA.
I never saw him coming.
She loved working in this bar. It was becoming one of her favourite things. Maybe it had to do with him. He made it look so easy. Like it was his one true passion. Apart from her. There was never a night they didn't spend together. And what was the difference to previous relationships? For the first time, Lara Chambers, didn't feel the urge to vanish. There was nothing inside of her that screamed for distance.
Lara Chambers. The girl that stopped running.
It was no special night. A regular Wednesday with the usual customers. Every Jack and Jill that had found a liking in this place. Hardly any time people would step out of line. And if so? Devon just as much as Lara knew how to handle it.
They had just finished filling the dishwasher when she leaned against the counter, doing a playful cough. The one that made sure he gave her the attention she was looking for. With that innocent smile, which hardly anyone had seen, she focused on him.
"Babe?" Her voice was full of sweetness. "I know it has been a long night... but I got a little something we should talk about."
Devon grabbed the bar towel, wiping his hands, that wolfish grin on his face as he looked over at her. "Yeah? Vertical or horizontal conversation?"
"Both, but in the order that you just named. Few days ago I had a visitor. One I didn't expect nor wasn't sure I should welcome." She hopped on the counter letting out a sigh. "You know how I told you about my past. Dishing out everything that has been and could have been. I believe truth matters more than most things in life. I have had an offer to wrestle again... ."
He cocked a hip against the dishwasher, tapping the button to turn it on as though needing the mute their conversation even though the bar was empty. "See, there's something more to it, isn't there?" Devon studied her for a few seconds, "is this one of those talks I'm not gonna like much?"
She couldn't help but laugh. It was almost scary how well he know her by now. Without a direct verbal response she waved him over. Opening her legs slightly so he could slide right between. Lara pulled him close and placed a kiss on his lips. A few moments passed before she broke contact.
"It is exactly that. But I better get it out before I wuss out. It is a place called Unleashed located in Russia. Which probably isn't the bad part." A small pause. "But the truth is... there is MOB business involved. Yeah. The one thing I did step away from."
He laughed. What else could he do, really? "What like they're fixin' the fights or something? Is this place a front?" He'd watched every episode of The Sopranos. Seen The Godfather movies. He knew enough about the whole organized crime thing in theory.
"I don't have very many details. The person that approached obviously was sent by higher people. You remember how I used to work for the Italians for a few years." She did not lower her voice in the slightest. "I would assume that is how they noticed me in the first place. But the details are still very unclear... for now. Thing is, it does interest me."
She was putting up a strong front. Not mentioning that the offer wasn't that much of an offer. It was an ultimatum just as much as a threat. One of those 'You better or..." situations. The strange thing though, she wasn't scared.
Had you seen what I have seen... fear holds very small value.
Devon nodded. "Russia? Or getting back into the ring?" He was teasing, trying to make light of the heavy subject as his hands slid up her thighs. "Because if I'm being honest here, babe? I definitely wanna see you in some skimpy number, rolling around and kicking ass." A chuckle and a wink. "Foreplay."
She laughed. It was that typical soprano like laughter that he seemed to enjoy. Her big, blue eyes falling onto his when she moved closer. Their bodies rubbing against each other. "That is one way to see it. Foreplay. I like your way of thinking. To tell you my side of the story, I don't know. I am curious about Russia itself, although they might send me to jail for my outfits alone. But the other thing, maybe the bigger part, I am feeling the itch. I love to fight."
"So, do it. Luke's back. We've got Sofia working the same nights he does. We've got the coverage if we need to pick up and go." His eyes were on her lips, telegraphing that kiss before he moved in, his lips as hot as his hands as they roamed over her body. "Do it," he whispered, breaking the kiss. "I'll follow you wherever you wanna go."
For a moment it was impossible to concentrate. Feeling his hands running over her body with just enough pressure. Never too hard. Never too soft. It was their thing. Lara just like Devon were rather passionate creatures. They loved to express their feelings for each other.
No matter when, where or around who.
"Everywhere? Even if I said let's move to Kansas?" It was an insider joke, causing him to chuckle again. "But seriously, I wouldn't leave without you. I am not ready to be apart. Not even for a few days. So Mister Rivera, would you honor me with your presence. Watch me destroy fake bitches and carve smiles into old men's faces?"
"Oh yeah." He grinned, those green eyes of his lighting up with gleeful lust, "wouldn't miss that for the world."
"This might explains why I have been training like a squirrel on ecstasy." She giggled, her British accent pushing through. "You know for a moment I expected you to talk me out of it. Like being all worried and not ready for that chapter."
"Would trying to talk you out of it work?" Devon shook his head. He knew her better than that. Talking to him about this was more her just setting the pieces right in her mind. The decision had all but been made already and he didn't mind. Her independence and her stubbornness were part of her charm - his favorite part, to be fair. "I'll be there. I know how to handle guns," he said it like a joke but there was a kernel of truth there, "you wanna hire me to guard this body, Missus Chambers-Rivera?"
"Actually I had it changed the other week. It is only Misses Rivera. But this is a business thing." She looked into his eyes wondering if it made him proud. She slowly licked over her lips. "Shannon is gonna tag along too. But I would love to get you involved. Because honestly, who would want to protect this body more than you?"
"If there's anybody out there who does," he paused, licking his own lips, "I'll fuckin' fight them to the death."
Lara pulled him closed once again, this time way more forceful. Her hands running under his shirt, sharp nails almost tearing his flesh apart. His breathing increasing along with their bodies heating up. They would spend many more moments in this bar before calling it a night. Doing what lovers do.
Probably preparing for cold russian nights.
F I X Y O U R S E L F B I T C H
Queens, New York [The apartment of Devon & Lara Rivera]
16th of February 2017
He was asleep. And although it was dark she could picture that goofy smile. Maybe prettier than most things in this world. Satisfying. A heavy stone had been taken off of her chest after tonight. Hiding shit from him was not her style.
Lara Chambers was a bitch.
BUT she never had been a liar. It was hard to say if she really had been surprised by his reaction. Different than most guys Devon didn't try to own a female. No mistake about it, he was possessive like a madman. Ready to slit someone's throat that approached her in the wrong way. But not jealous. There was a huge amount of trust between them. Like this blind faith you would put in the person that was meant for you. The one that made you feel that you literally could do anything in this world.
If you wanna be a unicorn, I will get you a horn.
She giggled. Covering her mouth immediately when he moved, rolling over to the other side. The blanket fell loosely over her curvy body when she got up. Making her way to the kitchen to get a drink, she noticed the vibrating noise.
Out of the gutter.
Her phone had been resting on the kitchen counter. She wasn't even certain how it got there in the first place. Shrugging her shoulders before walking towards it. It was fucking 3AM in the morning.
"You gotta be kidding me." She mumbled when seeing the Callers ID. The day of surprises so it seemed. Lara moved one of the chairs and let herself almost fall on it. Clearing her throat before answering.
"Hello Shawna... ."
Silence.
"Hello?!"
"I am here. Connection was a little shady." That dark laughter. It made her shiver. "I assume they found you."
Of course. It hit her right in the face. Lara almost was ashamed that she hadn't thought of it when Danilo appeared at her door. She had been living underneath the radar for so long. Once again SHAWNA MARTINEZ was a factor in her life. They hadn't split on bad terms, yet you couldn't really ever run from the MOB. There was always a connection. Always some kind of dirt sticking to you. It was a little something that Shannon once told her. And you listen when a schizophrenic tells you to pay attention.
The MOB does not forget. Good or Bad.
"You still there?" Shawna didn't sound impatient. Maybe motherhood had done her good after all.
"I am here. Just a little fuzzy in the head... considering the time."
"I had planned to call earlier. But the news just got to me."
Lara laughed. It was dry laughter. The word just was a joke. It had been less than a week since she gave in. Less than seven days that she agreed to step back in a ring. Cage. Hell. Whatever you wanted to call it.
"Yeah. You had a total delay there Shawna."
"Word still travels fast." Her voice still carried that Italian accent. Thick and somewhat alluring. "You really thought we have stopped watching you? Not for one day. I kept your secrets as you kept mine."
"So you haven't told... ."
"Of course not. The only way I can explain this... you became soft. And didn't clean your mess. If I would have wanted to share that information, I could have done it a year ago." Lara looked over her shoulder to see Devon moving, but still asleep. "Just like you could have reached out and get that mess fixed. When did Lara Chambers turn into an idiot."
OUCH.
There was no real answer to that. She could have gotten in contact after Deathcore, yes. Could have them take care of it. But she didn't. Maybe it was false pride. Or the fact that she didn't wanna owe anything to anyone again. Either way the dilemma was the same. And it was massive.
"It was all under control... or so I thought. There were no bodies. No evidence."
"That is all correct. You just forget one small detail. There was another person in the room. One you did not finish that night. Instead you let him get away. Was it your ego? Was it the bloodrush that had gotten to your pretty head?" Her voice was cold. Like this was a regular business meeting. "But the past is the past. They could have asked for worse Lara Chambers. And chances are there... that they will. But for now, try to fulfill your duties."
"You sound like my mother. No wait, you really don't."
She almost could picture the half amused face of Shawna in that very moment. In the background she heard the voice of a kid. Her son.] She was almost thankful for that interruption.
"What's done is done. Try to not get killed, yeah? I will have an eye on you."
"Like always."
Both females hung up. She did not expect to hear from her in the near future. But knowing she was there held a strange comfort. In the past she had no problem being fearless. Being reckless even. Everything changed with... him. Her tired eyes falling back on the sleeping creature in their simple bed. Trying to erase every bit of worry that clouded her mind she turned off the lights. Sliding back under the covers. Cuddling close.
"You okay baby?"
"Just had a bad dream. But now I am awake."
And she was. This was no movie. This was no fancy book. No one would write a song about her life. But, this was no scripted drama either. The audience was holding their breath. Waiting for the next chapter of the Chambers Chronicles.
Lady of Chambers
#74
Talking Unleashed / DEADLINE EXTENDED
Last post by Mike - March 14, 2017, 01:12:06 AMThe deadline has been extended one week, to March 26th at 11:59 PM EST.
#75
Talking Unleashed / Staff and Judges List
Last post by Mike - March 09, 2017, 05:13:25 AMThis a list of staff, along with descriptions of duties, as well as judges. This list is currently a work in progress.
STAFF
Lead Storyteller: Mike
Storyteller is a term used in table-top games to denote the game master. As LST, Mike's role is so govern the in-character plots of UNLEASHED. He is the head writer for the game's overarching story and its Non-Player Characters. He also coordinates with players when they wish to use these NPCs or hook into UNLEASHED's plot.
Assistant Storyteller: Lisa
The AST assists the Lead Storyteller and serves as a backup in emergency situations where action is required and the LST is unavailable.
JUDGES
Currently, there are no set judges. We will be filling these roles over the next two weeks. If you are interested in being a judge, please contact me. We consider UNLEASHED to be a co-op fed. We encourage the players to get involved behind the scenes.
STAFF
Lead Storyteller: Mike
Storyteller is a term used in table-top games to denote the game master. As LST, Mike's role is so govern the in-character plots of UNLEASHED. He is the head writer for the game's overarching story and its Non-Player Characters. He also coordinates with players when they wish to use these NPCs or hook into UNLEASHED's plot.
Assistant Storyteller: Lisa
The AST assists the Lead Storyteller and serves as a backup in emergency situations where action is required and the LST is unavailable.
JUDGES
Currently, there are no set judges. We will be filling these roles over the next two weeks. If you are interested in being a judge, please contact me. We consider UNLEASHED to be a co-op fed. We encourage the players to get involved behind the scenes.
#76
Archive / The Chambers Chronicles I.I
Last post by Lara Chambers - March 04, 2017, 05:11:09 AMooc message It has been quite a while since I wrote Lara, so please allow me to get back in the groove. Apologies for eventual grammar hiccups, foreigner and all that blah blah.
The Chambers Chronicles
By Lara Chambers
Obsession. We all felt it before. We all have been consumed and destroyed by it too. Unless you are a dead fish just following the flow. But not LARA CHAMBERS. She was impulsive. Yet on the outside always calm and collected. So used to follow her own rules, no matter the consequences. No matter the looks that people gave her.
You do not fit. You provoke too much. Your tattoos are too offensive.
It was hard to not laugh about such stereotypes. Looking back at her life now, it was colourful. Most people wouldn't have survived the first eighteen years of this ride. Most or maybe all would have given up. Throwing themselves in front of a bus. But even back then giving up was not an option. She had no clue where she was going, yet she was on her way. Pushing forward a story that was not yet written.
You can not learn the mentality of a fighter. You can teach yourself tactics and skills, but never what it feels to wake with this urge. The fire rushing through your veins that kept you from sleeping. You are a born a fighter. Or you will follow for the rest of your life.
She has been sitting out her time. Waiting and lurking in the dark. This was not DEATHCORE. This was not ENGAGE. The Lady of Chambers was going to be UNLEASHED. Cementing her legacy once and for all.
R U S T Y N A I L S
Liverpool, England
October 2007
You don't know anything. You have no idea about how this world works, right? That was something her father used to say. Maybe even his exact words before she left a year ago, it was hard to recall. There were no waves of missing her parents. What was there to miss to begin with? Two people so absorbed with their own lives. Their looks and how much money they could spend on the next shot. One day the last.
Clarice Marie Chambers had gotten pregnant way too early. Living the life of a high class model she should have known better. But there was this guy. He had caught her eye the first time she stepped into his atelier. His name was catching just like his appearance, Matheo. And his weapon was a camera that would catch her every moment. But what started with two young people falling for each other, would end with two junkies fucked up by whatever substances. Lara was a drug baby. Getting born with cold shivers and cramps.
Thanks mother.
She never lacked anything when it came to material stuff. They had been making good money and even though their hobby cost quite some, there always had been enough for Lara. Apart from love. The nanny's tried their best. Lara pretty much grew up to be a lost cause. One of the stranded souls that had no idea of their own worth.
self-esteem
/ˌsɛlfɛˈstiːm/
noun
confidence in one's own worth or abilities; self-respect.
She grew up to be submissive to something or someone. To obey people that showed more dominance than her. Automatically pushing her into that role. And she didn't mind. To a certain a point she welcomed it. Giving up all control and just letting herself go.
Most of their days they spent in his apartment. It was nothing special, yet everything was better than being at home. Seeing them falling around in their high moments, verbally and physically fight when running out of shit. He was not like that.
Or so she thought.
"I seen you look at this dude at the shop."
Lara wouldn't dare to look up hearing the tone of his voice. It held a certain sharpness she was still not used to. His patience so thin that one wrong move would bring out the worst in him. Her hand ran over her still bruised arm, rubbing it softly. A reminder of the other week.
"I am sorry... I thought I knew him... ."
"Maybe one of the guys you used to fuck... you dirty little slut."
She held her breath for a long moment before getting up from the sofa. Moving rather slow when approaching him. Still living up to the idea that softness could calm him down. When looking up she met his eyes. There was nothing gentle in there. Anger. And some sort of madness.
"I never had another... you have been my only. You know that Daniel."
"That is what you tell me. Playing all innocent with me... ."
When she wanted to open her mouth another time she didn't see it coming. He had freed one of his hands, slapping her right across the mouth. Like a wounded animal she wanted to back away, only to be dragged down by him. Getting a handful of her hair, pushing her down to her knees. Feeling the stinging pain her eyes became watery, a scream ready to come out. But it never did.
Don't cry. He hates that.
"You are worth nothing Lara. Nobody gives a damn about you, apart from me. Do you think I have fun doing this to you? Lecturing you again and again. You have brought this upon yourself."
What came next was nothing she wanted to remember. She closed her eyes trying to become numb. While the first few times she tried to fight him, it was pointless. He was way stronger than she believed to be. He would have his way. Beating her. Taking her. And afterwards either apologise or fall asleep. So why stay with him? Love. Or what she believed was love. The naivety of youth.
Darkness.
Hours later she sat up in bed. Sweat was covering her already swollen face, most muscles in her body ached. When her eyes fell to the person laying next to her it was hard to not throw up. Out of disgust and probably because he damaged something on the inside. How easy it would have been to slit his throat in this very moment, but she wouldn't. That wasn't Lara Chambers. You are not ready. The girl sitting in this bed was someone that had no idea of who she one day would be. If she survived. And that was the key to everything. Making it to the next day.
"One day... ."
Her voice was rough and not more than a whisper. Not that he would hear her in that certain state of mind. The brunette girl slipped out of bed walking towards the bathroom. Sometimes it felt worse than it really was. Or at least that was the hope she held till turning on the light. The person staring back at her from the mirror was by no means anyone she knew. Both her eyes swollen. A nasty bruise on her left cheek. And several bruises on her neck. Lifting the small, purple top that was covering her upper body. Over her ribs more bruises were building- making it hard to breath.
"Fucking clever Chambers. Picking yourself a real Prince Charming."
She mocked herself looking at that reflection of a broken person. And suddenly the tears came. Silently but unstoppable. Sliding down next to the door she would try to breath. Letting it all come out at once, even though it made her body hurt just harder. Wrapping her arms around her naked knees Lara sat there. For minutes or hours, she couldn't tell. Looking at what her life was.
What life? Okay. FUCK YOU TOO.
The tears would turn into some sort of a manic laughter. One she tried to swallow down as best as possible. Looking back at this moment- it probably was the turning point. At a young age she had learnt an important lesson. They can own your body. They can break your outside. But never will anyone own my soul.
Ever
Rusty Nails to the skin.
D R Y B L O O D
Las Vegas, Nevada
December 2012
She was running. At least that was the idea when she stepped on this plane. After almost ten years of back and forth he still would stalk after her. Appear at places he had never been seen before. Trying to get under her skin. Running her life like only he could.
Because he knows me.
She had not been leaving the country. Ever. She was fond of the english weather and the people. It was what she called home, till now. Things happen and then you can't turn back. Her birthday had been eventless this year till she found a dead cat on her doorstep. Her cat. Knowing fully well that this was a present from Daniel she was left without a choice. Waving goodbye to a place that had given her so much joy, yet the worst pain she could ever imagine.
It was almost in trance that she had left the plane getting her luggage. Not paying too much attention to the people surrounding her. It was then that a guy approached her, way too fast for her to notice him. His hand rather gently held onto her arm, causing her to stop. Whirling around ready to jump, she looked in a friendly face. He had passed his prime by now, but it was viewable that once upon a time he was a rather handsome fellah.
"Misses Chambers?"
"Miss Chambers." She couldn't help but to correct him. Freeing her arm with one quick move. "And I would be very grateful if you didn't touch me."
He nodded his head and immediately stepped back.
"I am your driver." The man reached forward to take her bag, but she wasn't quite ready to let go. A small sigh escaped him and he pulled his arm back. "Miss Martinez sends me on her behalf. She is expecting you. Said she is interested to meet someone with your reputation."
An uneasy chuckle came from her end while the expression on her face remained careless. Lara would let go off of her luggage as a sign of peace. He took it without further verbal response starting to walk down the long hallway of the airport. She would follow on the foot, putting on her huge sunglasses.
A little diva?! Exactly.
"What you mean with my reputation... I didn't know that I even had one." Okay. That was only half the truth, but she tried to play it cool.
"I am only the driver Miss. But Miss Martinez heard of your helping hand during the London job. Which lead to her approaching you."
The Fuck?! No one knew of this. No one was supposed to know of this either. They had reached the fancy car moments later. He would put her belongings in the trunk before opening the door. Hesitating a moment Lara would slide in, feeling the soft leather against her inked skin. The moment he entered the car himself all doors locked.
Trapped like a little rabbit.
"Where we going?"
"A place called the HOLE. Rather popular in this area." His tone remained neutral, yet she was able to notice a little bit of annoyance. She almost giggled when pushing his buttons.
"Let me guess it is no fancy restaurant where they offer expensive food."
He looked at her from the mirror. This time a smile would spread on his face, making him look at least ten years younger. He was checking his young companion out for a little longer than necessary before focusing on the road again.
"It is quite the exclusive club Miss. Fancy and expensive. And people eat there, in a different way I might add. It is probably the best running strip club in Las Vegas. Owned by a female called Rachel Gray." He made a small pause, chuckling. "I assume you been to such places before."
Why? Because I got huge tits and tattoos?
It was hard to resist the urge to slap him on the back of her head. As a matter of fact she had never been to any establishment like that. Or done illegal shit... well before London. There was no chance to give him a piece of mind as he already parked the car. From afar she could see the Neon lights, the HOLE. Quite the amount of people was located on the outside, trying to pass the bouncers. The driver had opened her door and offered his hand, which she didn't take. Instead she stepped out into the night, feeling the chill air. Without taking her bag he started to walk towards a side door, knocking.
"Why we arriving like thieves in the night?"
"If we were indeed something that small... we would take the backdoor. You may not speak till we meet the boss."
He was not exactly unfriendly but acted like a bossy cunt. Lara would shrug her shoulders when the door opened, a guy twice her size opening. He eyed her up before stepping aside to let them pass. Her eyes only brushed him briefly, hurrying to keep up with her company. What was his name? Has he even mentioned it in the first place? Should she have asked? An inner monologue had started. Something that kept her so occupied that she forgot to observe the hallway. Or the people that crossed their way. It almost was like her senses only returned when they arrived right inside the core of the club. The music loud. The people either high or drunk. And the girls indeed beautiful.
"You will not speak to her unless she approaches you. Understood?"
"What if I do?" Her tone was challenging. So much that he turned around, standing only a few inches away from her.
"For your well being... we rather do not find out."
He pushed open a black curtain and almost shoved her through. Entering this area of the club, the music was less heavy. Her eyes scanned over the people sitting on the black leather sofa's, not paying any attention to her arrival. None of them did, apart from this blonde female. Her serious features showing a perfect poker face. She was dressed in Italian feminine fashion, her legs stretched out under the table. Despite the clothes she wore there was nothing fragile about this woman.
"Lara Chambers."
Her voice had a strange accent. And even though she spoke not louder than anyone else, the rest of the group went silent. The driver, let's call him Gus, led her towards the table before stepping back. Probably happy to get the fuck out of here. The blonde rose from her seat, almost a head taller than Lara herself. With emotionless eyes she looked at the intruder.
"Do you know who I am Lara Chambers."
"Shawna Martinez. That's what Gus said."
SHAWNA MARTINEZ. The MOB princess
Formerly known as Karina Stincino. Godmother of the Italian MOB. Only kid to Giuseppe Stincino who died 2007. Handing over the family business. Controlling areas of Las Vegas, New York, Los Angeles and 70% of Europe. Official job description, Wrestler and Martial Arts Fighter. Married. Mother of one son.
A smirk hushed over Shawna's face when running her fingers through Lara's dark hair. She smelled it for a moment, causing the uneasy feeling to grow. This was like another version of a James Bond movie. Although it was hard to tell on which side they were.
"A little birdy told me what you were doing in London. The little birdy of course can't talk anymore. They let you get away Lara. Or maybe you were just too quick to be caught. Either way someone had to pay. And since you are standing in front of me still breathing, something went wrong." Shawna once again looked at her. Directly in the eyes. "Or is it the opposite? Did everything go right and you are where you are supposed to be? Do you know the answer."
"I don't know what... ."
Shawna wrapped her hand around Lara's neck with a quickness that was unexpected. Reacting out of sheer instinct Lara grabbed the female's arm and twisted it. Causing her opposite to let go. Immediately thirty guns were directed at her, ready to paint the room in a pretty red. But Shawna gave a nonverbal sign, causing them to get back in position.
"So small. Yet, such a feisty grip." Shawna rubbed her arm and moved it several times. This time she really smiled. "They weren't lying. You are quick and fearless. While some people will tell you that you got yourself in a lot of trouble, I will tell you different. I think you are standing in front of the biggest possibility of your life. Sit with me. Listen to what I offer you Lara."
She looked at Shawna who had turned her back on her, walking back to her table. She filled her own glass and a second, pushing it towards Lara. Her heart was racing wildly when she sat down, trying to keep some space between them. She looked at the drink seeing the impatience in the girl's face. Quickly taking it in her hand emptying it. Hearing a dark laughter fill the room, coming from the female that moments ago wanted to squeeze the air out of her body.
Not cool. Not cool at all.
"You have caused me quite some trouble girl. After you seen the things you shouldn't have, they had one job. Erase you. They failed. Instead of becoming food for the worms- you walk right into my town. Looking mighty alive." Shawna emptied her own drink. "Which tells me that there is something more to Lara Chambers. More than the tattoos and the weird hairstyle. A fighter. A survivor. Which leads me to my proposal. One you might consider wiseley."
"What if I decline?"
"What if that is not an option? Before you hurt your pretty little head let me finish. I want you to work for me. I want you to be part of my family. We treat our own good, unless they betray us." Her eyes wandered over the group of men. Only men. "Here and there I will have jobs for you. The payment is extra ordinaire. You will never have to worry again. I will be your mother, father and sister."
Anyone call a doctor. Someone has a mental problem. Or mental problems?
Lara was remaining silent for some time looking at her own hands. They had been resting in her lap, cold sweat covering her palms. Besides her Shawna seemed as relaxed as before, filling their glasses again. When raising her voice, rather quietly, Lara hardly recognised her own voice.
"What kind of jobs are we talking about? Because I can't kill... ."
Another laughter. "I have enough predators of that kind. You my little pet fulfill another purpose. We sometimes correspondent with the elite of the world. And there are times they do not come to us at their own will. So here and there they will need some extra motivation."
The birdy of the MOB. And while her brain was doing a rerun of all the said her mouth had obviously decided to run its own game.
"I am in."
It was the start of a new life. The first page of a new book. No matter how many years would pass between then and now, she would never forget the look on Shawna Martinez face. The satisfaction. But also the wicked smile she would flash. The sharp white teeth that would paint a bizarre picture.
Lara Chambers the victim died that night. Only to be reborn in the palms of Shawna. Becoming a weapon she wasn't aware it existed. Using her body and brain to survive in a world that was drowning in darkness. Little did she know that before the Phoenix would rise she would break her wings. She would reach the bottom many more times. Struggling, Crying. Bleeding.
Cheers mates.
To be Continued...
Lady of Chambers
The Chambers Chronicles
By Lara Chambers
Obsession. We all felt it before. We all have been consumed and destroyed by it too. Unless you are a dead fish just following the flow. But not LARA CHAMBERS. She was impulsive. Yet on the outside always calm and collected. So used to follow her own rules, no matter the consequences. No matter the looks that people gave her.
You do not fit. You provoke too much. Your tattoos are too offensive.
It was hard to not laugh about such stereotypes. Looking back at her life now, it was colourful. Most people wouldn't have survived the first eighteen years of this ride. Most or maybe all would have given up. Throwing themselves in front of a bus. But even back then giving up was not an option. She had no clue where she was going, yet she was on her way. Pushing forward a story that was not yet written.
You can not learn the mentality of a fighter. You can teach yourself tactics and skills, but never what it feels to wake with this urge. The fire rushing through your veins that kept you from sleeping. You are a born a fighter. Or you will follow for the rest of your life.
She has been sitting out her time. Waiting and lurking in the dark. This was not DEATHCORE. This was not ENGAGE. The Lady of Chambers was going to be UNLEASHED. Cementing her legacy once and for all.
R U S T Y N A I L S
Liverpool, England
October 2007
You don't know anything. You have no idea about how this world works, right? That was something her father used to say. Maybe even his exact words before she left a year ago, it was hard to recall. There were no waves of missing her parents. What was there to miss to begin with? Two people so absorbed with their own lives. Their looks and how much money they could spend on the next shot. One day the last.
Clarice Marie Chambers had gotten pregnant way too early. Living the life of a high class model she should have known better. But there was this guy. He had caught her eye the first time she stepped into his atelier. His name was catching just like his appearance, Matheo. And his weapon was a camera that would catch her every moment. But what started with two young people falling for each other, would end with two junkies fucked up by whatever substances. Lara was a drug baby. Getting born with cold shivers and cramps.
Thanks mother.
She never lacked anything when it came to material stuff. They had been making good money and even though their hobby cost quite some, there always had been enough for Lara. Apart from love. The nanny's tried their best. Lara pretty much grew up to be a lost cause. One of the stranded souls that had no idea of their own worth.
self-esteem
/ˌsɛlfɛˈstiːm/
noun
confidence in one's own worth or abilities; self-respect.
She grew up to be submissive to something or someone. To obey people that showed more dominance than her. Automatically pushing her into that role. And she didn't mind. To a certain a point she welcomed it. Giving up all control and just letting herself go.
Most of their days they spent in his apartment. It was nothing special, yet everything was better than being at home. Seeing them falling around in their high moments, verbally and physically fight when running out of shit. He was not like that.
Or so she thought.
"I seen you look at this dude at the shop."
Lara wouldn't dare to look up hearing the tone of his voice. It held a certain sharpness she was still not used to. His patience so thin that one wrong move would bring out the worst in him. Her hand ran over her still bruised arm, rubbing it softly. A reminder of the other week.
"I am sorry... I thought I knew him... ."
"Maybe one of the guys you used to fuck... you dirty little slut."
She held her breath for a long moment before getting up from the sofa. Moving rather slow when approaching him. Still living up to the idea that softness could calm him down. When looking up she met his eyes. There was nothing gentle in there. Anger. And some sort of madness.
"I never had another... you have been my only. You know that Daniel."
"That is what you tell me. Playing all innocent with me... ."
When she wanted to open her mouth another time she didn't see it coming. He had freed one of his hands, slapping her right across the mouth. Like a wounded animal she wanted to back away, only to be dragged down by him. Getting a handful of her hair, pushing her down to her knees. Feeling the stinging pain her eyes became watery, a scream ready to come out. But it never did.
Don't cry. He hates that.
"You are worth nothing Lara. Nobody gives a damn about you, apart from me. Do you think I have fun doing this to you? Lecturing you again and again. You have brought this upon yourself."
What came next was nothing she wanted to remember. She closed her eyes trying to become numb. While the first few times she tried to fight him, it was pointless. He was way stronger than she believed to be. He would have his way. Beating her. Taking her. And afterwards either apologise or fall asleep. So why stay with him? Love. Or what she believed was love. The naivety of youth.
Darkness.
Hours later she sat up in bed. Sweat was covering her already swollen face, most muscles in her body ached. When her eyes fell to the person laying next to her it was hard to not throw up. Out of disgust and probably because he damaged something on the inside. How easy it would have been to slit his throat in this very moment, but she wouldn't. That wasn't Lara Chambers. You are not ready. The girl sitting in this bed was someone that had no idea of who she one day would be. If she survived. And that was the key to everything. Making it to the next day.
"One day... ."
Her voice was rough and not more than a whisper. Not that he would hear her in that certain state of mind. The brunette girl slipped out of bed walking towards the bathroom. Sometimes it felt worse than it really was. Or at least that was the hope she held till turning on the light. The person staring back at her from the mirror was by no means anyone she knew. Both her eyes swollen. A nasty bruise on her left cheek. And several bruises on her neck. Lifting the small, purple top that was covering her upper body. Over her ribs more bruises were building- making it hard to breath.
"Fucking clever Chambers. Picking yourself a real Prince Charming."
She mocked herself looking at that reflection of a broken person. And suddenly the tears came. Silently but unstoppable. Sliding down next to the door she would try to breath. Letting it all come out at once, even though it made her body hurt just harder. Wrapping her arms around her naked knees Lara sat there. For minutes or hours, she couldn't tell. Looking at what her life was.
What life? Okay. FUCK YOU TOO.
The tears would turn into some sort of a manic laughter. One she tried to swallow down as best as possible. Looking back at this moment- it probably was the turning point. At a young age she had learnt an important lesson. They can own your body. They can break your outside. But never will anyone own my soul.
Ever
Rusty Nails to the skin.
D R Y B L O O D
Las Vegas, Nevada
December 2012
She was running. At least that was the idea when she stepped on this plane. After almost ten years of back and forth he still would stalk after her. Appear at places he had never been seen before. Trying to get under her skin. Running her life like only he could.
Because he knows me.
She had not been leaving the country. Ever. She was fond of the english weather and the people. It was what she called home, till now. Things happen and then you can't turn back. Her birthday had been eventless this year till she found a dead cat on her doorstep. Her cat. Knowing fully well that this was a present from Daniel she was left without a choice. Waving goodbye to a place that had given her so much joy, yet the worst pain she could ever imagine.
It was almost in trance that she had left the plane getting her luggage. Not paying too much attention to the people surrounding her. It was then that a guy approached her, way too fast for her to notice him. His hand rather gently held onto her arm, causing her to stop. Whirling around ready to jump, she looked in a friendly face. He had passed his prime by now, but it was viewable that once upon a time he was a rather handsome fellah.
"Misses Chambers?"
"Miss Chambers." She couldn't help but to correct him. Freeing her arm with one quick move. "And I would be very grateful if you didn't touch me."
He nodded his head and immediately stepped back.
"I am your driver." The man reached forward to take her bag, but she wasn't quite ready to let go. A small sigh escaped him and he pulled his arm back. "Miss Martinez sends me on her behalf. She is expecting you. Said she is interested to meet someone with your reputation."
An uneasy chuckle came from her end while the expression on her face remained careless. Lara would let go off of her luggage as a sign of peace. He took it without further verbal response starting to walk down the long hallway of the airport. She would follow on the foot, putting on her huge sunglasses.
A little diva?! Exactly.
"What you mean with my reputation... I didn't know that I even had one." Okay. That was only half the truth, but she tried to play it cool.
"I am only the driver Miss. But Miss Martinez heard of your helping hand during the London job. Which lead to her approaching you."
The Fuck?! No one knew of this. No one was supposed to know of this either. They had reached the fancy car moments later. He would put her belongings in the trunk before opening the door. Hesitating a moment Lara would slide in, feeling the soft leather against her inked skin. The moment he entered the car himself all doors locked.
Trapped like a little rabbit.
"Where we going?"
"A place called the HOLE. Rather popular in this area." His tone remained neutral, yet she was able to notice a little bit of annoyance. She almost giggled when pushing his buttons.
"Let me guess it is no fancy restaurant where they offer expensive food."
He looked at her from the mirror. This time a smile would spread on his face, making him look at least ten years younger. He was checking his young companion out for a little longer than necessary before focusing on the road again.
"It is quite the exclusive club Miss. Fancy and expensive. And people eat there, in a different way I might add. It is probably the best running strip club in Las Vegas. Owned by a female called Rachel Gray." He made a small pause, chuckling. "I assume you been to such places before."
Why? Because I got huge tits and tattoos?
It was hard to resist the urge to slap him on the back of her head. As a matter of fact she had never been to any establishment like that. Or done illegal shit... well before London. There was no chance to give him a piece of mind as he already parked the car. From afar she could see the Neon lights, the HOLE. Quite the amount of people was located on the outside, trying to pass the bouncers. The driver had opened her door and offered his hand, which she didn't take. Instead she stepped out into the night, feeling the chill air. Without taking her bag he started to walk towards a side door, knocking.
"Why we arriving like thieves in the night?"
"If we were indeed something that small... we would take the backdoor. You may not speak till we meet the boss."
He was not exactly unfriendly but acted like a bossy cunt. Lara would shrug her shoulders when the door opened, a guy twice her size opening. He eyed her up before stepping aside to let them pass. Her eyes only brushed him briefly, hurrying to keep up with her company. What was his name? Has he even mentioned it in the first place? Should she have asked? An inner monologue had started. Something that kept her so occupied that she forgot to observe the hallway. Or the people that crossed their way. It almost was like her senses only returned when they arrived right inside the core of the club. The music loud. The people either high or drunk. And the girls indeed beautiful.
"You will not speak to her unless she approaches you. Understood?"
"What if I do?" Her tone was challenging. So much that he turned around, standing only a few inches away from her.
"For your well being... we rather do not find out."
He pushed open a black curtain and almost shoved her through. Entering this area of the club, the music was less heavy. Her eyes scanned over the people sitting on the black leather sofa's, not paying any attention to her arrival. None of them did, apart from this blonde female. Her serious features showing a perfect poker face. She was dressed in Italian feminine fashion, her legs stretched out under the table. Despite the clothes she wore there was nothing fragile about this woman.
"Lara Chambers."
Her voice had a strange accent. And even though she spoke not louder than anyone else, the rest of the group went silent. The driver, let's call him Gus, led her towards the table before stepping back. Probably happy to get the fuck out of here. The blonde rose from her seat, almost a head taller than Lara herself. With emotionless eyes she looked at the intruder.
"Do you know who I am Lara Chambers."
"Shawna Martinez. That's what Gus said."
SHAWNA MARTINEZ. The MOB princess
Formerly known as Karina Stincino. Godmother of the Italian MOB. Only kid to Giuseppe Stincino who died 2007. Handing over the family business. Controlling areas of Las Vegas, New York, Los Angeles and 70% of Europe. Official job description, Wrestler and Martial Arts Fighter. Married. Mother of one son.
A smirk hushed over Shawna's face when running her fingers through Lara's dark hair. She smelled it for a moment, causing the uneasy feeling to grow. This was like another version of a James Bond movie. Although it was hard to tell on which side they were.
"A little birdy told me what you were doing in London. The little birdy of course can't talk anymore. They let you get away Lara. Or maybe you were just too quick to be caught. Either way someone had to pay. And since you are standing in front of me still breathing, something went wrong." Shawna once again looked at her. Directly in the eyes. "Or is it the opposite? Did everything go right and you are where you are supposed to be? Do you know the answer."
"I don't know what... ."
Shawna wrapped her hand around Lara's neck with a quickness that was unexpected. Reacting out of sheer instinct Lara grabbed the female's arm and twisted it. Causing her opposite to let go. Immediately thirty guns were directed at her, ready to paint the room in a pretty red. But Shawna gave a nonverbal sign, causing them to get back in position.
"So small. Yet, such a feisty grip." Shawna rubbed her arm and moved it several times. This time she really smiled. "They weren't lying. You are quick and fearless. While some people will tell you that you got yourself in a lot of trouble, I will tell you different. I think you are standing in front of the biggest possibility of your life. Sit with me. Listen to what I offer you Lara."
She looked at Shawna who had turned her back on her, walking back to her table. She filled her own glass and a second, pushing it towards Lara. Her heart was racing wildly when she sat down, trying to keep some space between them. She looked at the drink seeing the impatience in the girl's face. Quickly taking it in her hand emptying it. Hearing a dark laughter fill the room, coming from the female that moments ago wanted to squeeze the air out of her body.
Not cool. Not cool at all.
"You have caused me quite some trouble girl. After you seen the things you shouldn't have, they had one job. Erase you. They failed. Instead of becoming food for the worms- you walk right into my town. Looking mighty alive." Shawna emptied her own drink. "Which tells me that there is something more to Lara Chambers. More than the tattoos and the weird hairstyle. A fighter. A survivor. Which leads me to my proposal. One you might consider wiseley."
"What if I decline?"
"What if that is not an option? Before you hurt your pretty little head let me finish. I want you to work for me. I want you to be part of my family. We treat our own good, unless they betray us." Her eyes wandered over the group of men. Only men. "Here and there I will have jobs for you. The payment is extra ordinaire. You will never have to worry again. I will be your mother, father and sister."
Anyone call a doctor. Someone has a mental problem. Or mental problems?
Lara was remaining silent for some time looking at her own hands. They had been resting in her lap, cold sweat covering her palms. Besides her Shawna seemed as relaxed as before, filling their glasses again. When raising her voice, rather quietly, Lara hardly recognised her own voice.
"What kind of jobs are we talking about? Because I can't kill... ."
Another laughter. "I have enough predators of that kind. You my little pet fulfill another purpose. We sometimes correspondent with the elite of the world. And there are times they do not come to us at their own will. So here and there they will need some extra motivation."
The birdy of the MOB. And while her brain was doing a rerun of all the said her mouth had obviously decided to run its own game.
"I am in."
It was the start of a new life. The first page of a new book. No matter how many years would pass between then and now, she would never forget the look on Shawna Martinez face. The satisfaction. But also the wicked smile she would flash. The sharp white teeth that would paint a bizarre picture.
Lara Chambers the victim died that night. Only to be reborn in the palms of Shawna. Becoming a weapon she wasn't aware it existed. Using her body and brain to survive in a world that was drowning in darkness. Little did she know that before the Phoenix would rise she would break her wings. She would reach the bottom many more times. Struggling, Crying. Bleeding.
Cheers mates.
To be Continued...
Lady of Chambers
#77
Archive / II — The Shadow Below
Last post by spiral - March 02, 2017, 05:55:25 PM[div class="spiral-wrapper"]
[div class="spiral-topper"][/div]
[div class="spiral-content"]
[div class="spiral-content-inner"]
[div class="spiral-headline"]II[/div]
[div class="spiral-subheadline"]THE SHADOW BELOW[/div]
[div class="spiral-quote"]What would an ocean be without a
monster lurking in the dark? It would
be like sleep without dreams.[/div]
[span class="spiral-quote-author"]— Werner Herzog[/span]
A HIGH-PITCHED SCREAM BREAKS ACROSS JACKSON SQUARE. It cuts through the music and revelry of the French Quarter to alert everyone within ear-shot of Ivan—blinded, disfigured, and wailing with his broken arm flinging around. He falls to the feet of the shrieking woman, mortified by the sight of him. She puts both hands over her mouth and turns away as a man comes hurrying to offer help. He shouts at the growing number of onlookers for an ambulance.
Not far away, I watch from my balcony. My Darkself has once again retreated to the depths and I have donned my human suit once more, along with a black Henley and jeans by Robert Graham. The rest of my belongings, what little I have, are packed in a suitcase waiting at the front door of my apartment, along with Ivan's kill bag. I do ache to hear what story he is weaving for these good Samaritans, but I simply am too far away, and so I turn my attention to the more pressing matter.
I take Ivan's phone from my pocket and hit redial. It picks up on the first ring.
An eager voice says in Russian, "About time. Is it done?"
I say, "Hello, Mr. Petrov. Your man failed."
Silence stretches for several seconds before he replies, now in English, "You should have stayed in that hospital Mr. Spiral. You were safe there, under lock and key, far away from the dangers that await you."
"I could live with the unnecessary medications that kept me in a constant fog, as well as the electro-shock therapy that reduced my memories into a sizzling knot—I could even accept the years of solitary confinement, locked away with just my thoughts to keep me company. But when they got rid of Taco Tuesday, that was it. I refuse to live in a dictatorship."
"Making jokes," he says. "I wonder, when you are suffering more than any man has ever suffered, when I am standing over you, watching the final moments of your life slip away, will you still be making jokes?"
"If I ever find myself in that regrettable situation, Mr. Petrov, then the joke's on me."
"You are a foolish man. Giving the politsiya my name is not a violation that will ever be forgiven. I made the mistake of sending one man to give you a much more pleasant end than you deserve. That is a gamble I will not take again."
Sirens cry in the distance, and quickly grow louder.
"Can you hear that, Mr. Petrov? That is the sound of angels coming to breathe new life into your hitman."
"You didn't kill him?"
"Oh, no," I say as the first emergency vehicles arrive, filling the square with flashing lights. "I promised to let him go if he spilled all his secrets. He did, and I am a man of my word. Now I wonder what secrets will he sing to the police? What happens when federal agents find out an undocumented assassin from Russia is cuffed to a bed in a New Orleans hospital?"
His voice goes quiet. It's hard to hear, but he's barking orders at someone in Russian. I can't quite make it out because of a fire engine screaming down the street to the square. I leave the balcony, stepping inside and closing the glass door behind me.
"Do yourself a favor," he says, now talking to me. "Turn yourself over to me tonight, and I will give you an honorable death. I won't cut out your tongue. I won't pull all your teeth and cut off your fingers and toes. I won't—"
"—I'm getting bored, darling. Let us skip to the part where I tell you to fuck off."
"Fine, Mr. Spiral. Run, but it is futile. No matter where you hide, I will find you. I will hunt you to the ends of this earth. I will have my satisfaction."
I let loose a haughty laugh in the kitchen, so raucous that I have to lean with a hand against the refrigerator. "Satisfaction, he says! What satisfaction do you expect, Mr. Petrov? Do you truly believe that this will end well for you? I've been lost in a black hole of manic confusion. Now I am free, free, free! And you have given me a great gift: purpose. I truly was not sure what to do with myself until your man gave me your name. Now, I have purpose. I have you. So fret not, precious. You will not have to search for me. I will find you. I will come for you in the dark of night, when you feel the safest."
He says, "You are a crazy man. You can't actually believe—"
The rest of his words drown under the current of my vast contempt. Crazy, that's what they all say. The word makes the skin crawl and ripple over my true self. Somewhere, in the depths, I can feel the Entity reach out. It shoves me forward, urges me to crack. I comply.
Louder and louder, I growl into the phone. "One-two-three, come a series of knocks, knocks, knocks... You aren't safe behind those locks, locks, locks... I will show my true face, it said, said, said... And when you see it, you'll be dead, dead, dead!"
I fling the phone through the air into a wall, shattering it into angular pieces that scatter about the floor. The stainless steel refrigerator reflects my face back at me. It is warped, elongated, and distorted by the metal surface. My lips are contorted and stretched beyond the usual limits of a human face, spreading ever so wildly until I am little more than grinning teeth. Somewhere deep, in the dark passages of my mind, a very Spiral-like voice whispers in my ear:
[span class="spiral-shadow-speech"]Men like him do not know how to be scared. We will have to show him what fear is.[/span]
I will show him, I whisper back.
I shift gears from Petrov to the apartment and the mountain of evidence within. See: the bullet holes in the wall and ceiling. See: the pool of blood where I split Ivan's head open. See: the smeared red trail leading to the chair where I tortured him.
Even if Ivan doesn't speak my name to the police, eventually someone will come calling and discover this horrid scene. Yet there is too much evidence and too little time to clean this mess. I must improvise, and fast. Thinking, frantically thinking, until a beautiful idea comes to me. A revelation.
That voices muses, [span class="spiral-shadow-speech"]You're a fucking artist, my love.[/span]
I hurry-hurry through the house, down the marble-tiled hallway and through the foyer. Both the bags are hoisted from the ground and I burst out the door, letting it slam shut behind me. I put a shoulder into the stairwell door and make my way down, the rapid clicks of my shoes echoing down the shaft. I get all the way to the ground floor and step out into the lobby. The nightwatchman is still gone, and no one else is in sight, but I slow my gait nonetheless, turning a run into a brisk walk.
Both bags are left outside a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. I push through it and head into the break room. It's small, with just a single table in the middle and a counter with various appliances, including a microwave and a stove. To the left, behind a steel security door is the camera room. Ivan said he disabled the cameras and erased the drive to cover his tracks. Even if he didn't, there won't be anything left to find.
I pull the stove out from the wall, far enough till I can reach a hand behind it. My fingers curl about the gas line and, with a yank, it comes free. The methane hisses from the hose and the rotten-egg smell of hydrogen sulfide quickly begins to fill the room.
I pull Ivan's gun from the back of my jeans, wipe it off with the sleeve of my shirt, and then toss it into the microwave. I set the timer to thirty minutes and hit start. Uncertain how long it will take for the gas to build up, I run out of the break room, grabbing both my bags mid stride, and dart across the lobby.
I burst out the door and onto the street. A quick glance is thrown right, and then I head left, walking with purpose, up St. Peter towards Decatur. As I near Jackson Square, I count four squad cars, an ambulance, and a firetruck. A cacophony of red and blue lights paints the block and everything on it, including me as I near the intersection.
Cars slow to a crawl as the drivers gawk, trying for a glimpse of the man being wheeled by EMTs into the ambulance. I wait until the light changes, and then follow the white line across the street and onto the square. I avoid the cordoned off scene and continue northwest, toward the Cabildo museum.
Three blocks away, people are hurrying to get their phones out, to aim their lit-up screens behind me. One man says My, God under his breath. I look back to see the ground floor of the Jackson Brewery building spewing black smoke out the front door, intertwined with a pulsing light of red and orange that grows brighter and brighter, until boom! The explosion, loud as a canon and violent, rocks the French Quarter. The building erupts, blowing pieces of the brick exterior in every direction. Hellfire spits out from the gouged out hole and begins to eat away at the rest of the building.
Chaos overtakes the minds of the people around me, turning them savage. They begin running, every which way, tripping over one another. Most scurry for safety, but a few scramble toward the inferno, phones jutted out front to record every moment of the burning building.
A dozen people spill out of the Jackson Bistro on the corner of the engulfed building. Choking and crying, they stumble half-blind from the smoke out into the street into the waiting arms of police and firemen rushing over from the square. The fire engine wheels around to the front of the building and begins spraying the blaze with water, but it's too late. The fire has spread like cancer from the ground up, turning the entire building into one massive funeral pyre for all those trapped inside, roasting and suffocating.
With sirens fast approaching from all directions, I continue heading northwest on St. Peter. I stroll up to a twenty-something man hurrying into his black sedan parked on the street with keys in hand. "Young man, I wonder if I could trouble you for a ride," I say with a regretful smile. He shrugs me off, saying "Call an Uber," while climbing into the front seat.
I grab the door and keep it from shutting. "I only need to go ten blocks," I tell him, while flashing a hundred dollar bill from my wallet. "Ten blocks to the Ritz-Carlton. I'll give you a hundred now, and then another hundred when we get there if you don't dottle."
"Two hundred bucks to take you to the Ritz-Carlton. That's all you want?"
I let go of the door, one hand open, the other holding out the money. "That's all I want."
He snatches the bill from my hand and motions to the other seat. "Get in. I'll pop the trunk for your bags. Just hurry. I want to get out of here just as bad as you."
I throw both bags in the trunk, shut it, and climb into the passenger side. I say, "You're a lifesaver," as he starts the engine. A loud blast of hip hop music rocks the speakers. He quickly hits the knob, turning it down to just an annoying thump in the background, then lurches the sedan out of the line of parked cars and races down the street. In the mirror, I see police cruisers blocking off the street, and officers rounding up witnesses for questioning.
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After arriving at the Ritz-Carlton, I register a room for the night under a false name, just to be safe, and have my bags sent up to the room while I head for the Davenport Lounge on the third floor. All the TVs at the bar are tuned to local news, with live video of the fire. I take a seat on a stool and raise a hand to get the bartender's attention. She says, "Can you believe this?" I shrug while taking my wallet out and say, "This day and age, I can believe anything." I look past her, to the bottles along the top shelf, tucked away and out of reach of most customers. "I see a Macallan up there. I'll have a double, neat."
She turns her head, then back at me. "You know that's fifty dollars a glass, right?"
"A double, neat," I repeat myself, adding, "and charge it to room 237." She gets the bottle down and pours me four-fingers of scotch in an Old Fashioned glass and collects the card. I swirling the brown liquid around the tumbler for a moment before taking a sip.
When I set the glass down, a gentleman has taken a seat directly next to me, at a bar full of empty stools. He is tall and in good shape, with long black hair and a beard. He is wearing a leather jacket, zipped half-way up, with a white t-shirt underneath. His hands are covered in faded tattoos of ravens swooping down from underneath his sleeves, and ornate rings and Cyrillic lettering that cover his fingers.
Another Russian. I must have been followed, but Ivan told me he was alone, and Petrov confirmed it. With a quick look around, I count fifteen others in the bar—too many eyewitnesses to kill me here. So why show himself?
"I'll have some of that fifty-dollar-a-glass shit," the man next to me says, thumbing at my drink. An accent laces his English, but he speaks it well, much better than Ivan. The woman looks from him to me. I give her a might-as-well motion of my hand and she gets the bottle down to pour another glass of the single malt scotch.
He doesn't savor it. Instead, he knocks the entire thing back, swallowing it in one long gulp, then wipes his bearded chin with the sleeve of his coat. He sets the glass down and says, "I never had scotch before."
"And you still haven't," I say before taking another sip. He gives a hoarse laugh, eases himself on the stool until he's looking at me, leaning his right elbow on the bar. He says, "Good liquor is wasted on Russians. We drink what is cheap. We prefer to have to bend over to fetch our bottles, not stand on step stools."
I take another sip, then set my glass down. "I am surprised that you found me so quickly."
"I found you three days ago," he says, "when they let you out of the hospital. I've been following you ever since. Keeping an eye on you, waiting to see what happens when Petrov's man catches up with you."
I look over at him. He's giving me a smart-ass smile. I say, "You aren't with Petrov?" He says, "No, I work for someone else—someone who has an offer for you." I take another drink of scotch and say, "No thanks. I have enough Russians in my life."
He says a single name, and it drops like a hammer.
"Viktor Ivanski."
The German, that's what most called him. He was rumored to be the financial backer for the Circuit, but I never had the pleasure of meeting the man. When I fought for the Circuit, Petrov was running the operation, and that's mostly who I dealt with. Most of the fighters didn't even know Ivanski existed. I do because INTERPOL told me.
"You know the name," he says. I nod yes. He says, "Good. That will make this much easier." He catches the bartender's attention and asks for a straight vodka with some ice. He waits for her to pour the liquor, then pays out of his own pocket.
He waits for her attention to turn back to the TVs. "I know that you were arrested by INTERPOL and the FSB in 2010. I know that they offered you a deal, and you took it. You gave them information that led to the capture of Tibor Petrov, and in return, you escaped a life sentence in a Siberian work camp. You were sent back to America and thrown back into that hospital."
He knocks back the vodka and says, "I know this, because Mr. Ivanski knows this."
A cold feeling coils around me. I say, "This is where you tell me what you want."
"Simple," he says. "Tibor Petrov was a liability. In a way, you did us a favor by knocking his chess piece off the board, but unfortunately for you, he was still a vor at that point. You committed a grave offense by talking to the police."
"I have already heard this from Petrov."
"Petrov is no longer a member of the v vory zakone. If he led you to believe otherwise, he is full of shit. That man he sent after you, the one who was stumbling around with his eyes torn out, was just a second-rate thug. If Ivanski wanted you dead, he would have sent someone with skill."
"Like you," I say.
He shrugs. "Me, sure. And five other guys, with another five guys waiting if we need backup. The point is, Ivanski doesn't want you dead, because he has a use for you. He wants you to come back to Russia, to fight for him like before."
My shadow that lurks below rises up from the depths from the faraway place with a very Spiral-like cackle. It resonates in my ear like an impish coo, whispering to me, [span class="spiral-shadow-speech"]We are going to have so much fun[/span]. The thought of breaking bones again, on a stage, under the lights, surrounded by people with blood-lust in their eyes makes me feel like a live wire. It runs through me like an electrical charge. I can feel the hair standing up on my arms, and the chill runs up and down my back. I can hardly contain the frenzy, so I take a moment to swallow the last mouthful of scotch.
I say, "The Circuit—it's back?"
"No," he says. "Not quite. This time, it's legal. Well, legal in Russia. Not that that means much, yes?" He reaches into his jacket to fetch a pen. On a bar napkin, he jots down a phone number, with the Russian dialing code at the beginning. A single finger then slides it over to me. He says, "Dial this number. A man name Wade Crewe will answer. He is expecting your call. Come fight, and Mr. Ivanski will forget about your transgression all those years ago."
I take the napkin and say, "There is one problem—"
"—Tibor Petrov," he says while motioning to the bartender for another vodka. "The man is a rabid dog that must be put down. He has been successfully hiding from us for years, but his obsession with you made him stupid. When word spread that you were getting released, he resurfaced, and began arranging your murder. You do not have to worry about him. We will take care of him."
My knuckles rap on the bar one-two-three, one-two-three. The thought of someone else stealing Petrov from me made my stomach turn in knots. My head shakes a quick no. "That will not do. Not at all. He belongs to me, understand? I will take care of him. Me, and no one else. You just point me in the right direction."
"Very well," he says with a wry smile, as if he expected that answer all along. "We will find him for you, and then you can clean up your mess." He throws back the vodka and then tosses a ten dollar bill on the bar. He stands up from the stool. "What is it the Americans say... See you on the flip side, yes? Thank you again for the drink. It was good, but I'll stick to cheap wodka."
"It was nothing," I say. My head follows him as he steps away from the bar, turning on the stool to watch him leave. I say, "I didn't get your name." He stops, looks back at me over a shoulder, and says, "I'm the Blackbird."
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[div class="spiral-headline"]II[/div]
[div class="spiral-subheadline"]THE SHADOW BELOW[/div]
[div class="spiral-quote"]What would an ocean be without a
monster lurking in the dark? It would
be like sleep without dreams.[/div]
[span class="spiral-quote-author"]— Werner Herzog[/span]
A HIGH-PITCHED SCREAM BREAKS ACROSS JACKSON SQUARE. It cuts through the music and revelry of the French Quarter to alert everyone within ear-shot of Ivan—blinded, disfigured, and wailing with his broken arm flinging around. He falls to the feet of the shrieking woman, mortified by the sight of him. She puts both hands over her mouth and turns away as a man comes hurrying to offer help. He shouts at the growing number of onlookers for an ambulance.
Not far away, I watch from my balcony. My Darkself has once again retreated to the depths and I have donned my human suit once more, along with a black Henley and jeans by Robert Graham. The rest of my belongings, what little I have, are packed in a suitcase waiting at the front door of my apartment, along with Ivan's kill bag. I do ache to hear what story he is weaving for these good Samaritans, but I simply am too far away, and so I turn my attention to the more pressing matter.
I take Ivan's phone from my pocket and hit redial. It picks up on the first ring.
An eager voice says in Russian, "About time. Is it done?"
I say, "Hello, Mr. Petrov. Your man failed."
Silence stretches for several seconds before he replies, now in English, "You should have stayed in that hospital Mr. Spiral. You were safe there, under lock and key, far away from the dangers that await you."
"I could live with the unnecessary medications that kept me in a constant fog, as well as the electro-shock therapy that reduced my memories into a sizzling knot—I could even accept the years of solitary confinement, locked away with just my thoughts to keep me company. But when they got rid of Taco Tuesday, that was it. I refuse to live in a dictatorship."
"Making jokes," he says. "I wonder, when you are suffering more than any man has ever suffered, when I am standing over you, watching the final moments of your life slip away, will you still be making jokes?"
"If I ever find myself in that regrettable situation, Mr. Petrov, then the joke's on me."
"You are a foolish man. Giving the politsiya my name is not a violation that will ever be forgiven. I made the mistake of sending one man to give you a much more pleasant end than you deserve. That is a gamble I will not take again."
Sirens cry in the distance, and quickly grow louder.
"Can you hear that, Mr. Petrov? That is the sound of angels coming to breathe new life into your hitman."
"You didn't kill him?"
"Oh, no," I say as the first emergency vehicles arrive, filling the square with flashing lights. "I promised to let him go if he spilled all his secrets. He did, and I am a man of my word. Now I wonder what secrets will he sing to the police? What happens when federal agents find out an undocumented assassin from Russia is cuffed to a bed in a New Orleans hospital?"
His voice goes quiet. It's hard to hear, but he's barking orders at someone in Russian. I can't quite make it out because of a fire engine screaming down the street to the square. I leave the balcony, stepping inside and closing the glass door behind me.
"Do yourself a favor," he says, now talking to me. "Turn yourself over to me tonight, and I will give you an honorable death. I won't cut out your tongue. I won't pull all your teeth and cut off your fingers and toes. I won't—"
"—I'm getting bored, darling. Let us skip to the part where I tell you to fuck off."
"Fine, Mr. Spiral. Run, but it is futile. No matter where you hide, I will find you. I will hunt you to the ends of this earth. I will have my satisfaction."
I let loose a haughty laugh in the kitchen, so raucous that I have to lean with a hand against the refrigerator. "Satisfaction, he says! What satisfaction do you expect, Mr. Petrov? Do you truly believe that this will end well for you? I've been lost in a black hole of manic confusion. Now I am free, free, free! And you have given me a great gift: purpose. I truly was not sure what to do with myself until your man gave me your name. Now, I have purpose. I have you. So fret not, precious. You will not have to search for me. I will find you. I will come for you in the dark of night, when you feel the safest."
He says, "You are a crazy man. You can't actually believe—"
The rest of his words drown under the current of my vast contempt. Crazy, that's what they all say. The word makes the skin crawl and ripple over my true self. Somewhere, in the depths, I can feel the Entity reach out. It shoves me forward, urges me to crack. I comply.
Louder and louder, I growl into the phone. "One-two-three, come a series of knocks, knocks, knocks... You aren't safe behind those locks, locks, locks... I will show my true face, it said, said, said... And when you see it, you'll be dead, dead, dead!"
I fling the phone through the air into a wall, shattering it into angular pieces that scatter about the floor. The stainless steel refrigerator reflects my face back at me. It is warped, elongated, and distorted by the metal surface. My lips are contorted and stretched beyond the usual limits of a human face, spreading ever so wildly until I am little more than grinning teeth. Somewhere deep, in the dark passages of my mind, a very Spiral-like voice whispers in my ear:
[span class="spiral-shadow-speech"]Men like him do not know how to be scared. We will have to show him what fear is.[/span]
I will show him, I whisper back.
I shift gears from Petrov to the apartment and the mountain of evidence within. See: the bullet holes in the wall and ceiling. See: the pool of blood where I split Ivan's head open. See: the smeared red trail leading to the chair where I tortured him.
Even if Ivan doesn't speak my name to the police, eventually someone will come calling and discover this horrid scene. Yet there is too much evidence and too little time to clean this mess. I must improvise, and fast. Thinking, frantically thinking, until a beautiful idea comes to me. A revelation.
That voices muses, [span class="spiral-shadow-speech"]You're a fucking artist, my love.[/span]
I hurry-hurry through the house, down the marble-tiled hallway and through the foyer. Both the bags are hoisted from the ground and I burst out the door, letting it slam shut behind me. I put a shoulder into the stairwell door and make my way down, the rapid clicks of my shoes echoing down the shaft. I get all the way to the ground floor and step out into the lobby. The nightwatchman is still gone, and no one else is in sight, but I slow my gait nonetheless, turning a run into a brisk walk.
Both bags are left outside a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. I push through it and head into the break room. It's small, with just a single table in the middle and a counter with various appliances, including a microwave and a stove. To the left, behind a steel security door is the camera room. Ivan said he disabled the cameras and erased the drive to cover his tracks. Even if he didn't, there won't be anything left to find.
I pull the stove out from the wall, far enough till I can reach a hand behind it. My fingers curl about the gas line and, with a yank, it comes free. The methane hisses from the hose and the rotten-egg smell of hydrogen sulfide quickly begins to fill the room.
I pull Ivan's gun from the back of my jeans, wipe it off with the sleeve of my shirt, and then toss it into the microwave. I set the timer to thirty minutes and hit start. Uncertain how long it will take for the gas to build up, I run out of the break room, grabbing both my bags mid stride, and dart across the lobby.
I burst out the door and onto the street. A quick glance is thrown right, and then I head left, walking with purpose, up St. Peter towards Decatur. As I near Jackson Square, I count four squad cars, an ambulance, and a firetruck. A cacophony of red and blue lights paints the block and everything on it, including me as I near the intersection.
Cars slow to a crawl as the drivers gawk, trying for a glimpse of the man being wheeled by EMTs into the ambulance. I wait until the light changes, and then follow the white line across the street and onto the square. I avoid the cordoned off scene and continue northwest, toward the Cabildo museum.
Three blocks away, people are hurrying to get their phones out, to aim their lit-up screens behind me. One man says My, God under his breath. I look back to see the ground floor of the Jackson Brewery building spewing black smoke out the front door, intertwined with a pulsing light of red and orange that grows brighter and brighter, until boom! The explosion, loud as a canon and violent, rocks the French Quarter. The building erupts, blowing pieces of the brick exterior in every direction. Hellfire spits out from the gouged out hole and begins to eat away at the rest of the building.
Chaos overtakes the minds of the people around me, turning them savage. They begin running, every which way, tripping over one another. Most scurry for safety, but a few scramble toward the inferno, phones jutted out front to record every moment of the burning building.
A dozen people spill out of the Jackson Bistro on the corner of the engulfed building. Choking and crying, they stumble half-blind from the smoke out into the street into the waiting arms of police and firemen rushing over from the square. The fire engine wheels around to the front of the building and begins spraying the blaze with water, but it's too late. The fire has spread like cancer from the ground up, turning the entire building into one massive funeral pyre for all those trapped inside, roasting and suffocating.
With sirens fast approaching from all directions, I continue heading northwest on St. Peter. I stroll up to a twenty-something man hurrying into his black sedan parked on the street with keys in hand. "Young man, I wonder if I could trouble you for a ride," I say with a regretful smile. He shrugs me off, saying "Call an Uber," while climbing into the front seat.
I grab the door and keep it from shutting. "I only need to go ten blocks," I tell him, while flashing a hundred dollar bill from my wallet. "Ten blocks to the Ritz-Carlton. I'll give you a hundred now, and then another hundred when we get there if you don't dottle."
"Two hundred bucks to take you to the Ritz-Carlton. That's all you want?"
I let go of the door, one hand open, the other holding out the money. "That's all I want."
He snatches the bill from my hand and motions to the other seat. "Get in. I'll pop the trunk for your bags. Just hurry. I want to get out of here just as bad as you."
I throw both bags in the trunk, shut it, and climb into the passenger side. I say, "You're a lifesaver," as he starts the engine. A loud blast of hip hop music rocks the speakers. He quickly hits the knob, turning it down to just an annoying thump in the background, then lurches the sedan out of the line of parked cars and races down the street. In the mirror, I see police cruisers blocking off the street, and officers rounding up witnesses for questioning.
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After arriving at the Ritz-Carlton, I register a room for the night under a false name, just to be safe, and have my bags sent up to the room while I head for the Davenport Lounge on the third floor. All the TVs at the bar are tuned to local news, with live video of the fire. I take a seat on a stool and raise a hand to get the bartender's attention. She says, "Can you believe this?" I shrug while taking my wallet out and say, "This day and age, I can believe anything." I look past her, to the bottles along the top shelf, tucked away and out of reach of most customers. "I see a Macallan up there. I'll have a double, neat."
She turns her head, then back at me. "You know that's fifty dollars a glass, right?"
"A double, neat," I repeat myself, adding, "and charge it to room 237." She gets the bottle down and pours me four-fingers of scotch in an Old Fashioned glass and collects the card. I swirling the brown liquid around the tumbler for a moment before taking a sip.
When I set the glass down, a gentleman has taken a seat directly next to me, at a bar full of empty stools. He is tall and in good shape, with long black hair and a beard. He is wearing a leather jacket, zipped half-way up, with a white t-shirt underneath. His hands are covered in faded tattoos of ravens swooping down from underneath his sleeves, and ornate rings and Cyrillic lettering that cover his fingers.
Another Russian. I must have been followed, but Ivan told me he was alone, and Petrov confirmed it. With a quick look around, I count fifteen others in the bar—too many eyewitnesses to kill me here. So why show himself?
"I'll have some of that fifty-dollar-a-glass shit," the man next to me says, thumbing at my drink. An accent laces his English, but he speaks it well, much better than Ivan. The woman looks from him to me. I give her a might-as-well motion of my hand and she gets the bottle down to pour another glass of the single malt scotch.
He doesn't savor it. Instead, he knocks the entire thing back, swallowing it in one long gulp, then wipes his bearded chin with the sleeve of his coat. He sets the glass down and says, "I never had scotch before."
"And you still haven't," I say before taking another sip. He gives a hoarse laugh, eases himself on the stool until he's looking at me, leaning his right elbow on the bar. He says, "Good liquor is wasted on Russians. We drink what is cheap. We prefer to have to bend over to fetch our bottles, not stand on step stools."
I take another sip, then set my glass down. "I am surprised that you found me so quickly."
"I found you three days ago," he says, "when they let you out of the hospital. I've been following you ever since. Keeping an eye on you, waiting to see what happens when Petrov's man catches up with you."
I look over at him. He's giving me a smart-ass smile. I say, "You aren't with Petrov?" He says, "No, I work for someone else—someone who has an offer for you." I take another drink of scotch and say, "No thanks. I have enough Russians in my life."
He says a single name, and it drops like a hammer.
"Viktor Ivanski."
The German, that's what most called him. He was rumored to be the financial backer for the Circuit, but I never had the pleasure of meeting the man. When I fought for the Circuit, Petrov was running the operation, and that's mostly who I dealt with. Most of the fighters didn't even know Ivanski existed. I do because INTERPOL told me.
"You know the name," he says. I nod yes. He says, "Good. That will make this much easier." He catches the bartender's attention and asks for a straight vodka with some ice. He waits for her to pour the liquor, then pays out of his own pocket.
He waits for her attention to turn back to the TVs. "I know that you were arrested by INTERPOL and the FSB in 2010. I know that they offered you a deal, and you took it. You gave them information that led to the capture of Tibor Petrov, and in return, you escaped a life sentence in a Siberian work camp. You were sent back to America and thrown back into that hospital."
He knocks back the vodka and says, "I know this, because Mr. Ivanski knows this."
A cold feeling coils around me. I say, "This is where you tell me what you want."
"Simple," he says. "Tibor Petrov was a liability. In a way, you did us a favor by knocking his chess piece off the board, but unfortunately for you, he was still a vor at that point. You committed a grave offense by talking to the police."
"I have already heard this from Petrov."
"Petrov is no longer a member of the v vory zakone. If he led you to believe otherwise, he is full of shit. That man he sent after you, the one who was stumbling around with his eyes torn out, was just a second-rate thug. If Ivanski wanted you dead, he would have sent someone with skill."
"Like you," I say.
He shrugs. "Me, sure. And five other guys, with another five guys waiting if we need backup. The point is, Ivanski doesn't want you dead, because he has a use for you. He wants you to come back to Russia, to fight for him like before."
My shadow that lurks below rises up from the depths from the faraway place with a very Spiral-like cackle. It resonates in my ear like an impish coo, whispering to me, [span class="spiral-shadow-speech"]We are going to have so much fun[/span]. The thought of breaking bones again, on a stage, under the lights, surrounded by people with blood-lust in their eyes makes me feel like a live wire. It runs through me like an electrical charge. I can feel the hair standing up on my arms, and the chill runs up and down my back. I can hardly contain the frenzy, so I take a moment to swallow the last mouthful of scotch.
I say, "The Circuit—it's back?"
"No," he says. "Not quite. This time, it's legal. Well, legal in Russia. Not that that means much, yes?" He reaches into his jacket to fetch a pen. On a bar napkin, he jots down a phone number, with the Russian dialing code at the beginning. A single finger then slides it over to me. He says, "Dial this number. A man name Wade Crewe will answer. He is expecting your call. Come fight, and Mr. Ivanski will forget about your transgression all those years ago."
I take the napkin and say, "There is one problem—"
"—Tibor Petrov," he says while motioning to the bartender for another vodka. "The man is a rabid dog that must be put down. He has been successfully hiding from us for years, but his obsession with you made him stupid. When word spread that you were getting released, he resurfaced, and began arranging your murder. You do not have to worry about him. We will take care of him."
My knuckles rap on the bar one-two-three, one-two-three. The thought of someone else stealing Petrov from me made my stomach turn in knots. My head shakes a quick no. "That will not do. Not at all. He belongs to me, understand? I will take care of him. Me, and no one else. You just point me in the right direction."
"Very well," he says with a wry smile, as if he expected that answer all along. "We will find him for you, and then you can clean up your mess." He throws back the vodka and then tosses a ten dollar bill on the bar. He stands up from the stool. "What is it the Americans say... See you on the flip side, yes? Thank you again for the drink. It was good, but I'll stick to cheap wodka."
"It was nothing," I say. My head follows him as he steps away from the bar, turning on the stool to watch him leave. I say, "I didn't get your name." He stops, looks back at me over a shoulder, and says, "I'm the Blackbird."
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#79
Talking Unleashed / Reservations
Last post by Handsome Tony - February 27, 2017, 08:42:40 PMPlease reserve Tyler Durden as pic base
Also reserve Lapdance by N.E.R.D. for theme music.
You should know who.
Thanks! Toodaloo
Also reserve Lapdance by N.E.R.D. for theme music.
You should know who.
Thanks! Toodaloo
#80
Archive / I — The Downward Spiral
Last post by spiral - February 21, 2017, 03:23:14 AM[div class="spiral-wrapper"]
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[div class="spiral-headline"]I[/div]
[div class="spiral-subheadline"]THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL[/div]
[div class="spiral-quote"]From below the dragon
dark comes forth,
Nidhogg flying from Nithafjoll;
The bodies of men
on his wings he bears[/div]
[span class="spiral-quote-author"]— Poetic Edda[/span]
IT IS 9:30 PM ON CHRISTMAS AND MY MOUTH TASTES OF BLOOD. Five floors above Decatur Street, I can see all of Jackson Square from my condominium's terrace. There are too many people to count, too many to track. No one stands out. Beyond the glass, I glimpse down the sheer five-story drop to the entrance of my building. People come and go, but no one enters or leaves. On the sidewalk, a homeless man in ragged clothes holds a sign that says "What Doesn't Kill Me Makes Me Stronger". No one else seems to care as they file past him. The homeless man looks up at me and gives me a very Spiral-like smile.
Fifteen minutes before, I am straining to stay conscious as a nylon cord tightens around my neck. One hand is caught between the rope and my trachea, giving me time, but not much. The blood is being trapped in my head. I can feel the pressure of it, and black veins are beginning to cloud my vision.
This is where most people go limp, accept their fate, and spend their last waking moments going over every mistake made throughout their life. Throwing away a marriage, sticking with that job they hate, not wearing a condom - every regret, no matter how minute, analyzed ad infinitum as their perception of time slows.
When the black veins attempt to overtake me, I consider where to go for brunch tomorrow: Brennan's or Two Sisters.
Earlier, I am returning home from Matassa's Market grocery with a canvas tote hanging from my left hand. Somewhere near, a clock tower tolls nine o'clock over the busy city. I walk into my building, letting the jazz and alcohol of the French Quarter fade into the background when the door shuts behind. The lobby is empty, and quiet, other than the sound of my Valentino oxfords clacking on the marble floor. The night guard isn't at the station. It slips my mind.
Nat King Cole sings Unforgettable on the elevator ride. The doors open on the top floor. The song is in my head as I exit, and humming on my lips. The key is taken from my pocket. I'm about to slide it into the deadbolt when I note a mark on the metal hardware—wait, no, not a mark, a scratch, just beneath the keyhole.
I am certain it wasn't there before. I run my finger over it, feeling the groove. A torsion wrench from a lockpick set could have caused it. My eyes lift to the door, to the spyhole. I wonder if I'm being watched. The darkness crawls under my skin. It wants out. It's hungry.
I have a very Spiral-like smile on my face as I head inside.
The entryway is ten feet long, with a custom tile floor and crown molding. The walls are bear and it still has a smell of fresh paint. I lock the door behind me and secure the swing bar, then move forward, down the hallway. At the end, it angles right, opening into the living room. There are no couches or chairs. Not a TV or even a lamp.
Floor to ceiling windows run from the left wall of the living room to the right wall of the open kitchen and dining area. On the other side of the glass is a wrought-iron terrace. A set of patio chairs and table are the only furniture in the entire house.
I force a normal smile, give the long breath of someone who just escaped a stressful Christmas Dinner and needs a drink to settle his nerves. My body relaxes as I head for the kitchen to set the tote on the island. My eyes are everywhere, looking for any hint of danger, but it is my ears that save me, when a rubber sole squeaks on the floor from behind.
A nylon cord loops around my neck and a pair of leather-gloved hands pull it tight. I barely get my left hand between the rope and my windpipe before it sinches. The attacker leaps in the air, puts both knees against my shoulder blades, and hauls back. His weight brings us both down, and we end face up, him on his back with me pinned on top of his shins.
Despite having a hand between the cord and my windpipe, the pressure is sufficient to cut off the blood supply. We struggle on the tile floor. I can't reach his face with my free hand. He's taking heavy breaths and torquing back on the rope.
I decide on Brennan's for brunch as I plant my feet and bridge my spine. The pressure is released and the blood rushes down into my chest. Before he can react, I twist my hips to get one foot on the kitchen island, then kick off, flipping my body over his. The cord loosens from my throat when I land on my knees near his head.
I pull a knife from my ankle sheath. The automatic blade flicks out to cut the rope while he is scrambling to his feet. His barrel-chest heaves a long, deep breath. He's taller than me and heavier, but it's all muscle. His hair is buzzed to the skin and a long scar is raised across his right cheek.
He ditches the gloves and comes at me quick. I get tackled to the ground and the blade is sent skipping across the floor out of reach. He rises to rain his fist down into my face. Something catches my eye, just inside his jacket on the left side. A pistol dances around in a shoulder holster. When I grab for it, his right hand follows. In the struggle, a muted shot fires out the back of the jacket, into the kitchen ceiling.
When the gun yanks out of the holster, my thumb hits the button to eject the magazine and I squeeze off the final round. This one skips off to the right, through the side of the refrigerator, and the gun's slide locks open. He gets control of the weapon from me and aims to hammer it into my face.
The pistol comes down through my hands. My head jerks to the right and it clanks against the floor. He pulls back the gun for another try, planting his left hand into my chest. I grab that wrist, hook my legs across his body, and pull him into an armbar. The gun drops to the floor. His free hand grabs at mine to keep me from pulling back on his arm. He tries to shake me off, lifting all but my upper back off the floor. It doesn't work, and his grip on my hands is slipping.
He makes one last attempt to pull his arm free, lifting up with all of his strength. In doing so gives me room to arch my back, and with it, his arm. It snaps and immediately my weight collapses back on the floor. He makes a noise like a deer caught in a bear trap.
When I get to my feet, his arm is bent at a forty-five degree angle in the sleeve of his jacket. He looks around in a panic and sees my knife two feet away. I have the pistol in my hand before his fingertips touch the handle. When he looks up at me, I crack him against the side of his head. He's unconscious before his face smacks on the floor.
Sixteen minutes later, it's 9:31 and the homeless man with the sign is gone. I leave the rail to head back inside, but stop when I catch my reflection in the glass of the sliding door. My Yves Saint Laurent pinstripe suit is stretched and the stitching pulled around the shoulders. My hair is tossed, ignoring my attempts to brush it back in place with my fingers.
I stick two fingers into my mouth and feel around. I didn't bite my tongue, or my cheek. The blood-taste in my mouth is coming from the back of my throat. Lifting my chin, there's rope burn across my neck, and a mottled bruise is forming along the length of it.
Movement pulls my focus past my reflection and through the glass to my failed murderer. I have anchored him to one of the deck chairs with zip ties at his ankles, knees, thighs, wrists, elbows, and upper arms. In it, he sits in the center of my living room. Finally awake, my new prisoner is testing the strength of his restraints. The ties are unforgiving, but the wooden chair wobbles under his weight. He looks up when I slide open the door. His attempt to escape quickly comes to an end when he sees his gun clenched in my right hand.
Tut-tut, my teeth click as I secure the door behind me.
The zip-ties were in the black canvas bag that now sits on the floor, not far from my prisoner's chair. I found it searching the rest of the condo, in the master bedroom. Also in the bag: a karambit, two more pistol magazines, a hank of nylon rope (approximately three metres), a drywall saw, a lockpick kit, a prepaid cell-phone, and a box of latex gloves. Each item is laid out in front of the bag except for the cell phone. That went into my pocket.
I walk toward him. "First, introductions. What is your name?"
He doesn't answer.
"Oh," I say real big. "A tough guy, eh?" There's another deck chair. I slide it in front of him and sit down. "How about I just call you Ivan. How does that sound, Ivan?"
His eyes flick away and rolls them around to take a quick survey of the room.
"I almost gave up on you," I tell him, as I glance at my Movado chronograph bracelet. "Going on twenty minutes you've been out. You have to be careful with a head injury like that. For a minute, I thought you might not wake up. I'm happy you did. Maybe that sounds strange, considering you tried to murder me, but from a certain perspective, I appreciate the attempt. But I have to say, Ivan, that off-the-rack suit is unforgivable."
The pistol whip cut a deep gash on the side of his forehead. Blood leaks out and is thinned by the sweat breaking on the skin. The entire left side of his face is covered in red, as is his black suit jacket and the white undershirt. The jacket's left sleeve I cut open while he was unconscious to reveal that delightfully horrid forearm fracture of the radius three inches below the elbow.
His eyes are still everywhere but on me.
"Ivan, you're being rude. Look at me."
He refuses. Something stirs beneath my skin.
"Look at me!"
He raises his eyes to mine. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are full of murderous rage.
"What's my name, Ivan?"
He doesn't answer.
"We'll come back to that." I take a quick glimpse out the window. The waning moon is slung low in the cloudless sky surrounded by stars demanding to be seen over the city lights. Looking back at him, I say, "It was eighty degrees today. I've lived in New Orleans nearly my whole life, but I will never get used to the heat. Let me ask you something: do you accept the overwhelming consensus of the scientific community that Climate Change is real?"
Still he remains silent.
"I love the cold," I continue anyway, "the chill against my bones. It keeps a man sharp. It's Christmas and people are walking around in t-shirts and sandals. Heat like this, it makes them soft. And weak. I prefer the bitter and unforgiving winters of my homeland. You know where I'm from, yes? I imagine you know a great deal about me."
My eyes fall to the gun. The metal catches a bit of sunlight as it turns in my hand. The chrome and the grip are well-worn with use, but the pistol has clearly been well maintained.
"This is a Makarov. Russian-made, not one of those Chinese or Bulgarian knock-offs. This is the real deal. I know because I've seen them before. This one is quite old, but clearly cared for. A gun like this must have some meaning for its owner to risk smuggling it into America."
I lower it to sit on the top of my thigh, the suppressor leveled till it aims at his chest.
"This gun comes from a cold place, and I'm better its owner does, too, eh comrade?"
His lips curl in a sneer and he shakes his head.
My patience is dwindling. "Listen, I understand. You're a big tough guy. You think you won't talk, no matter what I say or do. I get it. If anyone found out you gave me information, it would make it rather awkward for you at the next Ruski Hitman convention. But, here's your problem."
I uncross my legs and, as I lean forward, transfer the gun from my right to left hand. Then I reach out and grab his broken forearm. His eyes fill with lightning and he bites down hard when my fingers dig into the skin.
"You are going to spill every little secret," I tell him. Spit is bubbling through the spaces between his clenched teeth as he screams through them. I feel along his arm to where the bone is jutting up against the meat and push down hard.
He screams out in Russian, begging me to stop.
I tell him, "You are going to tell me everything."
He nods, his eyes pleading with me to end it.
When I let go, the blood drains from his face and for a moment I think he might pass out. He is taking several long, deep breaths, and his face is creased and puckered from the pain.
"There there," I say while sitting back. "I know, I'm horrible. I'm the worst. Are you ready now? Good. So first thing's first. What is my name?"
"Gram," he spits between breaths. "Niels Gram."
I let out a long sigh. "That is the name my parents gave me, but it isn't my name." I pull the Makarov's slide to load the first bullet in the chamber. His eyes are wide and he's giving me the 'No, No, No, Wait!' routine as I direct the mean end of the pistol at his forehead.
"Blyad," he curses, full of anger, then says with a Russian accent, "Spiral. Your fucking name is Spiral, okay?"
My head tilts to the side so I can look down the side of the gun at him. I give him a very Spiral-like smile of appreciation. "Much better, Ivan. You're learning, but I'm afraid that is the last freebie you get. Let me be clear, it currently benefits me for you to walk out of here, but one more wrong answer and I will not hesitate to kill you. Do we have an understanding?"
"I understand."
"Good, Ivan. We're on our way to being friends for real. First question: are you here alone?"
He hesitates. My thumb cocks the hammer with a click.
"Yes," he quickly answers. "This was solo job. Klyanus—I swear it." His English is broken.
"Can I just say something? And please, I understand that I am not a professional hitman, so maybe this is all over my head, but there are easier ways to kill someone. You could have just shot me in the back of the head."
He nods his head yes.
"Don't you feel stupid?"
His stare is cold and impassive.
I wave it away with my other hand and say, "That was rhetorical, Ivan. Lighten up, comrade. We're just two men talking. You, over there bleeding and broken, me over here holding a gun in your face. Friends for real, remember? Besides, I think I get what you were going for. But first, one more question: the nightwatchman was missing when I entered. Did you kill him?"
"No."
"No?"
He quickly says, "Guard is a gambler. Lots of debt to the wrong people. He was told to disable cameras and erase drive, then go around the corner to bar and wait."
"Excellent. I think I'm ready to solve the puzzle, Pat."
He says, "Who is this Pat?"
"Stay with me, Ivan. You were sent here to kill me in a way that didn't cast suspicion. If I was found with a couple bullet holes in me, there would be questions. Whoever hired you doesn't want questions. So you were meant to strangle me to death, then string me up with that extra rope in your kit. The drywall saw is to cut a hole in the ceiling to secure the noose to a joist. How am I doing so far?"
I take his unwavering glare as a yes.
"Of course, I think suicide is a huge overstep. Why would I kill myself? I was locked away for years. I finally get released on Friday and then I kill myself two days later—on Christmas? It doesn't stick. Not to mention that I just bought this condominium... You know, I did have a house over by the university. It was my parents' house. It had five bedrooms, a pool—you would have liked it, Ivan. Someone burnt it to the ground a couple years ago. Is that why I did it? I couldn't handle living in a house smaller than three thousand square feet?"
His body relaxes a bit when I lower the gun. I say, "I don't think you understand me very well. If you did, you wouldn't believe such a ridiculous story. Shall I educate you? If we are to be friends for real, there must be no secrets."
He is telling me that it isn't necessary. I say, "Oh, but it is," and stand from the chair to walk over to the kitchen island. The gun is set next to the bag, then I slide the ruined jacket off my shoulders, down my arms, and lay it across the counter. My fingers go to the collar and, one by one, release the buttons of the shirt.
"For six years I have hidden behind the mask of Niels Gram, pretending to be something natural. The pressure threatens to rip out of this skin and release my true face, and with every passing moment it becomes harder to keep it contained. The doctors, the prosecutors, the politicians—all of the whores—they would never have let me out if they knew what lies beneath this human suit, if they had seen my dark schemata."
Muscles flex as I pull the shirt off, exposing the gloriousness of my scarred body. Sunken pits where pieces of flesh were removed in back-alley surgeries. Raised mountains of ruined skin from lacerations, puncture wounds, and burns.
"I actually must thank you," I admit as I fold the shirt. "I have waited so long for this moment. So long to let go."
"On byl prav," Ivan says. "Ty sumasshedshiy."
He calls me crazy. I say in Russian, "Many have called me crazy." I turn slowly, craning my head around first and allowing my body to follow. He sees my true face for the first time. My dark self seeps through my pores and spreads over the human skin until I am nothing but the Entity.
Once again he tests the strength of his binds as I come near. The chair creaks and groans from his shifting weight. He is breathing heavy from the effort. More sweat breaks on his skin and rolls down. More blood seeeps from his wound.
"You ARE fucking crazy," he says while recoiling from my magnificence.
I reach out with fingers, gnarled and spidery, to brush down the side of his face. My words shift back to English. "Crazy is a word used by men with small minds to describe those who see so much more. Long after you have turned to dust, I will still roam this forsaken land. The mark I have left will still resonate centuries from now. Men like you will one day look back in horror and say that I was the beginning."
Clutching his jaw, I angle his face at mine. "You are but a worm, wriggling on the ground beneath me. Your life is one spent in the dirt with the other phyla. You and the rest of your kind dig deep and hope to avoid your holocaust. Foolishness."
"Please," he begs me. "Prosti... I am sorry, Spiral. You said you were going to let me go. Just cut me loose and you will never see me again."
"So I did, but before I can release you back to the dirt with the other invertebrates, I have one more question for you. Before you called me crazy, you said something else. 'On byl prav''... 'He was right.' Who were you referring to? Who is he?"
"The man who hired me," he says. "He used to be vor v zakone. Russian mafia. His name is Tibor Petrov. He said you were a crazy man."
My dark self grins, pointed white teeth gleaming in his corneas. I tilt my head like an auger, drilling my gaze to the back of his skull. "Oh, Ivan. Sweet Ivan. You have made me very happy."
"You will let me go, da?"
"I'm a man of my word," I say. "But you have provided me a great service on this night. You deserve a reward."
"No," he says. "I don't need a reward. Please, just let me go—"
"Oh, but you do," I say. "You have seen, but you do not know. Only when you know can you begin to comprehend my majesty." I wrap my hands about his unprotected face. My fingers dig into his cranium and I lean to him intimately, until our faces are but an inch apart. "Look upon me worm and weep, for you are in the presence of something greater. You bear witness to Nidhogg, the Malice Striker. The world eater. The dragon of Ragnarok. I, who will lead this world on a downward spiral into the chaos that awaits all creatures."
He shrieks out, "My God!"
My thumbs drive into his eyes, digging under the lids and pressing down, far down, all the way to the back of the sockets. He is screaming and shaking, and I can't stop laughing.
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[div class="spiral-headline"]I[/div]
[div class="spiral-subheadline"]THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL[/div]
[div class="spiral-quote"]From below the dragon
dark comes forth,
Nidhogg flying from Nithafjoll;
The bodies of men
on his wings he bears[/div]
[span class="spiral-quote-author"]— Poetic Edda[/span]
IT IS 9:30 PM ON CHRISTMAS AND MY MOUTH TASTES OF BLOOD. Five floors above Decatur Street, I can see all of Jackson Square from my condominium's terrace. There are too many people to count, too many to track. No one stands out. Beyond the glass, I glimpse down the sheer five-story drop to the entrance of my building. People come and go, but no one enters or leaves. On the sidewalk, a homeless man in ragged clothes holds a sign that says "What Doesn't Kill Me Makes Me Stronger". No one else seems to care as they file past him. The homeless man looks up at me and gives me a very Spiral-like smile.
Fifteen minutes before, I am straining to stay conscious as a nylon cord tightens around my neck. One hand is caught between the rope and my trachea, giving me time, but not much. The blood is being trapped in my head. I can feel the pressure of it, and black veins are beginning to cloud my vision.
This is where most people go limp, accept their fate, and spend their last waking moments going over every mistake made throughout their life. Throwing away a marriage, sticking with that job they hate, not wearing a condom - every regret, no matter how minute, analyzed ad infinitum as their perception of time slows.
When the black veins attempt to overtake me, I consider where to go for brunch tomorrow: Brennan's or Two Sisters.
Earlier, I am returning home from Matassa's Market grocery with a canvas tote hanging from my left hand. Somewhere near, a clock tower tolls nine o'clock over the busy city. I walk into my building, letting the jazz and alcohol of the French Quarter fade into the background when the door shuts behind. The lobby is empty, and quiet, other than the sound of my Valentino oxfords clacking on the marble floor. The night guard isn't at the station. It slips my mind.
Nat King Cole sings Unforgettable on the elevator ride. The doors open on the top floor. The song is in my head as I exit, and humming on my lips. The key is taken from my pocket. I'm about to slide it into the deadbolt when I note a mark on the metal hardware—wait, no, not a mark, a scratch, just beneath the keyhole.
I am certain it wasn't there before. I run my finger over it, feeling the groove. A torsion wrench from a lockpick set could have caused it. My eyes lift to the door, to the spyhole. I wonder if I'm being watched. The darkness crawls under my skin. It wants out. It's hungry.
I have a very Spiral-like smile on my face as I head inside.
The entryway is ten feet long, with a custom tile floor and crown molding. The walls are bear and it still has a smell of fresh paint. I lock the door behind me and secure the swing bar, then move forward, down the hallway. At the end, it angles right, opening into the living room. There are no couches or chairs. Not a TV or even a lamp.
Floor to ceiling windows run from the left wall of the living room to the right wall of the open kitchen and dining area. On the other side of the glass is a wrought-iron terrace. A set of patio chairs and table are the only furniture in the entire house.
I force a normal smile, give the long breath of someone who just escaped a stressful Christmas Dinner and needs a drink to settle his nerves. My body relaxes as I head for the kitchen to set the tote on the island. My eyes are everywhere, looking for any hint of danger, but it is my ears that save me, when a rubber sole squeaks on the floor from behind.
A nylon cord loops around my neck and a pair of leather-gloved hands pull it tight. I barely get my left hand between the rope and my windpipe before it sinches. The attacker leaps in the air, puts both knees against my shoulder blades, and hauls back. His weight brings us both down, and we end face up, him on his back with me pinned on top of his shins.
Despite having a hand between the cord and my windpipe, the pressure is sufficient to cut off the blood supply. We struggle on the tile floor. I can't reach his face with my free hand. He's taking heavy breaths and torquing back on the rope.
I decide on Brennan's for brunch as I plant my feet and bridge my spine. The pressure is released and the blood rushes down into my chest. Before he can react, I twist my hips to get one foot on the kitchen island, then kick off, flipping my body over his. The cord loosens from my throat when I land on my knees near his head.
I pull a knife from my ankle sheath. The automatic blade flicks out to cut the rope while he is scrambling to his feet. His barrel-chest heaves a long, deep breath. He's taller than me and heavier, but it's all muscle. His hair is buzzed to the skin and a long scar is raised across his right cheek.
He ditches the gloves and comes at me quick. I get tackled to the ground and the blade is sent skipping across the floor out of reach. He rises to rain his fist down into my face. Something catches my eye, just inside his jacket on the left side. A pistol dances around in a shoulder holster. When I grab for it, his right hand follows. In the struggle, a muted shot fires out the back of the jacket, into the kitchen ceiling.
When the gun yanks out of the holster, my thumb hits the button to eject the magazine and I squeeze off the final round. This one skips off to the right, through the side of the refrigerator, and the gun's slide locks open. He gets control of the weapon from me and aims to hammer it into my face.
The pistol comes down through my hands. My head jerks to the right and it clanks against the floor. He pulls back the gun for another try, planting his left hand into my chest. I grab that wrist, hook my legs across his body, and pull him into an armbar. The gun drops to the floor. His free hand grabs at mine to keep me from pulling back on his arm. He tries to shake me off, lifting all but my upper back off the floor. It doesn't work, and his grip on my hands is slipping.
He makes one last attempt to pull his arm free, lifting up with all of his strength. In doing so gives me room to arch my back, and with it, his arm. It snaps and immediately my weight collapses back on the floor. He makes a noise like a deer caught in a bear trap.
When I get to my feet, his arm is bent at a forty-five degree angle in the sleeve of his jacket. He looks around in a panic and sees my knife two feet away. I have the pistol in my hand before his fingertips touch the handle. When he looks up at me, I crack him against the side of his head. He's unconscious before his face smacks on the floor.
Sixteen minutes later, it's 9:31 and the homeless man with the sign is gone. I leave the rail to head back inside, but stop when I catch my reflection in the glass of the sliding door. My Yves Saint Laurent pinstripe suit is stretched and the stitching pulled around the shoulders. My hair is tossed, ignoring my attempts to brush it back in place with my fingers.
I stick two fingers into my mouth and feel around. I didn't bite my tongue, or my cheek. The blood-taste in my mouth is coming from the back of my throat. Lifting my chin, there's rope burn across my neck, and a mottled bruise is forming along the length of it.
Movement pulls my focus past my reflection and through the glass to my failed murderer. I have anchored him to one of the deck chairs with zip ties at his ankles, knees, thighs, wrists, elbows, and upper arms. In it, he sits in the center of my living room. Finally awake, my new prisoner is testing the strength of his restraints. The ties are unforgiving, but the wooden chair wobbles under his weight. He looks up when I slide open the door. His attempt to escape quickly comes to an end when he sees his gun clenched in my right hand.
Tut-tut, my teeth click as I secure the door behind me.
The zip-ties were in the black canvas bag that now sits on the floor, not far from my prisoner's chair. I found it searching the rest of the condo, in the master bedroom. Also in the bag: a karambit, two more pistol magazines, a hank of nylon rope (approximately three metres), a drywall saw, a lockpick kit, a prepaid cell-phone, and a box of latex gloves. Each item is laid out in front of the bag except for the cell phone. That went into my pocket.
I walk toward him. "First, introductions. What is your name?"
He doesn't answer.
"Oh," I say real big. "A tough guy, eh?" There's another deck chair. I slide it in front of him and sit down. "How about I just call you Ivan. How does that sound, Ivan?"
His eyes flick away and rolls them around to take a quick survey of the room.
"I almost gave up on you," I tell him, as I glance at my Movado chronograph bracelet. "Going on twenty minutes you've been out. You have to be careful with a head injury like that. For a minute, I thought you might not wake up. I'm happy you did. Maybe that sounds strange, considering you tried to murder me, but from a certain perspective, I appreciate the attempt. But I have to say, Ivan, that off-the-rack suit is unforgivable."
The pistol whip cut a deep gash on the side of his forehead. Blood leaks out and is thinned by the sweat breaking on the skin. The entire left side of his face is covered in red, as is his black suit jacket and the white undershirt. The jacket's left sleeve I cut open while he was unconscious to reveal that delightfully horrid forearm fracture of the radius three inches below the elbow.
His eyes are still everywhere but on me.
"Ivan, you're being rude. Look at me."
He refuses. Something stirs beneath my skin.
"Look at me!"
He raises his eyes to mine. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are full of murderous rage.
"What's my name, Ivan?"
He doesn't answer.
"We'll come back to that." I take a quick glimpse out the window. The waning moon is slung low in the cloudless sky surrounded by stars demanding to be seen over the city lights. Looking back at him, I say, "It was eighty degrees today. I've lived in New Orleans nearly my whole life, but I will never get used to the heat. Let me ask you something: do you accept the overwhelming consensus of the scientific community that Climate Change is real?"
Still he remains silent.
"I love the cold," I continue anyway, "the chill against my bones. It keeps a man sharp. It's Christmas and people are walking around in t-shirts and sandals. Heat like this, it makes them soft. And weak. I prefer the bitter and unforgiving winters of my homeland. You know where I'm from, yes? I imagine you know a great deal about me."
My eyes fall to the gun. The metal catches a bit of sunlight as it turns in my hand. The chrome and the grip are well-worn with use, but the pistol has clearly been well maintained.
"This is a Makarov. Russian-made, not one of those Chinese or Bulgarian knock-offs. This is the real deal. I know because I've seen them before. This one is quite old, but clearly cared for. A gun like this must have some meaning for its owner to risk smuggling it into America."
I lower it to sit on the top of my thigh, the suppressor leveled till it aims at his chest.
"This gun comes from a cold place, and I'm better its owner does, too, eh comrade?"
His lips curl in a sneer and he shakes his head.
My patience is dwindling. "Listen, I understand. You're a big tough guy. You think you won't talk, no matter what I say or do. I get it. If anyone found out you gave me information, it would make it rather awkward for you at the next Ruski Hitman convention. But, here's your problem."
I uncross my legs and, as I lean forward, transfer the gun from my right to left hand. Then I reach out and grab his broken forearm. His eyes fill with lightning and he bites down hard when my fingers dig into the skin.
"You are going to spill every little secret," I tell him. Spit is bubbling through the spaces between his clenched teeth as he screams through them. I feel along his arm to where the bone is jutting up against the meat and push down hard.
He screams out in Russian, begging me to stop.
I tell him, "You are going to tell me everything."
He nods, his eyes pleading with me to end it.
When I let go, the blood drains from his face and for a moment I think he might pass out. He is taking several long, deep breaths, and his face is creased and puckered from the pain.
"There there," I say while sitting back. "I know, I'm horrible. I'm the worst. Are you ready now? Good. So first thing's first. What is my name?"
"Gram," he spits between breaths. "Niels Gram."
I let out a long sigh. "That is the name my parents gave me, but it isn't my name." I pull the Makarov's slide to load the first bullet in the chamber. His eyes are wide and he's giving me the 'No, No, No, Wait!' routine as I direct the mean end of the pistol at his forehead.
"Blyad," he curses, full of anger, then says with a Russian accent, "Spiral. Your fucking name is Spiral, okay?"
My head tilts to the side so I can look down the side of the gun at him. I give him a very Spiral-like smile of appreciation. "Much better, Ivan. You're learning, but I'm afraid that is the last freebie you get. Let me be clear, it currently benefits me for you to walk out of here, but one more wrong answer and I will not hesitate to kill you. Do we have an understanding?"
"I understand."
"Good, Ivan. We're on our way to being friends for real. First question: are you here alone?"
He hesitates. My thumb cocks the hammer with a click.
"Yes," he quickly answers. "This was solo job. Klyanus—I swear it." His English is broken.
"Can I just say something? And please, I understand that I am not a professional hitman, so maybe this is all over my head, but there are easier ways to kill someone. You could have just shot me in the back of the head."
He nods his head yes.
"Don't you feel stupid?"
His stare is cold and impassive.
I wave it away with my other hand and say, "That was rhetorical, Ivan. Lighten up, comrade. We're just two men talking. You, over there bleeding and broken, me over here holding a gun in your face. Friends for real, remember? Besides, I think I get what you were going for. But first, one more question: the nightwatchman was missing when I entered. Did you kill him?"
"No."
"No?"
He quickly says, "Guard is a gambler. Lots of debt to the wrong people. He was told to disable cameras and erase drive, then go around the corner to bar and wait."
"Excellent. I think I'm ready to solve the puzzle, Pat."
He says, "Who is this Pat?"
"Stay with me, Ivan. You were sent here to kill me in a way that didn't cast suspicion. If I was found with a couple bullet holes in me, there would be questions. Whoever hired you doesn't want questions. So you were meant to strangle me to death, then string me up with that extra rope in your kit. The drywall saw is to cut a hole in the ceiling to secure the noose to a joist. How am I doing so far?"
I take his unwavering glare as a yes.
"Of course, I think suicide is a huge overstep. Why would I kill myself? I was locked away for years. I finally get released on Friday and then I kill myself two days later—on Christmas? It doesn't stick. Not to mention that I just bought this condominium... You know, I did have a house over by the university. It was my parents' house. It had five bedrooms, a pool—you would have liked it, Ivan. Someone burnt it to the ground a couple years ago. Is that why I did it? I couldn't handle living in a house smaller than three thousand square feet?"
His body relaxes a bit when I lower the gun. I say, "I don't think you understand me very well. If you did, you wouldn't believe such a ridiculous story. Shall I educate you? If we are to be friends for real, there must be no secrets."
He is telling me that it isn't necessary. I say, "Oh, but it is," and stand from the chair to walk over to the kitchen island. The gun is set next to the bag, then I slide the ruined jacket off my shoulders, down my arms, and lay it across the counter. My fingers go to the collar and, one by one, release the buttons of the shirt.
"For six years I have hidden behind the mask of Niels Gram, pretending to be something natural. The pressure threatens to rip out of this skin and release my true face, and with every passing moment it becomes harder to keep it contained. The doctors, the prosecutors, the politicians—all of the whores—they would never have let me out if they knew what lies beneath this human suit, if they had seen my dark schemata."
Muscles flex as I pull the shirt off, exposing the gloriousness of my scarred body. Sunken pits where pieces of flesh were removed in back-alley surgeries. Raised mountains of ruined skin from lacerations, puncture wounds, and burns.
"I actually must thank you," I admit as I fold the shirt. "I have waited so long for this moment. So long to let go."
"On byl prav," Ivan says. "Ty sumasshedshiy."
He calls me crazy. I say in Russian, "Many have called me crazy." I turn slowly, craning my head around first and allowing my body to follow. He sees my true face for the first time. My dark self seeps through my pores and spreads over the human skin until I am nothing but the Entity.
Once again he tests the strength of his binds as I come near. The chair creaks and groans from his shifting weight. He is breathing heavy from the effort. More sweat breaks on his skin and rolls down. More blood seeeps from his wound.
"You ARE fucking crazy," he says while recoiling from my magnificence.
I reach out with fingers, gnarled and spidery, to brush down the side of his face. My words shift back to English. "Crazy is a word used by men with small minds to describe those who see so much more. Long after you have turned to dust, I will still roam this forsaken land. The mark I have left will still resonate centuries from now. Men like you will one day look back in horror and say that I was the beginning."
Clutching his jaw, I angle his face at mine. "You are but a worm, wriggling on the ground beneath me. Your life is one spent in the dirt with the other phyla. You and the rest of your kind dig deep and hope to avoid your holocaust. Foolishness."
"Please," he begs me. "Prosti... I am sorry, Spiral. You said you were going to let me go. Just cut me loose and you will never see me again."
"So I did, but before I can release you back to the dirt with the other invertebrates, I have one more question for you. Before you called me crazy, you said something else. 'On byl prav''... 'He was right.' Who were you referring to? Who is he?"
"The man who hired me," he says. "He used to be vor v zakone. Russian mafia. His name is Tibor Petrov. He said you were a crazy man."
My dark self grins, pointed white teeth gleaming in his corneas. I tilt my head like an auger, drilling my gaze to the back of his skull. "Oh, Ivan. Sweet Ivan. You have made me very happy."
"You will let me go, da?"
"I'm a man of my word," I say. "But you have provided me a great service on this night. You deserve a reward."
"No," he says. "I don't need a reward. Please, just let me go—"
"Oh, but you do," I say. "You have seen, but you do not know. Only when you know can you begin to comprehend my majesty." I wrap my hands about his unprotected face. My fingers dig into his cranium and I lean to him intimately, until our faces are but an inch apart. "Look upon me worm and weep, for you are in the presence of something greater. You bear witness to Nidhogg, the Malice Striker. The world eater. The dragon of Ragnarok. I, who will lead this world on a downward spiral into the chaos that awaits all creatures."
He shrieks out, "My God!"
My thumbs drive into his eyes, digging under the lids and pressing down, far down, all the way to the back of the sockets. He is screaming and shaking, and I can't stop laughing.
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