2004-05-01 - 1:20 p.m.

Yeah, I’m listening to my Kill Bill vol. 1 and vol. 2 sountracks as I write this. I thnk you can tell.

The New Orleans office of Man of Mystery, Inc. was a series of warehouses clustered around a small two story office that was really just another reconverted warehouse. To the outside, it was your typical nondescript industrial park. Just the way Actionhero liked it.

“So what exactly is in those warehouses,” Quentin Holte asked, as Actionhero unlocked the iron door to the front office.

“Don’t ask.”

They walked through the nondescript front office and into a back room. Typical Actionhero, Holte thought as he looked at the collection of tables covered in weapons and shadow technology, racks of guns, and a few weapons he didn’t want to think about.

“Do you always have this much weaponry lying around in everyone of your safehouses?”

“Well, I do have unfinished business with Circe.”

“No swords?”

“They’re in the back, in the dojo.”

Quentin Holte walked through a sliding Japanese door, noting the rice paper panels had been replaced by gold sheets embossed by dragons sipping 40s of malt liquor. Inside, the rest of the dojo had been designed in true pimp samurai fashion, the faux shoji walls done in even more gold, traditional Asian designs of cranes, tigers, and dragons interspersed with racks of swords, spears, maces, and all sorts of hand weapons from across the globe. Small lava lamps bathed the room in soft multicolored light and the air had a slight spice of incense, patchouli oil and High Karate. One wall was a shrine, with pictures of Shaft, Superfly, Jim Kelly, Sonny Chiba; and of course, in the center, Bruce Lee. Across the dojo, in a wall all their own, was a rack with a matched dashio set of Hattori Hanzo samurai long and short swords and, in its rosewood and ebony box, the Green Destiny. A soft pulsing beat of funk and hip-hop began to play from hidden speakers and a hologram ninja in traditional black, but with an Afro, appeared.

Holte shook his head. “Oh look. The seventies never died.”

“Well I kind of lend this place out to the stringers for Man of Mystery, Inc. They tend to leave a distinctive stamp. You gonna be okay here? I gotta take inventory.”

“Fine. Your danger room here work the way I think it does?”

“Yes, the Action Station is voice activated. There’s no safety protocol so try not to get yourself killed.”

Holte shot the Hero a look.

“Or break anything,” Actionhero said with a smile as he walked out.

***

Take a step back and watch as greatest martial artist in the world throws it down old school. The hologram ninja moves in, all the preprogrammed fight protocols doing their thing and Quentin Holte moves in time, dodging the holo attacks with the barest hint of effort. Look, the homeboy’s arms haven’t even moved yet. Then he strikes, punch like a run-away truck, the style some bastard merge of Shaolin Tiger Style and a Muhammad Ali jab. The holo is stunned and then Holte moves in for the kill, close in combo of moves that would kill a normal man in seven different ways. As soon as the holo registers the death strikes it dissolves and another ninja, this one programmed to a harder level—and appropriately a scantily clad female—appears. Holte smiles and take the offensive this time, with a run that climaxes into a jump kick. The holo ninja blocks but the kick shatters its arms. It dissolves and two more kick chicks appear, more aggressive, more difficult, and even more scantily clad, to take its place. Holte goes to work, merging an Aikido defense with a bit of Sugar Ray Leonard footwork and then a flurry of fists, knees and elbows that take them down 5 second fight style. And so on and so on.

There’s a story that every year, the top 25 martial artists—and those in the know who want to watch—all gather for a tournament on an island in the middle of the Pacific, an island effectively out of any nation’s territory. No one knows who owns the island or arranges for this opulent tournament, though there are stories. Some say its run by a UN Black ops directorate to gauge the level of assassin talent in the world. Some say it’s a shadowy cabal of American billionaires, politicians and generals. Some say a combine of Japanese industrialists and others of Hong Kong movie producers. The old standbys of Mafia, Yakuza, Triads and Disney are perennial favorites. Names like Man of Mystery, Inc., Techyoto Enterprises, and the Invisible College flit around like shadow rumors. Who ever sponsors this tournament, here, the best martial artists in the world fight; not to the death because that would be considered wasteful and besides, revenge quests for past defeats add so much spice to the tournament. No, this fight is for the bragging rights, the rights to be called the Best. And every year, it always comes down to the top five and one of those five is always Quentin Holte. He doesn’t always win, taking home the gold Buddha statue that every martial artist and wannabe in the world will then try to kill him for over the course of the next year. But there’s a suspicion that he throws the matches because—after being the only human to ever win it five years ion a row and survive each of those years—he’s gotten tried of killing people every day.

***

As Quentin Holte sharpened the proverbial saw down in the Action Station, Actionhero spent the rest of the day prepping his gear. He even managed to find time to take one of those combat yoga trace power naps, the kind that crammed 8 hours of sleep into one. He hated these, preferring to sleep the old fashioned way: in a bed next to a beautiful, naked woman. But that kind of distraction could wait.

As night fell he met up with Holte, who spent the entire time in the Action Station.

“Fuck, don’t you sleep?”

“Nope. Too much adventure in the world.”

“Well, let’s go pick up the boys.”

They left in another of Silky’s Pimpmobiles, this one a sleek Rolls Royce Silver Phantom that actually looked tasteful; at least until you saw the tiger skin upholstery and the liquid crystal glaze on the body lit up with animated JPEGs of Winston Churchill smoking a bong and bitch slapping Stalin and Maraget Thatcher.

They picked up Achlis and Heph at Miss Silk’s, a genteel whorehouse that catered to only the most interesting and initiated individuals. Miss Silk was an ageless Octoroon woman of striking beauty; rumor had it that she had been the Mistress of Robert E. Lee though when pressed on the matter, she would only smile and say that a woman never revealed her lovers or her age.

“Have fun, gentlemen?,” Holte asked with a smile as they drove to their meet.

“Well the Christian Science reading room was all full,” Achlis intoned with mock gravity.

“And besides,” added Heph. “Miss Silk serves a mean buffet.”

They walked into Dutery’s to find it empty save for one table set with coffee and napoleons. On one side sat Wheel, smiling and enjoying a rich cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain/Kona/Zanzibar/cognac from the time of Andy Jackson blend and a napoleon. On the other side sat Doctor Curare, smiling that malevolently wry grin of his. Behind him were his Jaguar Women, genetically enhanced, masterfully trained.

The swordswoman Flamenca whose eyes glittered as she noticed the Green Destiny blade riding on the ‘Hero’s hip.

Ocelot, whose hands went to the holstered pistol at her side in a slow, yet deliberate manner.

And deadly little Mariposa who stood perfectly still.

With a casual air, Actionhero, Quentin Holte, Achlis and Heph sat at the table. The silence built for another few moments.

Finally Actionhero spoke.

“So, sitting here in front of coffee and pastry, heavily armed and just waiting for the sudden violence to break out. Just like old times.”

They all laughed, the tension easing.

Actionhero continued. “I guess we all know the score. Padraig is in trouble. Again. And we need to rescue his monkey ass. Again. Just like old times.”

“You’re out to rescue Padraig,” Curare said. “I’m along for the ride just to teach these Estros a lesson.”

Holte shook his head. “But these Estros are tough. They’re not your ordinary bimbo assassins, Curare. They’re defiantly on the next level.”

“Says you, Holte,” Curare said easing back in his seat. As if bidden by a silent command, Flamenca handed him a slim cigar and Ocelot lit it. “No all of us would get out asses knocked across the City. And my assassins are far from ordinary. Or would you like to go a few rounds with Mariposa.”

“Now Curare, we wouldn’t want that,” Wheel interjected. “That just might prove something. At any rate, Quentin is right. The Estros are tough. They’ve got resources the average Invisible doesn’t have, not the least of which is Oblivion and his shadow tech.”

Heph shrugged. “Still, its not like we’re exactly light weights.”

Achliss nodded. “Come on, it can’t be as bad as the Buckingham Hive.”

Actionhero looked around the table and went Ozymandias for a second. Then he swore loudly. They all looked at him.

“Shit. Shit Shit Shit. Damn that Circe and her distraction. Can’t think straight. Look around, gentlemen. What do you see?”

“The best damn collection of Initiated men in this reality,” Heph said. “Like I said, it’s not like we’re not the best.”

“Exactly! The Best. All in one place, all at one time. They already have Padraig, the voice and the Face. Now there’s Heph, the consummate connoisseur and troubadour historian. Achlis, the combat mage without peer. Quentin Holte, the adventurer charmer. Curare, the mystery man from exotica. Wheel, the ultimate conspiracy’s ultimate conspirator. And me, Actionhero, the hero for any genre.”

Around the table, faces began to pale as understanding began to sink in.

“Padraig has the drama and Heph the soul. Achlis is the wild one from the North and Curare’s the Latin stallion. Quentin, well he’s the living legend. Wheel makes it all mad and beautiful and me, I bring the Action.

“They’re building a harem gentlemen. And we’ve been brought here to fill it.”

And then, surreal violence broke out.

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