Man of Mystery

2005-04-21 - 10:41 a.m.

Valentines Night

10:12 PM, New York

“His this is Quentin Holte, ace reporter. I’m out on assignment right now or maybe even off world, so leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

~BEEP~

“QUENTIN!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT’S KID KABUKI!! HEPH’S BEEN SHOT BY LADY J AND THE CRIPPLE, ASWIPE IS BACK!!!!!!! CALL ME RIGHT AWAY MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!”

10:24 PM, The Layla

Lady Jean slowly lit a Silk Cut as she watched the monitors from Heph’s bedroom on the Layla . Kid Kabuki and her boy had arrived at the ship too soon after she’d killed Heph, or at least thought she did. Luckily they didn’t know the ship like she did. Her hand hovered over the console, pausing only as she decide which weapons to use to dispose of the Invisibles.

“Tesla Cannon? The modified Million-Round-a-Minute Vickers? Hmm, I always liked that Rail Gun Heph was so proud of, what did he call it…ooh, yes, the ‘Sid Vicious.’ Decisions, decisions.”

“No my dear,” the Cripple’s voice broke into her mind. Even though he had left to handle “other business,” she knew he was always insider her, in more ways than one. “Leave them. Remember what is important.”

“Finishing what I started is important. Besides, if I let them go they will warn the others, if the fucking Invisible Frequency hasn’t already.”

“Now, now. The others are of no consequence. They will get theirs soon enough. Besides, Kid Kabuki is something of a spitfire and I wouldn’t want to take the risk of her hunting you.”

“Her skills are overrated. She always thought she was better than me but I think it’s time I proved to her who the baddest bitch in the Invisible Internationalé is.”

“No. Wait for them to take Heph’s body and then continue with my plan.”

“But…

Her words were cut off by a violent stab of pain, raping its way through her mind.

“Do I make myself clear?” the Cripple’s voice asked, all acid and broken glass.

“Ye—yes, Boss.” Lady Jean said as she gripped the sides of the console, her vision swimming. She felt his presence leaver her and shit lit another cigarette as she watched Kid Kabuki and her boy leave, taking Heph’s body away. Checking the scanners to make sure they were gone, she activated her ThoughtLink to the Layla’s FoldSpace Drive and blinked the ship to its new home.

12:15AM, The Metropolitan Avenger Daily Newspaper, The City
Another night—Valentines Day Night no less—and Kat “Skritch” Thryn sat in her office and smoked a clove, watching the news feeds. It was becoming a habit, having no life save the Paper. Britt Reed, the publisher and ostensibly her boss, had told her once (on one of the few times he actually dropped by the place) to be careful. That the smoking and the drinking and the pills and the adultery and the homicide that seemed to be the shell of a life of every single previous Editor-in-Chief of The Metropolitan Avenger had really been cased by one simple addiction: the Paper itself. She’d laughed and told him to shut up and pass the scotch but now, as she spent another night putting the paper to press that she really didn’t have to, as she thought about the rushed date she’d been on that she’d spent wondering about her latest inside scoop tip, she wondered if he didn’t have a point.

The door to her office opened and Ben “Jack” Ruby entered: City Desk editor, elitist liberal intellectual, possible Mossad sleeper, and member of the old alma mater. If anyone was more addicted to the paper than she was it was Ruby.

“Hey weren’t you on a date?” he asked as he helped himself to the booze in her office bar.

“Weren’t you?”

“Yeah, turned out she was a neo con,” Ruby laughed pouring himself a absinth martini. “Almost passed out when she heard where I worked. Which was cool because frankly, I almost vomited when I heard how much she loved Ann Coulter. So I thought I’d come in and get a head start on my editorial. Nothing cures bad taste aftertaste like taking a journalistic shit on the conservative machine running this fucking City. I’m going to see if I can work in ‘Ann Coulter, W’s cum rag.’ How was your date?”

“I got a hot tip from one of my govt. sources that some heavy shit was going down tonight so I ducked out before desert.”

“Hot tip?”

“Yeah. He’s a wonk over at the Von Braun rocketplex, says someone’s doing some black bag stuff, turning away spy sats, creating a blind spot around South Florida. Thought it was worth checking out.”

“Really? Is it for the Alien Landing or the Reptile People invading from Dimension X?”

“Ha ha, asshole.” She looked at him and then shook her head. “We have no lives.”

Ruby shook his head and slumped into a chair. “None what so ever.”

“Want to get high?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She reached into her desk and pulled out the baggie of opium-blended hashish Quentin Holte had given her after his last trip to Marrakesh. Just as she packed the carved Berber kif pipe her computer chirruped and a new window appeared.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!”

“What is it?!?” Ruby was behind her desk in a flash. “FUCKING HELL?!?! Did someone set off a nuke? Where is this coming from?!?!?”

“Live streaming video feed from some kind of Black Satellite over…the Everglades.”

“Tell me you’re saving this,” Ruby breathed.

“Oh yeah. Authentication tags and everything.”

“Then you know what to say. And you know you want to say it.”

Kat smiled and hit the interoffice phone to the printing press. “STOP THE FUCKING PRESSES!!”

1:00 AM, Techyoto Tower, The City

Tadashi “Kenny” Kenichi, Techyoto’s youngest division head and fastest rising star all but ran through the tower’s hallways and offices, heading into the executive apartment area. Kenny was something of a legend in the company: only in his early 20s but already running the major division of Techyoto Media. He’d already pushed the subsidiary networks and marketing firms to peak profits and had engineered sixteen major trends and had done it all by pure raw talent and force of will. He had also spurred thirteen rumors of infidelity, sodomy, murder and rape that brought down by no less than 25 high ranking business and political figures just for fun. He was one of the smoothest industrial espionage spymasters in the Game, running disinformation and intel. ops that had earned the respect of Kasigi Omi, the VP of Special Operations, and even Techyoto’s Chairman Mako. He was part of Techyoto’s inner circle, and he’d done it all without any help from his father, a top ranking Yakuza Oyabun and board member who never really acknowledged their relationship.

Opening the door to Omi’s suite without bothering to knock or otherwise announce himself, something that few people in the world would have dared or lived to regret, he walked through the massive luxury apartment into Omi’s relaxation room, where the VP of Special Operations was slowly pacing the room, holding a long bamboo whip, a loose kimono falling over his custom sculpted frame. In the center, as always, was the bound Tetsu-ko

Tetsu-ko, Omi’s “Lady of Steel.” He’d bought her off of one of Japan’s secret ninja clans, the best assassin available, and then had Techyoto outfit her with the latest in cybernetic implants. They’d replaced her arms and legs, given her every advanced cyberweapon they could and even a few “pleasure” enhancements. Everything to make her the perfect mistress/bodyguard/assassin. But when they worked on her nerves, somewhere between the enhanced reflexes and the pain editing, wires got crossed and she became hyper tactile, her sense of touch jacked up by the SimSense contact surfaces on the cyberlimbs, the neural computer in her brain’s pleasure/pain center, and that special kink in her own psyche. Senses overlapped and merged, Feel becoming a drug for her. Pain was a beautiful sunrise, leather felt like Mozart, nickel-plated steel like chocolate, hot blood and severed flesh like sex in a hot Tokayo rainstorm and Kenny knew that every time she killed people, she had orgasms. Omi had noted this and given Cybernetics Division a 100% raise.

“Ah Kenny,” Omi said finally noticing him. “Did we have a meeting?” Omi may have been a feared, merciless killer to everyone in the world, but when it was just the three of them he seemed more relaxed and normal. Except for his fetishes but then, Kenny was used to that. Growing up in an Osaka sex club you learned to be pretty liberal and compared to the things he’d seen, Omi was almost vanilla. At least he didn’t enjoy human flesh sashimi.

“Sorry, Omi-san. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Something has happened.”

“Don’t be shy Kenny. I’m just giving our little Tetsu-chan here a bit of a reward. She’s gotten Inspector Xhou and his little ‘Hat Squad’ on board with the plan.”

Kenny looked at the bound Tetsu-ko. She had been positioned with exquisite care, suspended from a chain from the ceiling, her body posed into an almost intricate shape, arms and legs stretched or tucked, restrained by smooth rope woven with both silk and coarse hemp crisscrossing over her naked taut flesh and metal. A steel bit in her mouth held by leather straps across her face and, just because Omi had that kind of a sense of humor, a few exotic bouquets of flowers had been arranged strategically over parts of her body. The look on her face was one of pure soul damning ecstasy.

“I can see that she’s most grateful,’ Kenny said. He was used to this sort of thing from the two of them. In a way, it was one of the healthier relationships he’d seen. “But I think you may want to see this.” He walked over to the computer and pulled up a live feed of a massive explosion.

“Yes,” Omi said shrugging, letting his bamboo whip idly stroke Tetsu-ko, who whimpered and shuddered at the touch. “The Everglades. I know.”

“How?”

“Our contact from the Invisible College told me about it.”

“And our plans?”

“Moving along perfectly. This event in the Everglades only helps it. Have you set up the meeting?”

“I’m in the early stages,” Kenny said, lighting a Mild Seven form the crumpled pack in his jacket pocket. “You can’t rush protocol on this, Omi. We’re still too new to the City. No one trusts us.”

“They will.”

Kenny shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette on Tetsu-ko’s naked back. She yowled like a cat in heat as the orgasm hit her. Kenny began to laugh.

“Oops.”

Omi waved his hand dismissively. “It’s okay. We were just getting started. But hurry the meeting along, Kenny. I wand to talk to the Syndicate Lords. The sooner they join our little cause, the sooner Suki Katayama can enjoy the same ‘rewards’ Tetsu-ko does.”

2:25 AM, Northern Redneck Ghettos of the KFC Corridor, The City

The Hanzo sword flashed like summer lightning, cutting flannel and redneck abdomen, spilling bloods and entrails on the floor in a gristly flood of viscera. The second flash took the redneck’s head off so smooth the cowboy hat was still on it as it tumbled to the floor. Silky Sakai, half black, half Jap, all pimp, internationally renowned ladies’ man, professional gentleman of leisure and master of “That Psycho Musashi Shit” finished move with a slow graceful spin, and the paused, holding his katana at the ready as he scanned the main room of “Joyland Honkytonk Bar and Roadhouse.” Bodies lay on the floor, in various pieces and states of dying. In the crowd: faces frozen in awe and fear at his “Seven Second Swordfight Style” that had taken the redneck bar apart in a half dozen hillbilly heartbeats.

“Okay, you cracker ass bitches. Let’s try that one more time.” He held up a small pocket Sony holo-projector and keyed up an image of some kind of large oblong shape, all smooth and featureless like some kind of giant skinny plastic dinosaur tooth. Suddenly the object seemed to open up, segments of it deploying, moving as aside like a Transformer robot on crack. Pistol grip, numerous barrels, sights and scopes.

“More than meets the eye, right bitches?” Silky asked the room. “You know I know that semis carry this shit have been hired out of the trucking stations here!! And you know that I know that some of you peckerwood gaijin claim to have seen this shit in person, called ‘em ‘Zorg guns!’ That’s a name that you cow fucking shit kickers would NEVER come up on your own so I want to know where this shit was headed!! Answer me you pale ass, grits and corn bread eatin’ sister-brother inbred fucking gap toothed Deliverance extra motherfuckers before we have some drama like Kurosawa!!” He noticed the blank look and sighed. “Before I fuck your shit up like a Earnhardt’s last ride. Damn, I should just execute all you ignorant motherfucker crack ass cracker Eta caste sons of bitches for making me use a NASCAR ref.”

A girl, trying to look too hard like Faith Hill and failing miserably, wearing daisy dukes and a rebel flag halter, spoke up drunkenly. “We don’t fucking know all right you nigger chink!! Just get the hell out!!”

She gulped and regretted it immediately as Silky approached her with a panther grace, a predatory walk to match the gleam in his eye.

“I’m sorry? Did you just call me…?” He shook his head and looked around the room with an air of sarcastic shocked confusion. He looked back at the girl and gave her the full on Pimp Samurai Stare.

“Is Silky Sakai gonna have to choke a bitch?”

“NO!!” the girl said, falling to her knees, cling to Silky’s legs, and begging for mercy. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Daddy!! I don’t know who’s paying for the trucks but I do know one shipment went to some warehouse down south in Bordertown!! Please don’t hurt me….”

With a shrug Silky pulled away from the girl and walked to the bar. With a slick fast move he thrust his katanna to the bar tender, stopping it just before his throat. “Got any smooth refreshing malt liquor back there, nigga?”

The bartender nodded, sweat beading on his doughy white flesh.

“Then pour some on my blade and clean it off. There seems to be cracker blood on it.”

Predator Pimp eyes scanned the room. No one moves, no one made a sound. The men had fear in their eyes. The women, fear and lust. When the sword was cleaned, Silky sheathed it back in this black lacquered pimp stick and walked out shaking his head.

Goddamn I hate this City. No one here knows me or my rep and some one always gotta step to a samurai nigger and start some Noh-shit drama.. But then, as he got into the chauffeured limo and looked at the flirty smiled the driver girl gave him he smiled. But that Sonny Chiba shit’s like Colt 45. Works every time.

“Where to sir?” the driver girl asked.

“Back to the hotel. Silky needs to rest.”

“Yes sir.”

“That means I’m going to be lying back and you’re going to be doing all the work.”

“YES sir!”

“For a while anyway.”

He flipped on the small TV in the limo with a grin to see how the Sea Devils baseball team was doing when he noticed the message on the wrist computer that Gonzo given him.

YOU HAVE ONE UNREAD MESSAGE. IT IS URGENT.

“Damn, why does everyone IM me during a sword fight.” He keyed it and read the simple message.

REICHENBACH.

On the Action Frequency.

“Drivergirl! Man of Mystery, Inc., The Savage Building in Old Down Town and don’t spare the motherfucking horses!!”

to be continued...