Into the Dentverse

For those who have a way with words.
mrdent12
Posts: 4215
Joined: Sat Nov 05, 2016 8:10 pm

Re: Into the Dentverse

Post by mrdent12 »

And Starting a New Job

Awake

When people speak of nothing, they are speaking bullshit. Nothing, true nothing, is well nothing. Words cannot describe or capture how barron it is of anything and at the same time not being while still being. Many have tried to describe it as limbo. Yet, limbo still implies a place. A place, by definition cannot be nothing. Others capture it as an unimaginable white area devoid of anything including substance for the mind to grab. Some even say nothing is just describing an absence of things. They are all right. They are all wrong.

Ronald found out the true paradoxical nature of nothing first hand. After the destruction of his reality, nothing was all that was left. Somehow, maybe by virtue of being the catalyst or being spared by some random god which people happened to be right about existing, Ronald had survived the final purge of the endless cycle of death. All that he knew now was that he had nothing. Nothing except himself. Even having himself was a debate raging in his mind given “looking” around and not seeing anything. No endless white, no darkness, and no anything. His eyes looked and spectral wings flapped, but his eyes didn’t behold anything. It was nothing, but a nothing place. Was this his after life?

Desperately reaching out for something concrete, Ronald felt his hands. Check. Legs, check. Head, check. Spectral claws, check. Oddly shaped ears, check. A head not quite symmetrical that somehow managed to attract the ladies when there was some about still, check. All of his anatomical features seemed to be present. That was all there seemed to be.

An indeterminate amount of time passed, if time even existed in nothing. Space, aside from himself, didn’t exist. Unless he brought time with him, time likely didn’t exist. All of the usual signs of time passing such as hunger, thirst, exhaustion, change in environment, and decay didn’t seem to exist in nothing. There were no pearly gates or screams of agony, so no classical heaven or hell to explain the lack of anything or time, as best he could gather. In his life, he had written enough about gods to know all after lifes were unique. As best he could assume now, he was bound to float(?) or persist in whatever or wherever he happened to be in nothing.

This new revelation just made Ronalds mind wander even more. If he was to remain in this state of being or non being or something else, would he be cognizant of the time passing at all? Was he to remain eternally like an imbecile who can’t fathom time? Much to his shock, these questions didn’t alarm him in the slightest. After wiping out two realities, not much raises one's alarm. His wondering was more of a philosophical question only his mind could answer if in fact he had a mind at all. This current state of whatever might just be the dream of a butterfly or conjuring of an evil demon.

After what was maybe forever or just a few minutes, something stirred in the nothing. A classical white backdrop formed all around him in a cube like area big enough to be a good sized room based on the corners forming. Rising up from the bottom of the cube was a green metallic garden table complete with two wicker chairs made of bamboo weaving and having white pristine cushions on the seats. On top of the table, a pitcher with a yellow substance materialized. It looked like lemonade. On the edge of the pitcher, half a lemon formed on top of it as if someone had just put it on the pitcher for one of those ads about a picturesque picnic. Next to the pitcher, two glasses formed. There was nothing special about the glasses Ronald could see. They were just two generic glasses.

Cautiously, Ronald went up to the table and swished the pitcher around. It moved like lemonade. He put his nose close to it and took a big whiff of it. It smelled like lemonade. With his right hand, he patted the chair cushion behind him pressing his hand into the cushion which reformed just like any proper cushion should. Taking a chance, he sat down. Like every garden chair before this one, it was a perfectly acceptable cushion and the structure was strong enough. Less cautiously now, Ronald put his hand on the circular metal table feeling its smoothness to the touch with that familiar coldness of metal feel to it. His next act was a rational one in his mind, picking up the glass. From nothing, to a table, two chairs, a pitcher of lemonade, and two glasses Ronald was thoroughly confused.

The whole setup reminded him of days where he would sit around with Abigal in Georgia who he was dating mainly because she was extremely attractive and friendly. Plus, she was a great inspiration for his book in progress at the time Zeus Meets His Match. Put the items in any number of places and they’d fit right in. As these thoughts crossed his mind, the room morphed again into a green field with a soft wind from the north. There were trees two hundred or so feet away in any direction. The sun was high in the sky, but not too hot on his skin. It was just the right amount of heat. Birds started chirping in the trees.

“Well, are you going to pour out two glasses already?”, came out from somewhere.

Meeting the Host

In the imagination wars, Ronald had fought his fair share of invisible men. They were the favored foot soldiers of the forces from the realm of imagination due to their abundance. Everyone had a nightmare or dream depending on the person of some invisible being watching them or doing other acts against them. Much to Ronalds surprise at the time, they were more abundant than dragons. So, when the voice spoke Ronald wasn't phased.

“You drink lemonade on its own? I’m not sure where I am, but it can’t be anywhere civilized. Proper lemonade needs a little something extra to give it just the right amount of kick without going overboard. You did a well enough job on the other details. I’ll give you that. For the lemonade, I didn’t get even a hint of something special.”, remarked Ronald. He wasn’t sure which way to speak as was usually the case with invisible creatures, so Ronald opted for sitting down and speaking towards the other chair. No use wasting a perfectly good chair.

A slight chuckle came from somewhere. “The destroyer of two realities and you don’t miss a beat with the clever retorts. Probably part of why it didn’t take you itself. There are more than enough clever people who vanish into it. If I had to count the number of clever people who passed into nonexistence, I’d be here forever. There wouldn’t be a chance to get anything else done.”, responded the voice. It was good natured and relaxed sounding as if time and everything really had no meaning at all.

In the chair across from Ronald, a figure started appearing. Slowly, a proper English gentleman dressed in a bowling hat, black slacks, black coat, black vest, and white shirt with a hand on a cane materialized. The figure wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t thin either. His face was round, but not too round as to be off putting or obnoxious to onlookers. As for height, he was about 5’5 not counting the black shoes which added an inch or so because of the thick souls. All told, he could pass for a forgettable person quite easily.

“So where is this place? You are God or something of that sort I assume.”, said Ronald. His hand reached for the pitcher before looking at the figure again. “Mind making a proper pitcher for a conversation?”, added Ronald.

Nodding his head agreeably, the figure looked at the pitcher. Nothing seemed to change except the distinctive odor of bourbon coming from the pitcher. “Better?”, asked the figure.

Ronald reached for the pitcher and poured himself a glass. If he was going to be stuck here, might as well partake in all the amenities it provided. As a nicety, he poured another glass as well, passing it to the figure. “Now that the lemonade mistake is out of the way, I don’t suppose we can’t make some introductions. Ronald Green, acclaimed writer of a world no longer in existence by my own hand. I’d bore you with the story, but suspect you already know it. Which deity do I have the pleasure of sharing a pitcher of lemonade with?”, enquires Ronald.

“Deity? Where? I simply live here, when it suits me. As for my name, feel free to call me Ralph. I’ve always liked that name. Solid, but still a working man like name. After your little skirmish, I half expected you to perish as well. Trust me when I say I am as shocked as you about running into you in the inbetween.”, says Ralph cordially.

That was a new name. One of Ronalds old mates had been big on writing graphic novels on dimensional travel. He had gone on and on about a multiverse. If, the theory went, the school had a portal into imaginations there were bound to be other places and other portals. New lands where the sky was orange or dogs ruled the world. His graphic novels did rather well because of diving full on into the idea of a multiverse. In none of the stories was a place between dimensions mentioned. Portals just opened up like doors. “Well Ralph, if by some lucky turn where I’m just too clever to be taken into nonexistence because it hits its quota, I am stuck in this inbetween place I suppose bound to be in this meadow or in whatever I was before?”, inquired Ronald not letting his mind drift get in the way of getting answers.

Just shrugging, Ralph didn’t seem inclined to answer. “This is the inbetween, it is what you make of it. After your skirmish, I figured you could use a bit of a rest. In my reality, making what one's fancy appear is commonplace. It drives new parents, when they decide to dream up a child completely up the walls with the things their children create. One of my mates back in that reality, before it destroyed itself, thought it would be grand to have four children. You can imagine the chaos that caused. I suppose it was the dream creation that was my reality undoing just like yours was breaking the borders between imagination and normal world..”, said Ralph with a hint of sadness at the end.

Unfortunately, Ronald knew all too well what Ralph was saying. Having to destroy his reality weighed on his soul like a ten ton weight. It was best not to dwell on it. “So you are saying I can create anything I want here?”, asked Ronald not so subtly, ignoring the last bit of Ralphs remarks. Ronalds eyes shifted to the table and an image of snickerdoodle cookies, freshly baked, formed up in his mind and like someone swiping on a tablet dragged the plate mentaly to the table. Much to his delight, they appeared. Their aroma was perfect. The scent of cinnamon filled the air adding to the buffet of delicious scents.

“Anything you want within your ability.”, chimed in Ralph. “A plate of cookies is one thing. Making whole pocket worlds takes one practiced in the art plus no small part of natural talent. I didn’t do all of this though so we could have a pleasant chat. I really don’t know why you were spared, but I’m glad you were. Before talking business though, let's see how those snickerdoodles taste.”, said Ralph. He reached over to the plate and grabbed one of the still warm cookies. Putting it into his mouth a smile of delight crossed his face.

Business

Ronald grabbed a cookie as well munching on it. It was just warm enough and had the right composition of cinnamon, sugar, and cream. The taste reminded him a bit of the reality he lost. “So, you are a messenger or someone who just wants to offer me a job to break the tedium of the inbetween?”, asked Ronald. He had plenty of time, if time was even a thing anymore, so why not spin it with a job or two. At Least it would stop him going crazy with idle philosophy.

“You could call me a messenger, envoy, ambassador, or whatever you like. Names and titles are such fluid things. Once, I was called a mruph. No idea what it meant in the language of the people who called me it, but I keep trying to make it stick and no one seems to use it. I suppose you won’t either.”, says Ralph. Sipping some of the spiked lemonade, he continues his proposition. “You could live here for all time, after all nothing ages here. You won't grow old, die, or even get hungry just because that whole silly notion of time doesn't have anything to go off here.”, adds Ralph.

Interjecting a bit before Ralph could keep going, Ronald quickly breaks the flow of the thought. “So, you are saying I could be stuck here forever? No pearly gates or big halls full of rowdy warriors to welcome me after a well fought battle?”, asked Ronald a bit off balance now. He wasn't too keen on just milling about for all eternity.

Ralph nods. “Like I said, you could just hang out here and practice making things. Maybe one day you can make your own pocket dimension. You’d certainly have time to perfect the art. If that isn’t interesting to you, I have a job offer that the creator of all asked me to extend to you. They really aren’t that bad once you get to know them. At first, they come across as a bit stuffy. They warm up, sort of. I avoid them when I can, so take it as you will.”, says Ralph waffling between complimenting and sniping. His vocal tone has the same waffling quality to it.

“So, you are pitching me a job for someone you like or don’t like, maybe both as far as I can tell. That doesn’t inspire much confidence in the job you are going to pitch. I’ve heard better from a five year old running a lemonade stand.”, remarks Ronald.

Letting out a bit of a chuckle, Ralph continues. “Take it, don’t take it. All the same to me really. I’d say don’t shoot the messenger, but you in your imagination wars your lot shot plenty of them.”, Ralph retorts back.

Feigning to look offended, Ronald couldn’t help but smile. Despite losing his reality, this chat was soothing in a way that overcame the sadness. “Well get on with it then. I only have forever.”, retorts Ronald.

“It's quite a simple and complicated job. You’d be saving realities from themselves. The creator of all sends you someplace, you save it, and all that business. I’ve been doing it for a bit on and off as I get bored making pocket dimensions. You’d think making a pocket dimension of women who only want to please you would be amusing, but there turns out to be only so many times you can do a reverse floating bamble flip with five women before it gets old.”, offers Ralph.

Putting the name for what is presumably a sex act aside, Ronald noddled on the offer. It’s not like he didn't have the credentials. After destroying two realities, he knew what not to do. On the other hand, it wasn’t trivial work either and the creator mentioned didn't seem big on details. “Just me? No team?”, inquires Ronald.

“You could make a team wherever you go? I make them all the time. When you offer up the chance to save all of reality there is no shortage of heroes willing to jump into battle for the glory or whatever drives them. One girl just wanted a pizza ball.”, said Ralph.

“Ok, fair point. I don’t have powers to just hop between dimensions, so I’d be stuck wherever until I get brought back to here? Also, what are the benefits? Retirement plan? Dental?”, further inquired Ronald cheekily.

Starting to look a little bored, Ralph gets to the point. “I don’t have all the answers. Maybe they’ll give you some power to dimension hop and maybe you just have to finish up your task. You could hang about in the inbetween forever instead. Either way, I gotta get an answer. They aren't super patient creator. Have you seen all the rush jobs? In your reality, people were just so sloppily pieced together.”, says Ralph.

It struck Ronald just than that Ralph might know more of what went on with the battle that ended his reality than was being let on. “Hold on”, said Ronald putting down his glass. “You weren’t assigned to save my reality and just slacked off right?”, asked Ronald now starting to feel less than relaxed.

“No, I was just watching. Someone else, Bandito, a snake like creature was given that job. He’s really bad at it. When the first nuclear missiles were launched, he just gave up.”, says Ralph now starting to sound a little agitated. “This isn’t some pity party though. You gotta let me know now.”, urges Ralph.

“Fine, I'll take the job.”, flatly says Ronald. Knowing someone was sent to save his reality and just gave up was disheartening. All that death, all that destruction, and all that carnage just because someone who was given a job couldn’t do it. It didn’t sound like an easy job, but maybe, just maybe he could save another reality, the fate his reality suffered.

A door opened in the middle of the open field. It was a plain wooden door with nothing special about it. “All you need to do is walk through that door.”, said Ralph.

Finishing up the glass that was nearly empty in front of him, Ronald grabbed a handful of cookies and started walking to the door. “Wherever this is taking me, at least I won’t be nowhere. Takes for the refreshments. See you another time, maybe.”, says Ronald tipping an imaginary hat before turning the door handle to open the door and walking through it.
mrdent12
Posts: 4215
Joined: Sat Nov 05, 2016 8:10 pm

Re: Into the Dentverse

Post by mrdent12 »

New King of Brooklyn Part 1

Christmas Eve at the Pub

“You scumbag, you maggot. You cheap lousy fagot”, sang the crowded McGreavy’s pub in unison on Christmas Eve with most of the words being garbled. Luckily, it was one of the few songs sobriety wasn’t required to sing. In fact, if sung sober it missed the slurring of the words and various vocal inflections the Pogues so masterfully added. Someone had asked for a Christmas song from the live band and it being an Irish pub distributing the last round of drinks before people dispersed back to their homes it was Fairytale of New York. No other song would do.

Pints of beer and glasses of whiskey swayed in the air with most spilling only just a few drops. For a packed pub with freezing temperatures outside, the patrons were surprisingly agile when it came to their drinks. Much less so their other movements. “The boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay.”, continued the drunken singers. It was the kind of celebration not many other places outside of New York except Ireland could pull off. Most had wives or girlfriends who pleaded with them to join them at church or the meal with the in-laws, but what they didn’t understand was this was the drunken singers' worship and family celebration. No one cared if you were rich or poor, so long as the tab got paid. Gay, straight, both ways, or any number of words for one's sexual preferences didn’t matter at this moment. White, black, yellow, or red race didn’t exist here and now. Right now, everyone was drunk and singing. There was a special sense of unity in the air.

Among the sense of unity was Russian Bratva downing vodka next to Irish mobsters slamming Jameson shots, Yakuza downing cheap imitation Saki with Triads, and Italians joining the mix drinking whatever they felt. Amidst the people just looking to have a good time was the annual rotating get together of the major criminal elements in the city. For two days, they put all grievances aside. Two days of peace and a truce for Christmas it didn’t matter which family one belonged or organization one had been inducted. Each took turns playing hosting duties and this year it was the Irish mobs.

One of their main places of doing business was out of McGreavy’s. On the surface, it was a rowdy Irish pub with an open area for the band and more private areas to sit with big booths. The place looked like it was transplanted from Ireland. For a mob front business, it was surprisingly welcoming to anyone who ventured in and the food and drink never disappointed. On Yelp it had a five star review. Flags of Ireland lined the walls mixed with posters from films glamorizing the IRA and wooden carvings of various Irish whiskeys. Families had lunch or Sunday breakfast as part of their routines. Cops even rented out space from time to time for events of their own when they wanted the authentic Irish feel for their fundraisers or parties. Unless one knew the underbelly of New York, they’d never even know it was a front business.

Mingling with the drunken crowd that night was someone who just arrived back in New York via JFK that knew exactly what the place really was and what was going on that night, aside from the party-like atmosphere. A little more aged now, he could still cut the figure of a retired footballer despite never kicking a ball related to football in his life. He’d kicked plenty of other balls. In his hands was two pints of beer with fourteen more sitting next to him empty. Both were waved high into the air. “And the bells were ringing out for Christmas day.”, finished the band as the pub put down their collective glasses.

“You have a pair showing your face in this place Rick.”, said a voice from behind the man. It was the kind of voice that would make most men piss their pants and wish they had made better life choices. The gravel in it alone would grind away at a man’s will to fight. On this night though, no harm would come of it. Not in this place at least. Too much was on the line and conducting business was strictly forbidden punishable by death via a mutual agreement between all involved in the get together. Any punishment under the agreement would not blow back on the executioner. This was another thing the man the voice was directed knew.

Downing both pints as if they were nothing he signaled for two more plus the finest whiskey left. “They betrayed me first and tried to set me up for killing a cop. We both know I didn’t kill in my line of work. After that, they had the idea to kill the woman I loved and think I would just let it slide. Most of them got off easy with a few years. Now sit down and drink the whiskey I just ordered you. This is only your place because of what I did, so it’s the least you can do.”, grunts Rick. Behind the bar, the bartender brought two more pints and a glass of Teeling after getting a nod from the owner.

Begrudgingly, the muscular middle aged Irish man the voice belonged to took a seat. In a past life, the man wouldn't have been out of place in a bare knuckle brawl or in the boxing ring before age took its inevitable toll. “You sold out your family and for what? To be a rat for the feds and a new life in who the fucks knows where? If it wasn’t the Christmast truce most of the people here would shoot you where you drank. I’d give you a running start since one of the people you ratted out was my dad who beat me everyday. Serves him right to get beaten to death by that Mexican gang. You getting him out of my way though doesn’t buy you more than a head start. So, what gave you the stupid idea to come back here and this place of all places tonight?”, asked the man, softening up a little. His voice was still harsh and gravely, but had a more friendly type tone to it.

“Come on Mickey, can’t a guy get over a dozen pints at one of the best places to celebrate Christmas Eve according to Yelp?”, jokingly says Rick relaxed in an uneasy way. Despite the assurances of safety, he knew he was a marked man and marked men don’t just casually joke.

Taking another sip of the whiskey, Mickey looks Rick straight in the eyes as if trying to burn a hole in Rick's head. His tone was still below the clamoring of drunkards trying to find their cards to pay and phones to call an Uber or taxi since everyone knew the bouncer at the door took your keys at the door if you drank too much and looked to be going to your car. “You are a dead man for coming here. Now everyone knows you are back. Most of them might be shit faced drunk, but the ones who aren’t will tell everyone else. We should head to my private booth to get you out of everyone's sight. Least I can do is hear your last wish or confession or whatever it is you came here to say.”, says Mickey getting up to go to the only open booth tucked away in the corner. Rick followed suit taking the two pints with him and beckoning to the server to bring two more to the booth.

Finishing up one of the pints, Rick sat leisurely in the booth. “I know I’m fine until the day after Christmas. One of those stupid rules the Italians always told me to follow. Never conduct business on Christmas Eve and on Christmas. I’d say killing a rat would count as business, so the way I see it I have another day to live before they all come for my head. I’ll make it simple for them. Meet me at the docks in warehouse 26 the day after Christmas at 10 am. I can make my pitch and if you want to kill me after fine kill me or try to at least. You’d be surprised how much I’ve changed.”, says Rick.

Around the booth, people parted ways and started to shuffle out the door. The band was starting to pack up and chatting up some drunk women to come back to their hotel. From the corner, it was hard to tell when people were leaving, but when a thick Russian accent left the room it meant one less knuckle head remained. One of the things that always baffled Rick was why they always spoke in thick accents. Most were born in America.

“They’ll kill you on the spot. I don’t hold anything against you and you were a good contract earner for my family for many years. So, I’ll do you a favor and tell everyone you skipped town.”, replied Mickey, now sounding more sympathetic.

“The moment they walk into the warehouse they’ll probably start shooting me after giving me a long list of why I deserved to die. I’m counting on it. Now, you could give the message and I can pay my tab or I can go and talk to some of the Yakuza or Triad to spread the word. If you do it, they’ll be less of a mess. After you put so much into this shithole to make it respectable, I would hate for it to be tarnished by a fight.”, persists Rick.

Mickey just shakes his head. “Listen to me mate. There are better ways to die if you just want to die. I wouldn’t wish what some of them would do to you on anyone.”, pleaded Mickey. His voice was powerful yet much more compassionate now.

Rick wasn’t one to have his mind changed. “I don’t intend to die. In fact, I’d love to see them try. So stop playing priest and be the mob boss your dad beat you every day to become.”, retorts Rick with a voice becoming more forceful.

“You shut up about my dad. If you really want to speak to all of them, I'll arrange it. Your funeral.”, says Mickey, his own voice getting more threatening at the mention of his dad. ”10 AM at warehouse 26. It will be your last day so try to bring something nice and I’ll see to it they put it on you before burying you or what's left. I hope you came with a plan on how to survive that doesn’t entail fighting the others. Even if you win, they’ll just send more.”, grunts Mickey.

Around the corner, a thick Italian accented voice was butchering the Fairytale of New York. “You’re a bum your…”, started the singer before turning the corner and laying eyes on Rick. “You! Half my family is in prison because of you!”, exclaims the man. He lunges at Rick pulling out a pair of brass knuckles onto his fingers with a punch aimed squarely at Rick’s head. It missed wildly and slammed into the thick wooden booth made of sturdy wood that got new decent sized marks in it.

Only Mickey really sprung to attention. He was the host and it was his job to make sure rules were followed even if the attacker was well connected and drunk. Bringing his well trained fist up, Mickey slammed it into the drunkard's head. “You know the rules Lorenzo.”, said Mickey loud enough to make his point without attracting attention from the none the wiser patrons of the pub. “Any business you have with Rick waits until after the truce period ends. You and your lot have every reason to want him dead. So do I. We aren’t some gang of idiots or common crooks though. We have rules. It separates us from the animals we work together to keep down. Now piss off before I kill you.”, adds Mickey as Lorenzo scampers off.

“That was noble of you protecting me like that.”, remarks Rick amused. During the whole ordeal, he hadn’t even flinched.

Taking his seat again, Mickey just looked at Rick. “You really do have balls made of something else. Big ones at that. Lorenzo is deadly with those knuckles and you didn’t even flinch. Maybe you can survive a meeting with the families long enough to get one word in after all. Keep your head low and I’ll spread the word. Go see your real family maybe. You know, the one you almost killed to make your bones. One of them is still left I think.”, said Mickey.

“You don’t know the half about my balls.”, said Rick getting up to leave.

Christmas Eve’s Past

It had been a while since Rick saw his brothers. After nearly beating them to death, he forgot all about them really in favor of his new life that he had forged. Standing outside the apartment building of his last surviving brother, Rick couldn’t fathom how low Ben had fallen. It was one of those slum apartments under strict rent control where the owner didn’t care and rats ruled the hallways from their wall kingdoms. It had a smell of piss and backed up sewage lines. Gentrification hadn’t reached this area of the city and while some buildings had good landlords half were still standing because they couldn’t be sold. The family had been through hard times, but this hard was worse than ever.

According to the phone book, Ben lived on the third floor. Aside from the occasional wreath, there wasn’t much celebrating Christmas in the building. Walking down the street to the building, Rick had heard families singing carols and those who could afford a decent meal enjoying the last of Christmas Eve dinner of various meats plus sides. In this building, there was no holiday cheer.

As Rick progressed up the stairs he did hear noises, but they were not of the holiday variety. What sounded like an old man who smoked one too many fags was coughing up a storm with his hacks penetrating the walls. Children were crying out with parents trying to quiet them. One woman was sobbing uncontrollably, getting a few words about finding her husband dead the previous year around this time by his own hand. If he could feel cold anymore, he would have felt an iciness of the building that was a combination of the lack of a working heater and general aura of despair that permeated the building. Even the wreaths were withering.

Finally making it to apartment 301, Rick paused at the door. For a man who prided himself on being able to talk a desert nomad into buying sand and a sailor into buying sea water, he felt at a loss for words. Part of him felt a little remorse for bringing the brothers back under the thumb of the mafia. It wasn’t a huge part. Still, the conscience that he spent so long killing was almost regrown before his new love Melissa died of breast cancer not long after he got his powers. She was what kept him from coming back and on the path of not going too far after realizing he had few if any limits anymore. Her dying words were to go and see your brothers. Upon finding out they were mostly dead he resolved to see the one who was left to honor her.

Now that he was at the door, he didn’t know what words to say. This wasn’t a collection visit or calling in a favor type call where being a wise guy would suffice. Rick knew his actions probably drove Ben to these conditions. It was a dying wish though. He owed Mellissa this much.

Lifting his hand, he knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. No answer. Down the hall, an old woman opened her door to see what all the racket outside was about. She looked a hundred hunched over a walker, no teeth to speak of, and skin that bore the appearance of smoking too many fags back in the day. When she spoke, the lung damage was obvious. “You’ll have to knock louder than that if you want old Ben to hear ya. He’s near deaf and doesn’t hear much of anything anymore.”, says the woman coughing between words. She looked Rick over in his fine suit and expensive bottle of 20 year old scotch in hand as if he was an alien. “Who are you to him anyway? Trying to get him out?”, asked the woman.

“I’m his brother. I’ve been traveling about for a bit and lost touch with him. Thought I would surprise him on Christmas Eve. I don’t suppose you would know if he is in tonight? Maybe at a girlfriend or kids place?”, asked Rick. This was about the time he would bust open the door on most visits.

“Kids? Girlfriend? That slouch could barely get out of his wheelchair, much less get it up for a woman. Believe me, he’s tried. These walls are like paper. He called some girl over not too long ago and spent the night cussing at his below region to do something, anything even with those pills they have now. Bless the girl's heart though. She earned her money by trying to encourage him. Poor man spent the rest of the night after she left, crying himself to sleep.”, replied the old woman heading back into her apartment.

Instead of busting down the door like he was accustomed, Rick grabbed the handle and twisted until it gave up resisting him. Around the corner in the apartment came a man who looked to be in his mid seventies in blue pajamas pushing the wheels along on his cheap wheelchair. The man's bones in his hands were almost showing and face was near a skeleton. Ben was five years younger than Rick. When the man lifted his head, he looked up at Rick not with shock or surprise, but a resignation one has when they don’t really care anymore. Ben kept wheeling himself to the little kitchen area of the rundown one bedroom apartment. The place was littered with cockroaches. Some even crunched under the wheel of the chair. In the kitchen itself, it was mostly empty except for a cup of noodles and a dirty glass that had layers of filth from farther back than Rick was willing to acknowledge.

“What the hell happened to you Ben?”, is all Rick could muster to say. His brother looked like death itself and somehow still managed to be moving. He’d seen better living conditions in third world villages.

Ben for his part ignored Rick. He wheeled over to the glass and filled it with a greenish yellow water from the tap that as it filled the glass it took off some of the looser layers of filth that circulated in the water. Taking a sip of it, he put it back on the counter and turned back towards Rick. “What did you think would happen after you turned on us and ratted out the mafia? Eric and Nicholas died of the beat downs, but I survived stuck in this chair forever and my hearing was almost gone. The Italians took over our store and set up a gambling room in the back. Not that you would care about any of that though.”, grunts Ben. He reached up and took another sip of the liquid in the glass.

For a moment, Rick just stood there. He couldn’t fathom why they’d take it out on his brothers. “I didn’t know. It was the only way to escape the family and be with Margaret. When they killed Margaret, the feds put me into protection and I thought you would be fine since the last time we spoke I was roughing you up for not paying protection money. Why the fuck would they go after you?”, asked Rick rhetorically. He wasn’t expecting an answer.

“After you roughed us up, they doubled what we owed them. Almost everything we made from the store went to pay for protection. You got to live the high life of fancy suits, nice cars, any woman you wanted, and a luxury apartment. We had to live in this place just to have a roof over our heads. Once you turned rat, they fed a few to Eric and broke all of Nicholas’s limbs since they couldn’t get to you all in the name of your blood being shared with ours.”, says Ben angrily. His voice was frail, but the anger magnified it to a hint of youthfulness. His whole body shook as he spoke the words to Rick.

“I’m not going to apologize for what I did. It wouldn’t matter now anyway. I’m going to make them pay for Margaret, Eric, Nicholas, and you plus every other life they wrecked. I did what I had to do to escape the life of running a market under their thumb.”, says Rick, not sure of who he was trying to reassure. Apologizing wasn’t in his repertoire, so he was ill equipped for this. “Merry Christmas. Once I take care of business over the next few days I’ll come back for you and set you up somewhere nicer.”, adds Rick putting the bottle on the counter having more layers of dirt than a Sequoia had rings. Something inside him told him to stick around, but like his conscience it was not strong enough to fight the walk away instincts.

When Rick closed the door, he thought he heard Ben yell something. Even with the paper walls, what Ben said was inaudible, but Rick imagined it was a string of curses and not accepting charity from him. Standing outside the door, the voice in his head said to go back. Make amends. Reconnect with your brother. It was gaining steam and pushing hard against the walk away now voices that battled it. In the end, their battle was for naught. Three minutes later a loud bang went off in the apartment.
Last edited by mrdent12 on Mon Jan 02, 2023 8:05 am, edited 1 time in total.
mrdent12
Posts: 4215
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Re: Into the Dentverse

Post by mrdent12 »

New King of Brooklyn Part 2

Eviction

Just as the sun rose over the freezing streets of New York, Rick was already up and walking along the streets in a black suit towards his family's old store. Given the weather and time of day, the streets were mostly empty. Those without family or friends or church to visit weren’t stupid enough to go out in the cold this time of year at the break of dawn. Very few places would even be open. The Christmas day parade route had its usual people camping out with TV crews setting up, but outside of that area of the city it was a near ghost town.

Rick’s family market was in an area a bit aways from the parade route. It was streets he hadn’t walked in a while and the memories of his childhood rushed back to him and ran smack dab into memories of him betraying his family and old life for the new one he also ended up betraying. Bobby Brown, Jesse Smith, Max Hans, and so many other kids he used to play. After giving up on his birth family, he never kept in touch with anyone who might pull him back into the good son role of helping out the family. Nothing was going to stop him having a new family. A family that made sure he ate, was taken care of, didn’t need to share a room with three old people, and most of all made him feel like something more than just another poor kid in the neighborhood.

Upon seeing the run down store, closed for Christmas, he recalled why he left again. Even sort of reformed, he didn’t want this life of scraping by under the heel of some crime boss or another while others lived large. As best he could tell, it was still operational. For the most part, the shelves were stocked and there were advertisements for various sales just like any other business. It was even decked out for Christmas. Gone was the butcher section and frozen food area. Instead, the space looked smaller.

Seeing as he was now the rightful owner, Rick pulled the door open. Just enough to open it, but not enough to do real damage that a locksmith couldn’t repair if given proper payment or motivation. All was quiet in the front portion. It made sense. A closed store having someone working the counter or stocking shelves didn’t make much sense Christmas morning. Rick knew there was probably a camera watching his every move. The Italians weren’t idiots when it came to their front businesses much like the other families. After Rick had ratted everyone out and the feds came down hard on the families, they knew they had to wise up and at least pretend to have legitimate operations outside of their usual profit generating enterprises. It also meant they got with the times in terms of security measures. There wasn’t much old guard left to force the old ways on the new generations rising through the ranks.

Walking to the door marked employees only, Rick knocked. He looked around for the camera and waved at it. “Did I do the secret knock wrong? There is always a secret knock.”, said Rick loudly in his nice sort of voice.

There was no answer for thirty seconds of Ricks knocking every few seconds until finally he heard the locks behind the door get unlocked. Busting in now would have been a piece of cake with his new found strength, but he wanted to have some surprises for the following day. “You have some nerve showing up here.”, says a voice over the store intercom. It sounded familiar to Rick, but he just couldn’t place it. Usually, he was great with voices and how certain words were used, but he was drawing a blank right now.

“I just came to talk. Are you going to let me into the area that is the real purpose of this place or am I going to have to find my own way in?”asked Rick louder than before and shifted to his or else type voice. A nice voice didn’t work, so another voice might get different results.

Behind the door, the knob turned revealing the gambling room in all its glory. It wasn’t big by any measure, but it did allow for two craps tables, a poker table, and a guarded cage area. Even on Christmas morning, the degenerate gamblers were out. There was never a shortage of people wanting to test their luck against loaded dice or others they thought were worse poker players than them. Of the caliber of player who frequented a place like this backroom Christmas morning, a decent player could clean up pretty fast if any were so inclined to be out this early. As far as the decor went, it was as expected. Its clientele wasn’t too discerning so it still had the feel of a storage area except with better lighting and no storage.

From another door in the room, a man Rick knew instantly stepped out flanked by two body builder type bodyguards that put Arnold to shame. The mans’ eye was black and blue from being punched by Mickey the previous night. “You are lucky it’s Christmast. Otherwise you would be leaving this place in a body bag. What are you doing here?”, asked Lorenzo.

“So, the stoppage of business doesn’t pertain to gambling than. I just gotta know. Was your father telling me to not collect around this time out of the two day bullshit you all came up with or just his preference? Not that it matters much now since I don’t think you would hire me back on if I wanted to rejoin even.”, inquired Rick properly curious.

“It was a soft spot he had. He was into that Christmas spirit and thinking everyone should be at mass.”, simply replied Lorenzo. “Can you cut the sweet talk and just say what you came to say?”, Lorenzo added, visibly agitated. Some of the veins in his thick neck were starting to pop out.

Rick gave a smile, the sort of smile that he always gave when going to work. “I’ve come to evict you. With Ben dead and the deed to this place still in his name, if you haven’t changed that business practice too, the way I see it I own this place now. This is the sort of racket I got going for you guys all the time and everytime you kept it under the previous owner's name. It was a smart move really. When the cops came knocking, it was always someone else who took the fall. Well, now I own the place and want you out. It’s Christmas though, so I’ll give you until New Year's Eve to have everything out and packed up.”, stated Rick as his voice got harder and more threatening as he spoke.

Both of the too many steroids bodyguards and Lorenzo just looked at each other and laughed. “You are joking right?”, asked Lorenzo in disbelief.

Shaking his head, Rick looked deadly serious. “This place is mine now and after what you did to me and my family I want you out. If you think about it, I am doing you a courtesy by not just kicking you out today. You know, Christmas truce and all that. Since it doesn’t pertain to debts and collection though, I figure I can serve notice today. Unless you want to be out today of course.”, continues Rick now stoned faced.

“He’s doing business right boy’s?”, asked Lorenzo of the two bodyguards who nodded in agreement. “I thought so. If I were to kill you now, no one would touch me. Mickey sent out some runners with your planned meeting, but why wait to kill you there now that you violated the rules. You should have stayed gone.”, said Lorenzo menacingly.

Both of the bodyguards advanced on Rick who just stood there. As each tried to punch him, he looked at the fists that seemed to hit a brick wall and the owners who looked at Rick in utter disbelief. Angered by the lack of his reaction, both swung again with the same results except his black suit turned a little red from the fists starting to bleed. “You two have enough yet?”, asked Rick in the same manner one asks for a cup of coffee. Out of his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood off. It was going smoother than he expected.

Lorenzo, now with an expression of dread on his face pulled out his gun and fired off two rounds at Rick. Both hit, but just made holes in the suit. “What the fuck are you wearing a vest or something? No one is this tough.”, stammered Lorenzo. All of the degenerate patrons were scrambling out.

“You have until New Year's Eve. We could keep this up, but I’d really hate to be accused of nearly killing one of the family's high level bosses on Christmas day. It would ruin my whole pitch I have planned out for tomorrow. So, let's call it a draw. I like this suit and would hate to have it covered in the three of your blood today before going to mass. You see, I promised I’d light a candle for someone every year and plan to keep that promise. Going back to my hotel to change would be a hassle.”, explains Rick ignoring the gun pointed right at him.

“We’ll see who's the big man tomorrow.”, Lorenzo says after recovering from the shock of shooting someone twice with no visible effect at all. Rick didn’t bother to respond and walked out the way he came.

Meeting the Families

Rick had lied. He said to meet at 10, but he arrived at 9:15. While he didn’t need much sleep anymore, he spent the previous night getting a few hours in plus enjoying the streets all lit up. It took him back to when times were easier. Someone owed money, he paid them a friendly chat, maybe shared a pint or two, and collected in one way or another. Naturally, he’d prefer the envelope of cash. In some instances, a briefcase was needed for those who got too deep into it or just wanted to be more discrete. Afterward, Rick would take his cut and hit the town for drinks and girls, maybe taking in a show if the night called for it or the girl he was with insisted upon more than dinner and getting between the sheets.

Breakfast at Baccarat was always good and this morning was no exception. He woke up a bit late, so took the pancakes, caviar, three cheese omelet, and bacon in a to-go container. Part of arriving early was to eat a little and savor the taste of the food. He didn’t need to eat anymore. It didn’t mean he couldn’t taste though and caviar imported from Russia on a gourmet three cheese omelet topped with vande farms bacon always tasted good. The pancakes were so-so, but the syrup was divine.

For his table, he set up at the farther end of the warehouse next to some crates. There was a cluster of stronger looking ones next to his makeshift table, so he used those as a chair. They tried to give him some plastic ware, but he insisted on the metal one meant for dining at the hotel. His stay was planned for over a week, so it was the least they could do.

First to arrive was the Yakuza at 9:45. Each was dressed in a uniform black suit and white shirt holding a Tanto in their dominant hand. All told, there were nine of them with the new head of the local Yakuza leading followed by eight stronger looking guys that walked in unison with Hiroshi. “Should have figured you would be the first lot to arrive. You were always so punctual.”, remarked Rick chomping on a piece of bacon. “Not going to try and kill me as you walk in? Haru passed down his legacy well. In prison, I hear they are treating him like royalty.”, added Rick. None of the entourage or Hiroshi flinched. They just took up position as if waiting for others to arrive. In their eyes was rage, but none of them betrayed whatever plan had been hatched to make Rick pay for ratting them all out.

Lorenzo with eight thugs of various sizes were next to enter the warehouse. Unlike the Yakuza, the Italians were in suits of various styles and only a few had brass knuckles on their hands. For his part, Lorenzo was carrying a machete. “Just nine of you too? What did you guys do, agree only to invite eight lackeys with each of you?”, inquired Rick.

“Stuff it. Run and we’ll kill you here. The others will arrive soon and you’ll get yours. There was some disagreement over who got to kill you first, so we all decided to do it together.”, said Lorenzo angrily as the Italians took up position.

Next through the door were nine large muscular men led by someone Rick didn’t know wearing a suit. The others had on tight fitting shirts and slacks with some not having shirts at all exposing their muscular physique and multitude of tattoos. Their size dwarfed even the biggest of the Italians. Unlike the others, none of them had weapons of any sort on them and looked like they were struggling to avoid rushing at Rick at first sight. “I was wondering who was next in charge after I ratted out Vladimir. You know, of all the families I think I worked with you lot the least. Bravo on the restraint. Whatever got all of you to agree to wait and even work together must have been pretty convincing. I don’t know if I should be flattered you hate me this much or insulted you only sent nine from each organization so far. Part of me was hoping for more.”, quipped Rick downing a pancake covered in maple syrup.

No Russian spoke more than a grunt as they took up their spots as nine Chinese men arrived. Their faces were covered in tattoos. Each wore open black blazers and tank tops underneath them exposing their thin yet muscular bodies. In their hands were metal batons. Rick tried to figure out who the leader was, but drew a blank. Before he had a chance to speak, Lorenzo started.

“Mickey, after I told him what you did to my men, decided to take a pass on this one. He seems to think it’s best to leave you alone. What did he say, something about let history be history. Well I say let you be chopped up into tiny pieces while alive as we piss and shit all over you. Seeing as you worked for us, I got the honor of doing the chopping. You may have shrugged off Randy and Pete, but this morning we are ready for you. Bring it in now.”, said Lorenzo waving at his crew to go outside. Two of them returned with rocket launchers and a third with an industrial grade saw wheeling behind him. “The others said this wouldn’t be needed but I insisted.”, added Lorenzo.

Finishing up the pancake, Rick put the silverware aside. Lorenzo once again spoke before Rick could get a word in edgewise. “You ratted out each of our bosses and half our main guys. Whatever you are on isn’t going to save you now. We could do this the easy way where you just lay down and accept your fate or this can get even more messy.”, said Lorenzo.

“Are you done yet? All I see is a lot of fancy toys and former middle managers who made it big because of me. Since you're going to let me talk I’ll make it simple for you. Leave the Brooklyn area alone. That will be my turf. You can still conduct business there, but only as I allow. Outside of there, give everyone who owes you a break. Go easy on them for a little. I’m not stupid enough to think I can bring you all down even in my state, but I can make things hard on you if you go too far. Trust me. The financial hit you’ll take by forgiving some debts will be a long term investment in keeping your operations here.”, said Lorenzo plainly standing up now and looking each of the groups in the eyes.

The Yakuza remained stoic. The Russians burst out laughing. The Triads just looked slightly confused before returning to looking focused. The Italians joined the laughing chorus of the Russians.

“Just remember, I gave you the option of making this easy.”, said Rick, taking off his jacket and folding it up near the food box with the silverware away from where the action was going to happen. He’d expected as much, but was hoping for something different like everyone else always did. His suit was new too. Getting blood all over it made him look annoyed at the assembled soon to be attackers.

When the Russians and Italians had stopped laughing, the lead Russian spoke up. “Get the clown.”, ordered the man. Not wanting to be left out, the Yakuza joined in the rush followed by the Triads and Italians. Leading the rush was the Russians who brought hammer like fists down on Rick one after another like they were using their fists to hammer in railroad spikes. Each successive blow did the same as the others. Nothing. Driven by anger, the Bratva took years of hatred for the rat out on Rick to no avail. They might as well be punching a brick wall. A few blows managed to draw blood on Rick, but they healed up within moments.

After letting the Russians have their fun, Rick extended his arms out, knocking all of them away and into the walls or piles of crates. Undeterred, the Yakuza tried precision strikes that only dented most of their blades. A few blades made it into Rick, but aside from making him angry they had little effect on the man who was becoming increasingly obvious to those assembled as not a man in the proper sense of the word. Rick swatted the Yakuza away as well.

Too far into their charge, the Yakuza were like birds hitting a window. They went splat and fell on their faces limping away if they could with broken arms from the power of their swings. Those unable to move got pulled away.

“Say hello to my little friends.”, Lorenzo said hanging back. Two of his thugs let loose the missiles that slammed into Rick knocking him back a bit from the force of the hit. By this point, his shirt was covered in the blood of others. After the strike, he didn’t have a shirt left and his pants had more than a few holes in them with burns over the other bits. When the smoke cleared, everyone looked terrified.

“My turn.”, is all Rick said. He gave each a hardened gaze clenching his fists. In his eyes, each of the men saw the very definition of terror. Reflected back at them was an impending sense of dismemberment and death at the hands of a man…no a beast that took the best each had to offer and barely flinched. Devil, Satan, and other words Rick didn’t understand were uttered. Those who didn’t flee curled up in little balls on the floor. Men who at one point thought they had one man outnumbered thirty six to one now realized they brought far too few people. All of the pain they had inflicted and all the terror reflected back on them from the eyes of Rick.

To a back drop of tears, Rick pulled out a suitcase hidden behind some sturdy crates. In it was a fresh shirt and pants that he changed into as no one else could move beyond crying and getting into tighter balls. “I did warn you. If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be at the Jones Family Market backroom New Year’s day. I hope you’ll have moved out by then Lorenzo.”, said Rick as he grabbed the food container and headed out the door past the strongmen whimpering like children.

Waiting for him outside was Mickey. “Shit. I’m glad I didn’t go in there. Sounds like you did a number on them boy’s. I heard what you said about territory. You’ve earned it if you can keep it. You won’t be seeing any trouble from the likes of my family.”, said Mickey. His face was terrified, but he tried to keep composure. Rick nodded as he walked away.

Behind Rick was a mess of men who were starting to give off a wretched smell. Pools were forming under most of them who didn’t stop at the bathroom before coming to the massacre.

Epilogue

January 1st, Rick strolled into James Family Market. A clerk at the front nodded and gave Rick an envelope waiting for him. “Lorenzo asked me to give you this and said you were in charge now. Same arrangement as before? I run the store and you do your business in the back?”, asked the man clearly just trying to get the lay of the land.

“Whats your name?”, inquired Rick.

“John McCarter. Lorenzo brought me in to run the grocery section when your brothers were kicked out. I tried to get them to keep running it. Your brothers were in no shape to run a store after what Lorenzo did to them though.”, continued John.

“Rename the place McCarter Market or whatever you want. The place is yours for all I care. The back office is mine though.”, said Rick resuming his walk to the back.

As expected, the poker table and craps tables were cleared out. Lorenzo even had the courtesy to tidy up the place and get rid of that smell of desperation that was in the gambling den on last visit. Inside the office, Rick found a desk and chair cleared of everything. Settling into the chair, Rick pulled out the note.

We all agree to your terms. It started. Everyone in our debt will get two weeks of reprieve and Brooklyn is yours. The market is yours. Just make sure you hold up your end of the bargain., finished the note.

Rick looked over the note. It was hand written in extremely shaky handwriting by what Rick recognized as someone who could barely hold a coffee cup much less a pen. Below Lorenzo’s signatures were Hiroshis, Lenin, and Chen.
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