Broken Telephone

Master, I have what you requested. Yes... comprehensive, a full list. Every piece of real estate he maintained in the city. Warehouses, brothels, hotels. Yes... yes we will begin our search in earnest. Will you be staying on in the city, master? Right, until it is found. We shall spare no resource. Points of interest? Perhaps one curiosity. A place he owned only very briefly…

In the absence of Hope and Charity

She sharpens the knife on the oiled whetstone, humming a tune she heard years ago. What did they call that boy that taught her the tune? Flipper, Catcher, she can’t remember. She just remembers seeing his body on the stretcher, legs blown away from under him. 

She pulls the blade with long full turns, the steel and stone rasping in unison. Then there was Simon, she remembers his name. Different war, but then she was different too. So much older but still looking as young. Perhaps, if it wasn’t for her infatuation, she could have loved Simon. An uninduced love. Pure and of her choosing. But it was not to be. The sergeant with the green eyes and shaggy hair was crushed under the wheels of mobile infantry.

She inspects the blade. Her finger tip weeps crimson as she applies the slightest pressure. So many faces, many without names, gone. Lost in time and memory. Long ago, she once heard her father sprout the old expression; the point of war is not to die for your cause but to make some other poor bastard die for theirs.

She slides the knife into its scabbard and fastens the clasp holding the weapon in place. It’s so draining. To care. To love. And even more so to want it in return. War is so much simpler. Especially when some bitch fucks with someone you love.

On a tin roof

Down trodden. Victimized. Scapegoat and martyr. That is I. But even martyrs have their followers. Even they have their causes. And I have mine. I have purpose. But those that have wronged me, those that did this to me, suffered me to such humiliations, they are ones I can not fight. Yet as when God cast out Lucifer by the hand of Michael, I shall walk the Devil’s path. For as the Devil cannot hurt God, he can most assuredly punish the ones that He loves.

Signing a Life Away

The rhythmic snap of his leather shoes on the marble floor rings out across the courtyard as he strides towards a heavy oaken door, flanked by a pair of large figures. The two men at the door look identical. Same straight cut black suits, same dark glasses, same conspicuous ear piece jutting out from the sides of their heads.

He doesn’t break stride, marching towards them. He wears an expression as if intent on storming through them yet, seemingly at the last moment, the two guards step aside from the door allowing him entry. He bursts in.

Surveying the study in front of him he is greeted by the soft crackle of a gramophone gently wailing Wagner. A lone candle illuminates the room casting flickering shadows to all corners.

The room, in and of itself, is sparse. A single mahogany desk with a high backed padded chair positioned in front of it being about all the furniture within. A similar chair tilts behind the desk occupied by a heavy set individual, his eyes severe behind small framed spectacles with a jaw wide at the jowl. The man behind the desk simply extends a hand to the opposing chair. An invitation and instruction all in one simple gesture.

The man entering the room clears the distance between the door and the chair in the blink of an eye. Deftly pushing the chair to one side, he remains standing as he produces a long brass cylinder from under his coat. Snapping off an end he unfurls a worn parchment and placing his hand squarely in the middle of the page slaps it down on the table top.

            “Sign it,” his voice is almost a growl.

The man sitting retracts his extended hand. A small smile etched on his broad face. He turns to the gramophone on the far end of the desk and tilts his head.

            “It may surprise you to hear but I never had the pleasure of listening to Wagner in person. Not that I didn’t have the opportunity, mind you, it’s just at the time I was so preoccupied with other matters. One forgets how fleeting mortal lives can be.”

The man standing places both of his hands on the desktop and slowly lowers his face to meet the man’s opposite him. He annunciates each of his words deliberately.

            “I am not here to play games. Sign it.”

The smile fades away from the man sitting yet once again he gestures to the chair.

            “Sit down,” he says and as an afterthought he tacks on, “please.”

The man standing looks at the chair and with disdain pulls the seat in behind him and sits. The man behind the desk allows the smile to return as he regards the parchment in front of him.

“It is no small thing you ask of me, my friend,” says the spectacled man from behind his desk. “There is significant resistance to this decision and, frankly, I’m not sure it is worth the political fallout.”

            “Politics be damned,” snaps the man opposite him. “This is the opportunity we have been waiting for. The law is clear, the traditions affirmed.”

            “And then what? You return to the Americas? Dare you face another embarrassment?” The man behind the desk clasps his hands together. “I could not do that to you.”

            “This time it shall be different. This time I go not with bureaucrats and lawyers. No more tribunals and political maneuvers. This time I come with archons and alastors. The very thing that protected her before has now been recklessly cast aside. And now is my time to strike.” He pushes the parchment further across the desk his voice trembling with rage. “Sign it.”

“You are taking this far too personally, my friend,” replies the spectacled man. “Above and beyond being absolutely right, I fear for what rash decisions will come from you in such a state. Your mission is pure but your motives are fueled by pride. Let it go. There is more than enough rope to hang this harlot. There is no need to be snared in such entanglements. Let her destroy herself and live on in the satisfaction of having tried to steer her right.”

His words seem to penetrate as the man opposite him considers their merit. He stares at the brass tubing housing the warrant. Eventually, he looks up.

            “I have lived for many years and am by many centauries your senior. I know that does little to change our current, respective ranks but remember this; it is by my grace that you sit in that chair. Either you sign this document or your expedited successor shall.”

The smile shifts into a scowl.

“Be that as it may, on this night, in this room, I am still your superior. In nights where friends are few you overstep your mark with me. Yes, even you have parameters. Never the less, I shall sign off on this personal vendetta of yours, however, with one caveat. I am redeploying our Frankish Hospitalier to your side. I have seen to it that his precious heirloom has been returned to him and, hopefully, he shall act as your voice of conscience.”

            “He has his uses. I see no harm in having him with me. Agreed.” As if punctuating the point he gives the parchment one last nudge.

The man sitting behind the desk produces a beautifully crafted Montblanc fountain pen, the gold inlay glinting in the candlelight as he scratches his name across the bottom of the page.

            “Mark my words,” he adds, finishing his signature with a flourish, “you will come to regret returning to that city. When the flames of revolt rise they shall consume all in their path.”

“I will not be denied on this. She will be brought low as well as all those that follow her. For I bring with me a most pointed reckoning. And you would be most, most astonished as to those who share my sentiment.”