Wine tasting

[Dane Gregory]

Dane was woken to a foul stench filling the cabin of the vehicle. The windows pulled the smoke away, but the scent permeated everything none the less. He could feel it seeping into the fibers of his clothes and sticking like blood to the surface of his skin. The corner of his lip curled as his eyes progressively followed the arm that shook him awake to the body from which it dangled. "Have some class,"
he said under his breath, but like a gentleman, did not utter the comment directly to the other man's face.

They had indeed arrived in some sort of small town, delineated as such by the approximation of one shanty building to the next. Dirt packed roads were walk ways for mangy dogs and pairs of dirty youths. A woman with arms' full of groceries hurried between cars, few as there were actively bumbling across the streets. Other scents wafted into their vehicle. Chief among them, the pungent scent of broken sewage pipes. Whether the sewage drained into water run offs or directly into the street, he couldn't tell. The air was thick with it, like fog.

The driver seemed to know where they were going, as he constantly pointed the vehicle in specific directions without consideration for the various options at each street crossing. Soon, they pulled up in front of a single-story building with a flat roof that provided a narrow strip of shade along the exterior walls. Any grubby plants had been trampled, presumably, by the two men standing outside like they might pace back and forth. Each had wore a hat and sunglasses, and large guns were strapped across their burly chests. Their shirts were stuck to their bodies by sweat, but neither seemed to care. In fact, one took a drink even as they climbed out of the car. He took one look at Dane and the liquid swishing out of his mouth was immediately spat on the ground before Dane's feet. Disgusting apes. Dane made certain to walk around the wet splotches, but the ground soaked them up so fast the diversion was hardly necessary.

The other two men from his vehicle, whose names he again could not recall, each went about different tasks. The driver stepped forward to rumble off what was otherwise foreign nonsense to Dane with the spitting camels standing watch. The one that wreaked of smoke was gathering stuff from the car.

Dane was left to wait.

After whatever was spoken which need to be said, the three were rounded up and taken indoors. Dane initially welcomed the shade, but soon regretted the loss of fresh air. The interior of the building was primarily one open room. All the windows but those in the front were barred up and blackened out. Old chairs were strewn carelessly around the edges of the room, but many tables and other cabinetry were under heavy guard.

Several men waited within. All bore the same deadpan looks as most of the people Dane had met in Mexico thus far. A skinny woman in threadbare skirt and kerchief wrapped around her breasts looked up from snorting powder. She would be much more beautiful laid out on the dead, dry ground with the sun sizzling away at her tanned skin and trails of red ants crawling up her legs. The shadow of circling carrion birds crossing her body on regular intervals, waiting for that juicy heart to stop beating. Dane's body flushed with arousal, a sensation that died as soon as she made eye contact. She looked them over, brief as it was, then glanced at one of the men of the room in particular. She soon went back to her previous activity, and Dane shifted his imagination toward the others.

[Damien]

Jorge Ospania



Whores snorting cocaine and a bunch of men looking pissed off seemed all too common. Not that Jorge could blame them. Didn't seem like there was much else to do around the shit-hole of a town and the way Oakland had was pressing their comrades in Mexico City, he'd probably be pissed off too.

Left to wait with no word on when they would be spoken to, Jorge started to tap his fingers against the side of his hip. He tried to look for an opportunity to make conversation with one of the men with no luck. Shit.

Why the hell was he stuck with this European maniac? Their hosts didn't like the look on his face. The lack of fear pissed them off worse than a bullet to the kneecap. Couldn't Oakland have found someone less fucking suspicious?

Jorge shuffled sideways and nudged him. "Let me do the talking,"
he reiterated, in case the man decided to get them both shot.

"The hell you talking about?"
One ugly brute with a scar across his neck looking like he had his head sown back on demanded.

Jorge was quick to smile. "My friend don't talk much, brother. They do things differently where he came from. I'm just reminding him to watch himself."


"If you have the information I want, he won't have to."


Jorge's hand flew instinctively to the piece at his side and froze when he saw the man and his escort. For fuck's sake. Oakland pulled the same kind of shit, sneaking up on people.

"It's an honour to meet you Mr. Ramirez."
Jorge had plastered a smile on his face, sending one final warning glance to his partner. The face was unmistakable. Oakland had made him memorize it for days. It was a face creased with the burden of being a fucking Cartel big-shot and too many days in the heat of the sun. His eyes were sunken and flat matching the rest of his hollow body.

"I don't have much time to waste, get on with it."
Ramirez looked down, pretending to wipe something off of his fancy black suit.

"Of course, we have information on the American. Important information."
Jorge licked his lips and his eyes moved to the crack whore then back to Ramirez. "But we need compensation, you know? I ain't riskin' my life for good will and puppies. Let's talk cash."


Ramirez smiled and Jorge nearly returned it. Oakland knew his shit as if he were born in a den of thieves. 'Greed and self-preservation are the foundations of trust among the Cartels' the American said. Jorge knew that any thug who did something for nothing was suspicious, but the American had a way with words that made everything clearer. Jorge felt like he could read the arrogant fuck Ramirez and his cronies like a book now.

"I will give you double the cost of the cocaine,"
Ramirez answered.

Jorge's eyes widened without the need to fake it. Shit. Ramirez must be damn desperate! The hunger was real. With that kind of money Jorge could live like a fucking king! Maybe coming here was worth it after all.

Adulation turned to anxiety when Ramirez's attention turned to the other man. "What about you? You aren't Mexican. What do you want out of this?"


Oh shit. Oh shit. Not the maniac! He would probably say something fucked up and get them both killed.

"We want the same thing, he is a good frien-"
Jorge began to panic.

"I would like to here it from him. I am curious."


Damn it! Jorge pleaded with his eyes. Say the same thing, or we are both fucked.
Edited by Damien, Apr 22 2015, 01:31 PM.

[Dane Gregory]

The Spanish flung around the room left Dane bored. He was surrounded by filth anyway, and the lack of awareness added to a growing illness of mood. He could have used a translator on his Wallet, but it was left in the car.


Then a new man, previously unseen, presented himself. Luckily, the conversation shifted into English. Addressed as Mister Ramirez, Dane recognized the name as the cartel chief, if not the fact this man stood in a finely attired suit while his henchmen wore ratty t-shirts and cargo pants.

The charade commenced. They were here to supposedly betray their loyalty to Damien Oakland in exchange for money and alliance to Ramirez. Jorge's negotiation could use refinement, but Dane was content to be a witness only. Until he was specifically addressed.

Ramirez seemed patient and poised, the habit of a calculated man. Why he cared about Dane's wishes, Dane did not fathom.

He stepped forward to look into Ramirez's eyes face to face. This was the kind of man he preferred to speak with rather than the sycophants around them. "Mister Ramirez, Dane Gregory,"
he said, accent undulating with elegance as he offered a hand to shake. It was only the polite thing to do, after all.

Pleasantries aside, he considered how best to answer. What did he want, indeed? A great many things did Dane want, but none of them were in Ramirez's authority to provide. Although, Dane's gaze slid to the woman in the handkerchief, a sly smile touched the corners of his mouth as he licked his lips.

"I want what normal men want. Power. Money,"
he shrugged, and almost as in afterthought, "women,"
he added. Dane lived most of his adult life capable of normal charm. Today he wielded it upon a cartel leader. Truthfully, he would be pleased if he gave her that woman. Although they may be surprised with what he did with her.

[Damien]

Fuck me...Thank God.

Gregory - or fucking Lord Dane Gregory - was smarter than Jorge had given him credit for. Maybe he wasn't such a crazy guy.

More importantly, that smug bastard Ramirez seemed to take it in with no problems. The way Gregory looked at the crack-whore almost convinced him as well. Hell, they might even get along if he loosened up a bit!

Ramirez smiled at Gregory. "Women? I see Martina has caught your attention. You have a good eye my friend."
The bastard leered like a proud owner of a pedigree dog. Jorge would have shot him right there if not for his orders. "But first, business. Give me the information."


Jorge presented Martinez with the data stick, holding it back a moment. "We nearly died for this shit. I hope it's useful."
It was a video of Oakland in 'secret negotiations'. Jorge didn't know how much of it was true, but Oakland said it didn't matter what Martinez saw, he wouldn't be in a position to use it.

He'll get what's coming. Oakland will make him pay twice as much as I could.

Ramirez opened the video on his holo-screen watching a small snippet. A smile split his face before he handed the device to one of his men. No doubt to be sent off for authentication.

"You are both free to relax,"
Martinez continued, oblivious to Jorge's hatred. "Until then, my delicacies are yours."
The man clicked his fingers. "Martina! Get up you lazy bitch. We have guests."
He smiled at Gregory. "Treat our foreign friend well."


Jorge plastered a smile on his face. "Thanks. It was good doing business."


The best business I have ever done.

He'd see the smug fucker bled dry.

[Dane Gregory]

Dane's attention glazed as talk turned to business. He knew Ramirez thought he intended carnality for Martina, and he was more than capable of playing that angle. Manipulating the conceptions of others were the stroke of a master, and Dane was nothing if not a master at his craft. The girl behind the receiving desk at his residence in Mexico City, the girls on the tube in Moscow, the pianist in the bar at the Ritz. Before Aria, women were obstructions on equal standing as men. Gender made no difference to Dane. But after her, the potential of a woman was magnified. She opened his eyes. Someday he would return for her, but right now, a skeletal, filthy Mexican woman was talking to him. "Bring me a drink,"
he told her, only to dismiss, in disgust, the off-branded beer she offered.

The next few days and nights were spent passing time in Ramirez's company. Jorge and Damien both explained this man was the target of their operation, yet Dane rather approved of his hosting style. Ramirez had a car drive them to the building that he'd claimed for his own residence. Compared to the one-roomed rat trap where they'd met, the home was much more comfortable, stylish, even. Although he did not own a piano - a point in Damien's favor.

If Dane remembered correctly, Damien's plan was to surround the city in the interim time, and descend upon Ramirez's household once it was confirmed the cartel competition was vulnerable. Although to someone like Dane or Damien, fortifying himself behind a fortress wall would not save him. Not when they could collapse the walls on his head.

Martina came to visit him that last night. She'd taken a bath and doused herself in cheap perfume. Dane wrinkled his nose when she entered his room, but only to remind himself she smelled better than her usual body odor, sweat and vomit. Dane rose from his bed, stretched out as he had been on top of the covers. He propped the Wallet along the side table against a lamp, angled to best view the room. Martina snorted when she realized the significance, but didn't comment otherwise as she untied the halter holding up her tiny shirt. Dane glanced while he configured the recording to set, but his glance didn't linger. There was nothing about her body that stirred his lust. Not yet, anyway.

She turned to lock the door behind her, but Dane interrupted. "Don't bother. Come here."
She shrugged and stepped out of her linen skirt. He'd barely allowed her to touch him the previous few days. The first time she laid a hand on his neck, he almost severed it from her arm. A snap, quick as the strike of one of the snakes he found in his room on the first night here, quickly taught its lesson. She'd kept her distance since, until now. She came up to him, and he braced himself for her touch as she undid the buttons of his shirt. Soon he was as unclothed as she, but she feigned the intent to arouse him, but he pushed her away. "That won't work. Lay down,"
he told her. On the way to join, he checked the window for signs of light in the distance, but the evening was quiet. Until the chaos of Damien's men descended upon them, he laid on the bed next to her and watched the ceiling. In the quiet, he let power warm his body, but only so to catch the first sounds of gunfire soon to erupt.

They both heard the first, distant pops. Martina sat up, eyes flared wide like she might run away, but Dane shoved her down to her back with the push of his hand against her chest. Afterward, she struggled to move. Her shock reverted to Spanish, but Dane ignored the string of foreign words while he leaned over to set the video to record. The gunfire heightened its intensity and they both heard the pounding of boots running down the hallway outside his door. Men in the yard below his room gathered, yelling orders and organizing their defenses for the approaching battle.

The swiftness with which he straddled her finally shut her up. He grabbed her arms and pulled them behind her head, tying them there with more invisible bonds. Dane slipped his hand behind her pillow and retrieved a paring knife of the kind he used the night he first met Aria in the alley. Her pallor whitened, realizing that some sort of magic was holding her in place, but she was too stupid or too high to understand the danger she was in.

The peaceful night quickly erupted around them. The upper floors of Ramirez's residence was clearing of guards whom filled the yard below. Dane didn't bother to gag Martina. He wanted to hear her scream. "Now you're doing a good job,"
he praised her as warmth stretched his body to the brink. He carved into her almost exactly as Aria had done, and as she lay dying, he finally had his minute with her. In the midst, he vaguely heard the door open, but bliss was his drug. He didn't look. A few seconds later, when he collapsed upon what was left of Martina, he recognized Jorge's raised voice, but he didn't care. He could barely move.

"What is it, Jorge?"
he asked, panting, smiling and oblivious to the gruesome scene.




Edited by Dane Gregory, May 5 2015, 10:29 AM.

[Damien]

Damien Oakland


"Sir, we have received the signal."
The thickly accented English sounded crisp to Damien's ears blessed with the gift of Light.

The town of Huitzilac spread out before him, the pustules of chaos ripe for cleansing. He had devoted six days to the preparation of his expulsion. Three before he had sent Dane and three after. The syphoning of a thousand soldiers armed to the teeth into such an isolated area had taken time. Small groups left Mexico city in all directions each carving an arching path towards Huitzilac so that now that day had come, he had the town completely surrounded without drawing attention to concentrated movements that would likely make Ramirez flee.

It was confirmed, the man himself was still in town. All that was left was to squeeze the noose tight and plunge the knife already poised to strike his back.

Damien stood tall in the moonlight. "Rise now,"
he ordered his troops who lay in waiting. "Kill them all."

[Damien]

Jorge Ospania


Three days passed and Jorge was beyond done with the shit-hole of a town. Every time he walked passed a woman's tear-streaked face or a battered and bloody man he thought to the future and how good it would feel when Ramirez had his fucking throat ripped out and his dogs pissed themselves and pleaded for their lives.

The scenarios that ran through his head in those three days sated his blood-lust to a point where he even managed to play buddies with a few of the less-bestial of the fuckers. Their deaths were quick and merciful in his head. They had just drawn a bad hand in life and paid in full.

Others though...

Late on the third night Jorge stood in the back-yard of the shitty little house he and Gregory occupied. Dane was content to have the crack-whore Martina chase him about and was probably in the middle of their annoying ritual of avoiding any kind of fucking fun. Strange that, he didn't figure Gregory was one for the ladies, but it looked like he loved the attention.

"Time's up,"
Jorge muttered to himself. It wasn't his fault if Gregory complained that he didn't get to fuck her. He knew the deadline as well as Jorge.

Jorge searched the night for his target. The digital compass guided his aim and was deposited into his jeans when he hit the jackpot. A tiny beam of light shone back in his direction. The town was surrounded then. Thank-fucking-god. If anyone was smart enough to investigate at this point, they would only hasten their deaths.

He fumbled a joint from his pocket. It was flattened and uneven. Too much shit in his pockets. He fished out his lighter and soon he felt warmth spread through his body as he inhaled. Jorge checked his watch.

Almost time.

He slipped the L.E.D torch from his pocket and paused to breath in the night air and a lungful of burning weed.

He held in his hand the lives of hundreds. Soon, they would live or die by his signal. A torch. A fucking torch. It was probably the deadliest weapon he had ever held.

But...Could he do it? Could he live with himself, knowing all that blood was on his hands? He had even grown to like some of his enemies.


Jorge chuckled under his breath. The night air stank like shit and misery above the smoke.

"Adios, motherfuckers."


The beam of his torchlight lit the night, and for a brief moment he held his breath in anticipation before the sound of guns shattered the uneasy peace. Jorge drew in another breath.

About time.

Shouts erupted all around and chaos ensued as Jorge turned his back on the night. Time for Gregory to do his work.

He was so preoccupied with the battle that had begun outside he did not notice the screams for what they were until he had reached Gregory's room.

Shit.

A hand went to his face in disgust at the scene that burned itself into his eyes.

The fuck? Was he that high? Surely not.

"Gregory,"
he shouted over the cacophony. "Fucking hell man, GREGORY!"
He shouted a little louder as the man continued, oblivious.

Martina lay motionless by the time Gregory noticed him. Jorge was stunned. He still wasn't sure if he had been shot in the face and now lived in some fucked-up nightmare.

"What in the name of fucking hell are you doing?"
He didn't give a shit about Gregory's response. His mind howled. Was he insane? The girl was laying there all cut--

Jesus Christ.

No. He didn't have time for that shit. Maybe she was a spy. Maybe this was a part of Gregory's task. She could have blown their cover. But fuck...Not like that...

"Let's go,"
Jorge said, numb. "Time to do your thing."


Whatever the case was, Gregory was a dangerous son of a bitch. Jorge would save his judgement for Oakland once he had learned the truth.

[Dane Gregory]

It was an exhilarating weakness of body that overtook Dane. He was content to wallow in it for a few moments, even to endure being the spectacle of Jorge's harsh gaze.

When he roused himself to movement, it was at his own pace, but the shouts below and gunfire in the distance were the impatient tapping foot inciting him to action. He'd given Damien his word that he would play a specific role in tonight's events, and thus he would fulfill that promise, but he could only move so fast.

"It is time,"
he supposed, echoing Jorge. With a heaving effort, he pushed himself off the sunken mattress, which was all the more soggy after his tirade with-- He'd already forgotten her name.

"If you'll give me a few moments in the washroom, I will be ready."
A claw of power dragged his discarded clothing behind him as he disappeared behind a narrow door that likely led to lavatory or similar.

Alone, he studied his face in the mirror. Sweat soiled the edges of his hair, so he promptly wiped it away with fresh water and slicked it back in some semblance of style. His skin was flushed red - a most unbecoming mottling. Brown smears streaked along his chest, which took a pair of wash clothes to wipe away. He was still breathing hard, like the exertion was taking some time to wean away. He often admired his appearance in mirrors, but a glib smile tilted his face with a new victory. He felt powerful, kingly even. He hurried to dress, although not so swift as to appear disheveled when he emerged.

Jorge waited for him in the hall like a ready escort. There was no need to take residence out there, but Dane appreciated the gesture as he would thank a servant doing their job properly. Dane swiped his wallet, pausing only a moment to admire the video encoded within. The soggy mattress was set ablaze in the next few steps, and as he left the room, a glow of orange lit his back like the hellish spotlight shone upon the stage's primo uomo. The curtains around the balcony doors were already catching by the time they left.

"I had no idea the revelry I was missing all these years,"
he told Jorge as they strolled. "This building may be stone and adobe, but fire will spread soon enough. Let us hurry."
A hint of a smile empowered by anticipation of what was to come beckoned his speed quicker. Jorge barely kept up.

The refreshing night air coiled beneath the linen of his shirt like cool fingertips streaking along his back. He savored it for a moment to gather his bearings. The patio opened into the larger yard of more expansive grounds surrounded by a stone wall too high to see over the top. Jorge gestured that they duck along the side of the building, but Dane was too familiar with scorpions and other creatures scuttling along the edges in daylight. He shook his head and strolled right through the center of the yard.

He thought of the begging girl under him and pictured the way her eyes stretched so wide he wondered if they might pop out of her skull. He imagined those eyes implanted into the heads of the black silhouettes walking the walls, splayed so wide in fear they'd pop out. Those were questions for another night. On this one, he was a figure of terror again, not a man of intimacy. Mockingbird, not Dane. He lifted his thoughts to the wall across the yard and sent coils of power through its core. The blast shook the ground under their feet, but Dane, expecting the rippling, kept his balance while Jorge winced and covered his face.

"Stand up you fool! If I didn't know how to send a blast away from myself, I'd be long ago smashed."
There was glee in his voice, but now he had the guards attention, but they didn't know Dane was responsible. If chaos reigned before, mayhem was the new king. Three men wielding machine guns ran toward them. Four others ran toward the smoldering hole. Shouts of more rose from behind.

He leaned toward Jorge's shoulder, careful not to actually touch the man, "Lets open the sieve,"
he told the Mexican as three more holes erupted in the walls around them, going off like a string of firecrackers. Jorge jerked from one direction to the other, and immediately gunfire popped into the dirt around their feet. Dane yanked Jorge in front of him and ran.

Panting, he rounded the corner of the building and was nearly crushed by fire-engulfed timber spewing from the window overhead. He jumped aside, landing in the dirt. As he looked back, Jorge rounded the corner. He'd survived the gunfire and yelled for Dane to wait.

But the wooden trellis off the balcony gave way, and the fiery inferno fell from the building as Jorge caught up to him. Dane shielded his face away from the crash and sparks landed around him. He scrambled away, patting the fiery flakes from his clothing as he did. Jorge was gone, and Dane did not take the time to water down the remains to look for a skeleton. There were more people to kill. Damien expected a clear path to Ramirez, and Dane was more than happy to clear the road.

Edited by Dane Gregory, May 16 2015, 05:13 PM.

[Damien]

The red haze emitted from the now embattled town was not nearly as beautiful as the bonfires of Mexico City’s cleansing. Soon the embers would be stamped out and Hutzilac would be free from the grip of the Cartels. His soldiers moved in with speed but lacked precision and discipline. It made no difference this day. The Cartel men were not soldiers and what his own lacked in experience was redeemed in dedication and belief.

A smile played across Damien’s shadowed face as he surveyed the conflict. The mobster’s unwillingness to fight and die for their trade would be their death knell. What finer judgement could be wrought in bitter irony?

“Sir, is Sir Greogry in position?”
the captain of his self-appointed guard asked. Damien had continued to humour Dane’s preferences. The lean young man with a wisp of facial hair covering his pock-marked face had formed the group of men and women who accompanied him. Twenty in all, they pledged their lives to protecting Damien Oakland. Damien allowed the youths their endeavour after having cleared each one of any suspicion of treason.

Damien placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. Damien could sense the power of Light faintly in the middle of the chaos that ensued. It was a remarkably useful tool for tracking the man and ensured he would never be caught unaware by that means. “All is well, Sir Gregory is playing his part admirably.”


Half of the guard looked uneasy, the other half emboldened. Some had asked him to teach them the secrets of his magic. The pleading was for naught. Who could teach one the power of Light? As well ask him to teach a fish to fly.

Thought of the Light drew his attention back into focus. Dane’s presence had suddenly fluctuated and grew. Strange...

Damien followed the anomaly to its source as best he could to no avail. He could not tell what Dane had done, only knew he was alive and was powered by the Light. Unfortunate, but there would be time for questions when all was done.

“Now that is strange,”
Damien whispered to himself in surprise.

“What was that, Sir?”


“If I did not know better, I would say that Sir Gregory was in two places at once.”
He felt Dane’s presence split and a faint resonance pulsed in the midst of the battle on the other side of the town.

“Is it possible, Sir?”
one of his guards asked in wonder.

Was it? No. It could not be possible. Not even with the Light. Damien did not know where he would have to begin to even try such a thing. No. It was not possible Dane knew something like that.

The faint pulse began to move towards Dane, and Dane towards it, and Damien laughed.

“Well, I am a fool.”
He said. Why should his senses be restricted to Dane? Of course, the answer was simple.

“Let’s move,”
Damien continued. He would not miss the chance to see Dane confronted with another of their kind.“Sir Gregory is about to earn his keep.”




Edited by Damien, Jun 4 2015, 09:03 AM.

[Dane Gregory]

Dane eventually peeled himself from the shadows of what remained of the compound's wall. Ramirez could be running in any direction at this point, but Dane didn't bother to look for him. Damien's minions were suppose to surround the city. If Ramirez escaped, Dane was not to blame. Few of his 'guards' would fare so well.

Pops of gunfire were drawn away most heavily to his left by then, thus he went right. Ahead of him, four men ran down the dirt road, one of whom yelled into a handheld radio. Not for much longer. A wave of the hand and the dirt road erupted beneath their feet. Dane watched in awe the four bodies popped off the earth and flew chaotically in every which direction. He smiled as legs flailed and arms reached to brace impact. Howls of pain wracked from either side as he strolled down the path they once thought safe enough to traverse, and nimbly rounded the newly formed shell in the ground.

He was looking for more errant targets when the tiniest hint of power sparked behind him. Was Damien there already? He pivoted, but nobody was to be seen. He was inclined to think himself mistaken when power suddenly ratcheted into substance overhead. He gasped and dove aside as a boulder hurled through the space that his head once occupied. His own power fled faster than his legs could carry him away, and the sudden collapse of darkness blinded him of clear path. He ran between two buildings, heart pounding harder than he thought it could pound, but blasts kept coming. He covered the back of his neck with his hands like that would help, and shoved, shoulder-first into the first door he found. Locked tightly, it did not yield. He fumbled for power to be his battering ram, but it slipped through his grasp like oil dripping through his fingers. He ran onward, out of the alley and into the street beyond.

He had to find somewhere to hide.