Monarch

Downtown - Marcos

There was a fog inside and out of the house that morning. Most of the people had left save for the few who went upstairs or slept comfortably in a guestroom. Marcos slept alone in his room that night after the debauchery and intoxication, a pleasure he always held dear. To him, there was something magical about being able to rest in his own habitat after throwing his body across the comfort spectrum, it was a gift.

Marcos was still nursing bruises from weeks ago. He’d been jumped into the Reds in the usual way: invited to get drinks in Neon Heights but beaten and abandoned somewhere in the Roman Stacks. He’d made it back to the house where the other prospects of the gang all lived with two broken ribs and a salty face from dried tears after hiking back through Vargos’ city scape. He wasn’t a ruthless killer like most of the Reds, but he was big and tough as nails, and that was enough for the chapter. He walked into that house to find it empty, a sign none of the other prospects had made the cut. Now he had a room he could call his own, a place in the Reds, a home and a family.

When he finally stepped out of bed to open the drapes his door swung open and Daemon, the man who’d brought him into the gang into the first place, casually wandered in, dressed in khaki pants and dress shoes with a clean button-up black shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow to show off his chrome arms. He plopped a black velvet fedora on his head while setting his other hand on Marcos’ shoulder, wide-awake with breath reeking of coffee and booze.

“Get dressed Marcos. We’re going to see Tiki.” Marcos smiled upon hearing the news, it had been years since he’d seen the man, the one the Reds called Tiki. The one who called the shots for the gang from a throne of wire and computer monitors deep in Vargos’ underbelly.

“Where’s he staying these days?” Marcos asked, throwing on his clothes and gazing out the window. The city was burning bright as the morning sub was rising, casting shadows from the hundreds of skyscrapers and banishing the enormous holographic advertisements until night arrived again.

“He’s here in downtown, but he won’t be for long. We’ll make our presence known while we have the chance. Look, just get dressed and grab your keys. We’re taking your car.”

“The Tozin’s a piece of shit, are you sure?”

“A lot of questions this morning. Just get your keys and bring the car around. We’re burning daylight.” He gripped Marcos’ dresser and seemed unsteady, as if ready to toss it to the ground. Instead he wriggled his shoulders and shut the door behind him as he walked out, returning Marcos to the peace of his room. The room where he was never rained on, always warm, always safe. Throwing on a light jacket and tucking a Fountainhead .44 handgun into his pants, he winced from the throbbing pain in his head as he went out and shut the door behind him.

The car was cold when he stepped in and by the time he’d pulled it around, what couldn’t have been more than a minute, Daemon was on the steps ready to hop in. They were out of the house and driving through the city by seven in the morning. The traffic hadn’t quite hit yet, but if they didn’t reach the highway that encircled Vargos’ city center by seven-thirty they’d be trapped in morning commute gridlock for at least three hours. Those without air service cars only had traffic to look forward to nearly every hour of the day.

Daemon’s tolerance of traffic, particularly when he wasn’t the one driving, was absurdly low. They raced through the lights and signs as fast as possible, yet still Marcos found time to enjoy the drive past the sides of Valencia Park and the cut through the chaos of Vargos’ city center near The Spire. The city in the morning was a one of a kind spectacle, smells consisted of aromatic things like chilled eucalyptus and the constant offensive smells such as human and industrial waste. All while the place was enveloped by a haze of fog and pollution that covered every city block. It wasn’t perfect, but it was Vargos. It was where marcos’ safe room was. It was home.

“Marcos.” Neither of them had spoken since they’d left the room earlier that morning. Marcos lit a cigarette with a small flame from a metallic finger and turned to his passenger. The smoke filled his lungs and left with haste, a small tingle creeping up the spine as the habit was satisfied.

“Yeah?” Marcos took another drag as they sped up the highway entrance ramp.

“I’m going to be blunt, we’re not going to see Tiki right away. We’re going to a pest’s apartment to discuss some things. When we go into the apartment, I can’t guarantee you everything will be positive.” He observed Marcos’ reaction as he absorbed the news. Marcos grinned and nodded ,turning his attention back to the road and stuffing down his anxiety. He had to play nice with these guys. They called the shots. They gave him his room.

“Okay, anything special about this place?” Marcos whispered, his deep voice betrayed only by the slightest sound he could muster. He didn’t like to yell or speak too loudly.

“Nothing we haven’t dealt with before. Do you remember last week when I asked you about the fifty thousand?”

“Yeah of course. I told you a transfer had been made. I dropped the money off and it was good to go. What’s the problem?” Marcos said, his voice shaking as he probed. Hearing about any previous task after the fact was never a good sign with the Reds, especially when money was involved. Fog was dissipating fast and giving way to a blue sky darkened by the smog that always stuck around even after the morning dew was gone.

“There was never a product dropped off. Tiki sent me down there and I waited four hours for nothing. So we’re going to go to the contact’s house and discuss a possible solution.” He slid a cigarette into his ear before popping a speed capsule into his mouth. He chewed it and chased the bitterness of the drug with a cup of water that had been sitting in the car, for how long Marcos had no idea. Daemon’s eyes were shining with the reflection of the rising sun and bright neon billboards that littered the highway.

“Daemon we’ve never just gone breaking and entering like it was nothing. This is dangerous. Best case scenario this guy tries to kill us for breaking in. I’m sorry but I can’t do this.”

“Pull over.”

“Daemon-“

He put a gun to Marcos’ throat, causing the car to swerve slightly. Marcos took the next exit and pulled off of the highway and into an alley off the side of Downtown’s main drag. The barrel of the gun was pressing against his ribs, making Marcos wince as he turned the key and shut the car off.

“You’re about whatever the fuck I say you’re about kid. You’re one of the luckiest guys in Vargos right now, you survived initiation into the Reds. Things could have gone real wrong for you when you got jumped in. We could have spilt your blood and dragged you to a mirror so you could watch yourself die. Then getting back from the Roman Stacks? You’re lucky you still have all your limbs. Don’t blow this now, just do what I say.” Marcos’ stomach turned as Daemon’s words stabbed into his ribs harder than the pistol. The metal was cold, not even the heater in the car could warm it up. Daemon glanced out the window and continued.

“Life is yours to control and manipulate like a sheet of cloth. Your mind must not impede you with anxieties Marcos.” Within moments the gun was un-cocked with the safety back on. He stuffed it into his waistband and instructed Marcos to drive on. Strength enveloped Marcos as his arms trembled with the start of the engine.Marcos wasn’t a killer, but he’d come to accept long ago that graves, both his own and those of others, would be involved once he hitched his wagon to the Reds.

The apartment door was before them within seconds, as if the men had blacked out and teleported there from the car seat. Daemon lit his cigarette. The wind blew the smoke and steam from his breath away as the sound of cars passing along the freeway purred on. He winked at Marcos before pulling his pistol from his waistband and lightly knocking on the door. Poor bastards, they didn’t have a peephole.

A balding gentleman, presumably in his forties, popped the door open with a smile that turned to a look of horror upon sight of them. Daemon rushed him with the gun pointed to his forehead as Marcos calmly stepped in and shut the door before the man yelped.

“What the fuck Daemon?” He was petrified, eyes like dinner plates with his skin pale and transparent as a ghost.

“Morning Gill! I see you remember my name, that’s good, glad my first impression was significant enough to register. But sadly you have me back here and I could’ve sworn I made it clear I wanted no second rendezvous.”

“Daemon just let me talk.“ The beast slammed the butt of the gun into Gill’s nose with an echoing crack, blood spurting about the place in a small burst. Gill moaned and clenched his face, weeping uncontrollably as Daemon wiped the blood away from his gun.

“Sit him at the table Marcos.” He obeyed, snatching up the pile of flesh and bone that was Gill and tossed him into a chair in the kitchen. Marcos pulled Gill’s hand out onto the table and placed the barrel of his gun against his temple with a free hand.

“Hold still,” Marcos whispered. Gill’s blubbering was excessive as he struggled to compose himself. Daemon sat in the chair across the table as he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. He dove into it with loud snaps and munches.

“Mmm, that satisfying crack of an apple. Sounds familiar, yeah?” He laughed with a mouth full of fruit, his eyes never leaving Gill’s.

“Fuck it hurts. What did I ever do to you Daemon?” He spoke through whimpers and a stuffed nose.

“You fucked me over pendejo!” He leaned in and raised his voice, “you’re going to pay now Gill, you know that? Yeah? My friend here is going to blow your brains out! And I’m going to send you back to whatever family you have left in small parcels and send what’s left to the flesh traders. Are you getting this? You’ll just be another dead body in Vargos.” He nodded at Marcos as he cocked his gun, still pressed into Gill’s cranium as if it were attached. Daemon leaned in towards the whimpering man. His voice was low and unentertained, throaty and grave pronunciation of every word he uttered.

“Where is my money Gill? Better yet where the is the package? Hours at the station in those hard plastic chairs. You think that shit’s acceptable? You think our time is worth nothing? Here’s what we expect: a full refund with, lets say, a thousand interest. Then I want my package, understood?” Daemon dropped the apple to the floor and stood up, the petrified man cowering before him. As he let out another moan Marcos slammed the rear of my his weapon into Gill’s hand and shattered two of his fingers. He dropped from the chair to the floor barely retaining consciousness beneath his sobbing.

“Please Daemon…”

“Me?! You little rat bastard I ought to end your life right here. But I won’t. Instead I’m going to give you three weeks to get my money and package together. Let’s go Marcos.” He nodded and kicked Gill in the ribs before stepping over his sad pile of a body. The two waltzed out of the place calmly shutting the door behind them. Daemon looked at Marcos as he hung his head, averting his gaze so as not to catch Daemon’s. He was laughing.

“Man, you really fucked him up in there Marcos.” He lit a cigarette and walked off smoking and looking around the building, taking in the fog as if it were sunshine. Marcos’ feet hadn’t moved. He could still hear the poor bastard sobbing in his kitchen.