Around the Bend

[Beautancus]

The Warrens, Old Hrodino Side
Commonwealth of Greater Sarmatia, Federation of Międzymorze
14 Jan 2011, 19:24


The crackpot meteorologists had made claims that the citizens of both Hrodino's would see something approaching a clear sky by Christmas Eve. In the two weeks since then, there'd been not a hint the sun in the deepening gray skies- and very little hint that the ferocious snows that this season had thus far yielded would be soon abated. It was unsurprising to any real Sarmatian...trying to tell the future in any way was an enterprise bound for ruin. That was the Province of the Divine, and none else.

As it was, two feet of snow yet stood on the frozen streets of the spiritual heart of the Federation. Businesses had even closed, some for weeks now- such an occurrence remarkable in its own right. It was perhaps more accurate to say that most legitimate businesses had closed down for that long- as vice never slept in the Warrens, nor in the "two cities" that encapsulated that vastness of overgrown hamlets that had been devoured by the industrial sprawl of the old Sarmatian capital in the latter Antebellum Years.

Internal musings aside, Lieutenant-Inspector Ignacy Mniszech admitted that the boys "working for the city" had done a bang-up job of getting the roads clear, more than well enough to drive on during the day, and still passable in most places by night. It had been considered passable for a field officer of the Special Inspectorate of the Federal Reserve, even when the heaviest snows were crushing the breathtaking sprawl of the twin-cities. Mniszech had certainly been out earlier in the evening, and had in fact even drawn and fired his sidearm. That was another turn to his dangerously distracting fits of self-consuming dialogue that he would not add willingly.

Allowing his bulky government-issue Bród '08 K-Model SUV to come to an easy rest at a particularly touch and go intersection, he rifled through the far too numerous pockets in his (also government issued) charcoal-colored great-coat. Finally satisfied with what he'd discovered in the latest pocket, he jammed the hand-rolled hashish imbued cigarillo into the corner of his mouth. A sliver of his mind recalled a time when he spent the majority of his waking hours hunting unsuspecting smugglers and black bazaar peddlers that engaged in just such habits, or made moves to refine a vocation that allowed for such habits...but that had been a long time ago. The iron hand that directed the various financial marionettes of the Federation had forced that issue, and the Midlands were all the richer for it. And Mniszech much happier. Cheaper than whiskey now too, or at least the brands of whiskey that wouldn't blind you. And above all, easier to mess with while driving than an oversized glass liquor bottle.

Though technically off duty, he'd been offered a well paying "side job" by the District Chamberlain- a mayor in all but name- for this side of the Warrens- to take a few hours every couple of days on this, his fist week off in some time, and "pay careful attention to a particular block..." That was a perfectly acceptable (legal) proposition within the context of this city, and the labyrinthine coils of the bureaucracy that governed it in the name of Jozef Kościałkowsky, the Commonwealth, and the Federation that bore them all. Few of the souls trapped within those same coils trusted the world outside, for all that it was somewhat less dangers, and certainly less complicated. In truth, few of those souls trusted anyone at all, but it was considered better form to "keep it in the family," and that meaning within the city's agencies- or the ones based there, when a job like this needed to be done. Less trouble cleaning nasty situations up after the fact too.

He was known here in this part of town, again, for longer than he cared to recall this moment, despite being well secured in his near isolation. Though not born here, he'd spent the parts of his life that really mattered here. Had more than a few ex-wives and ex-mistresses scattered around the Warrens. Probably a couple of unlucky bastard kids now that he thought about it.

"Fuck 'em." The tip of the cigarillo glowed bright and volcanic for an instant, a great cloud of ivory smoke billowing out over the dashboard of the blocky sedan. All four corners of the intersection were jammed with the great mass of humanity that roiled through the Warrens as the entirely unique cells of not only this organ within the greater twin-cities, but perhaps the lifeblood of the metaphorical body as a whole. Some clustered about massive steel grates, warming themselves with the effluent vapors of that same mass, disregarding the foulness of the whole concept.

Why they didn't just stay home, and out of the frozen night was beyond Mniszech. He was paid, rather handsomely as said, to be out in it. He supposed that a good few of them were (paid) as well though, when viewed from the right angles. "Hell, probably as good as I'm getting now." That was a sour thought, but one that anyone in his line of work came to realize rather early on. It wasn't that sort of motivation that drew men to this particular side of the vocational coin anyway. There were far more financially rewarding jobs to be had in The Old City, and even more so in the Federal Reserve. Again, that wasn't what drew men like Mniszech most particularly to this vocation.

He'd developed a taste for, perhaps better to say an addiction, to the hunt during his time in the Service. The particular branch of that Service that he'd fulfilled his obligation to God and country in, the Special Weapons Division, specifically cultivated that sort of sentiment in its soldiers...and it was hard enough as to be impossible to get rid of it, even after one mustered out. Which one really never did, not where the SWD was concerned.

All explanations and justifications aside, Mniszech's proclivities were well-known amongst the twin-cities movers and shakers, no less so to the particular District Chamberlain that had tapped him for this little side job. It would have been just as easy for the Chamberlain to pay one of the ranking beat-cops or detectives assigned to the Warrens to do this job, but they just didn't have Mniszech's "edge," and a few of their number were counted amongst the individuals that Mniszech was to "keep a careful eye out for" on this particular block.

He'd known beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Constabulary of the Warrens were beyond lousy with corruption. He'd even known that some of them were active in political circles that were less than appreciated by the government. He'd had no idea, not until the Chamberlain had clued him in, that some of them were involved in the most radical of Communist, Intersectionalist and Post-Promethean cells vying for the hearts and minds of the disenchanted and disenfranchised masses of the Warrens.

All three groups were dangerously committed to their seditious ideologies, and had carried out countless murders and dozens of terrorist attacks in 2010 alone, even after the various government agencies of the Federation had clamped down for fear of terrorist-reprisals from Milliyetci diehards now radiating out of "integrated" Barazi.

There was a small comfort at least- rarely had Mniszech had to worry about that latter, mostly regionally concerned bunch personally. Sure and sure there were branches of the Special Inspectorate that were now specifically devoted to curtailing Milliyetci activity by depriving them of even the tiniest scraps of finance, but he was as far removed from that cat and mouse act as he was from the business of politics. Well, at least the upper echelons of politics...if not the visceral end.

"Grandpa warned you about spending so much time in your own mind Ignacy," Mniszech warned himself, recalling yet another wizened quip from the long-departed patriarch of his once ennobled family. He'd nearly missed an obviously criminal knot of young men spilling forth from one of the hole-in-the-wall taverns that littered this, and every part of the Warrens.

Nearly all of them bore the distinctive hair-style of the more violently reactionary sort of Post-Prometheans, recalling the supposed style of the ancient "Saka" tribes that had dominated this land two thousand or more years before. Shaved to a fine shine in the front, and roached into something of a top-knot on the crest of their heads, with sharply jagged lines cropped into the sides. All of them sported the same pseudo-military style leather flight jackets and trousers, charcoal camouflaged and tucked into high laced steel-toed boots. Typical gutter-trash- and more than likely the true subject of the District Chamberlain's anxiety.

Amongst those three most active and most dangerous groups in the Sarmatian capital, the Post-Prometheans were the most ruthless, the most unforgiving. The other two groups viewed themselves and liberators of the masses, as the vanguards of a new and better form of civilization- and thus rarely if ever lashed out specifically against the civilian population. This was most definitely not the case with the Post-Prometheans, who viewed the vast majority of the population, the Judaeo-Christian and patriotically Federalist portions of it, as having betrayed the true heritage of the Midlands. It was this lot that stirred up the most trouble in both Hrodino's, and in the Commonwealth as a whole.

They were also the most involved in the various illicit trades that ran through the twin-cities like great shadowy super-highways. Arms, drugs, prostitution and outright white slavery funded their savage campaigns against the modern Federation, bringing them directly into the purview of the Special Inspectorate. Ironically enough, it seemed that they had penetrated that same Inspectorate, with at least three internal housekeeping operations rooting out a half dozen "double-agents" in the previous year alone. It remained to be seen why the District Chamberlain had simply not asked for the Special Inspectorate to come in officially, but Mniszech suspected it had something to do with the now widespread knowledge of those doubles.

It was trouble, plain and simple and nothing but, that they were exiting a tavern that was marked only by that single word in simple Methodian letters- and the Seal of Solomon. There was no sane reason for a clutch of that misbegotten lot to be attending anything save for the worst sort of trouble in a Jewish establishment- however naturally disreputable it might have been.

Mniszech's quick deduction borne of nearly a full lifetime in this trade was quickly rewarded with confirmation- the heavy oaken door of the tavern burst open, thrown freely by the rushing bulk of a board shoulder figure with a great mane of blue-black hair, and a beard to match. Leading before him was the unmistakable shape of a sawed-off shotgun, double barreled and already belching fiery death before any of the Prometheans could turn to face their pursuer.

The side of one of those top-knotted heads disappeared in the avalanche of pellets that roared down and out of those smoothly bored tubes, the flesh and most of the bone neatly scooped from the base of the neck forward to just before the ear on the left side of that already dead man's head. It spoke well of his fellows that they were reacting well before the first of the their number to die hit the pavement below.

It spoke better of Mniszech that he was already out of his SUV, having clicked the dash-cam on and jerked his .41 free from the holster under his arm. By the time the Federal Reserve man was fully out of the vehicle, the Jew- that was the only thing he could have been- was also dead, his brains bashed out by an improvised mace expertly wielded by one of the Prometheans. In his death, however, the Jew provided another service, in that his not inconsiderable bulk had kept the door to the tavern open- revealing the veritable abattoir inside.

It became instantly clear why the Jew had pursued the Prometheans to such a sure death, and likewise became instantly clear that Mniszech was bound to act even in the face of such horribly one-sided odds. And so, leveling the iron-sights of the pistol off on the center of mass of the mace wielding Promethean, Mniszech caressed the trigger, with no need to worry over the same public proclamations that bound the more mundane variety of badge-wearing public servants.

 

[Beautancus]

The Warrens, Old Hrodino Side
Commonwealth of Greater Sarmatia, Federation of Międzymorze
14 Jan 2011, 19:41


The look of shock that had dawned on the face of the mace wielding brute had been comical, almost cartoonish, when the .41 hollow-point had slammed into his sternum and thrown him back onto the ruined body of the Jew he'd just beaten to death. There was no doubt in Mniszech's mind that the pagan thug was dead as dead could be...no matter how tough a mother fucker he'd been, there was a reason that the Federal Reserve issued the heavy .41 pistols to the Special Inspectorate field personnel- and that, quite simply put, was the undeniable stopping power it offered, against all but the most drugged-out berserkers (which these bastards were apt to be).

Not quite as "fast" as the .38 or .380 rounds, whatever that was in godless metrics, that most of the rest of the world used, but certainly more kinetically efficient than the old fashioned .45 rounds Mniszech's father's generation had used. It was a happy medium for men like him in other words, men that needed to make relatively quick kills with one or two shots, reliably. As such, by the time the first of the Post-Promethean thugs had finished his terminal collapse onto the body of the Khazar tavern-patron, three more rounds were sluicing through the thin winter air, two of them impacting the man standing just to the left of where the mace-wielding butcher had fallen.

Those shots had been slightly high of center-mass, taking that man in the collar bone and the jugular, respectively, and splashing most of what was in the way of those bullets against the icy bricks behind. With those shots, however, the element of surprise was spent and the surviving Post-Prometheans were reacting. Far from being simple thugs unaccustomed to combat of whatever sort, they were spreading out- either falling back into the hellish innards of the tavern turned vision of hell, or seeking cover behind the nearest vehicles on the curb of the street.

Mniszech was sure that he saw at least two of them going for something in their tell-tale flight jackets, most likely firearms, since hoping for them to have only improvised maces would be pure idiocy. They were screaming abuse too, their thick northeastern, almost Slavian, accents betraying their origins, and a great deal about what exactly they (most likely) were and did in their unholy brotherhood. Hailing from the frontier regions nearest to the Commandry, lands that had been largely depopulated in the more than half-century since the Great War, they were sure to be born isolationist-survivalists, extreme members of an already hopelessly extreme movement.

Having himself retreated behind the bulk of his SUV, Mniszech was careful that the angle he placed himself offered the slimmest target, even with the slightly greater space between the pavement and the chassis of the hulking Bród. Working to deny whatever wicked fortunes the Prometheans might turn against him, he stole a quick glance under the vehicle at the salt-slush slicked street- and quickly double-tapped the tires on the opposite side of the vehicle from him, dropping it down a good few more inches instantly.

Half the bullets in the magazine already expended, the Federal Reserve man tapped at his coat, assured that there were spare magazines there...and it occurred to him that he would not be able to get out of dodge if things took a turn for the worse. The thought lingered only for a moment, he'd committed himself to this action, well out of the scope of what he was being paid to do this evening, and perhaps a bit beneath what his officially assigned duties were at any other time. Best fight, and die if needs be, well- under the eyes of the Divine, who lauded such action above all else.

Daring a glance around the normally useless brush-guard mounted on the front of the SUV, he caught sight of one of the pagan dogs skittering from behind his cover across the street, an antique, but perfectly deadly .357 revolver wavering in Mniszech's general direction. The man's glassy, blood-shot eyes narrowed upon meeting Mniszech's and a snarl formed on his pockmarked face. The seconds drew out, and the bulky revolver thundered, heavy lead scouring the steel of the brush-guard just inches from Mniszech's face.

Even so, as the action of the Post-Promethean's revolver turned and the hammer drew back for another shot, Mniszech's own pistol lined up perfectly with his stooped form and roared to life itself. Two more hollow points lanced out, both impacting and parting flesh and bone. Where exactly, Mniszech was unsure, but it had to have been in a line up, anywhere from his stomach to his face. Wherever the bullets had entered, or exited, the force of the impact had flung the man back on his haunches and then flat on the street, his breath coming in quick clouds.

The unmistakable scuffle of boots on pavement drew the Lieutenant-Inspector's attention behind him, a maneuver that he'd entirely expected and had been priming himself for. At the last instant Mniszech threw himself prone, and partly under the SUV, his pistol up and ready. As this newest foe loomed into sight, Mniszech's breath caught in his throat- this bastard had a riot gun, a drum-fed 12 gauge, snug-nosed and infinitely illegal. If this top-knotted beast got even a single shot close, the game could well be up.

And he did, get the shot off and damned near too close, at least a third of the pellets in that load (thankfully not a slug or "buck-shot") burrowed into the flesh along Mniszech's right hip and thigh. The pain ran white-hot tendrils up and through his entire body, like knives of divine fire in the Federal Reserve man's mind.

"Mother fucker!" Time slowed, the very laws of physics seem to distort. Mniszech could hear the drum-magazine clicking and sliding, could see the black plastic of the shell jettisoned, smoking, into the winter air. The look of unadulterated hatred on the Northeasterner's face, the rawness of his amphetamine burned lips. The blue-black hole that appeared just below, and then just above his round-open right eye- the red-pink-purple-gray-brown jelly that exploded in something not unlike old fashioned Technicolor behind his half-shaved head. Finally the bottom of one boot as the momentum of the bullets carried him up and back down in a ruined heap.

Gasping against the immense shock of the great long wound down his leg, Mniszech craned his head down as far as possible to gain another look at the street- at his count there should have been another of the sorry pig-fucking pagans somewhere out there. And there he was, taking his time moving across the street. All that was visible of him from there under the SUV was his boots- but that was more than enough for Mniszech's purposes. Two shots left, two ankles to mangle- with malice aforethought centering on the rigorous interrogation that this bastard would be subjected to.

The man's screams when the first bullet tore through both his feet, presumably through at least one ankle was a much-needed reward for Mniszech. Saving the last bullet until he had a better view of the flailing figure, and carefully drawing a bead on what he gauged to be the fallen Post-Promethean's hip, Mniszech expended the last shot in his first magazine.

The sirens that followed were even more heartening for the badly bleeding hero in waiting.