[b]Sevan, Armenia[/b]

Sahle woke up slowly, his throat raw and his eyelids sticky with sleep. He realized very quickly where he was. This place was the men's bathroom in the Dead Man's Den, and he was in the last stall. His back was against the floor, and the feeling of the cold tile against his ass told him that his pants were pulled down around his thighs. His shirt - a colorfully patterned piece of clothing, like a tunic with its loose fit and U-neck that tied closed - was damp. He sniffed it. Smelled like piss. His legs were spread apart and straddled over the toilet as if he was preparing to give birth at it. He had some guesses as to what had happened, but he could not remember how he got here. 

As he stood up, his back betrayed him. A spasm of pain punished the middle of his spine and sent tendrils of numbness through his muscles. Thirty three was too old to be sleeping next to toilets. Gently, he pulled his pants back up. And then, he changed his mind. His pants went back down to his thighs. Sahle faced the toilet that had been his bed-mate, and Sahle pissed.

When he was done and his pants were up for a second time, he began to run through his latest memories trying to remember why he had slept here. He remembered doing a show, and he remembered drinking some afterwards. As the night had wore on, he had taken Aaliyah back to her room and undressed her, except for her mask. And they fucked. That had been a difficult for him, but not because of his drinking. Her mask made him uncomfortable now. She insisted on wearing it most of the time to hide the scarred pit where her eye had been, but the creepy doll-like look it's glossy enamel face was too peculiar for him. And that eye... painted so lifelike, but unblinking. The struggle had been real, but he had got the job done. After that...

He was here. He wasn't hungover... no, he hadn't drank nearly that much. But he was here, and wearing a shirt stained in his own piss.

That was the next problem that needed solving. He pulled the piss-stained shirt over his head, baring the naked skin underneath. The shirt was disgusting now, soaked with not only his piss, but whatever had been on the bathroom floor where he had passed out. In the Dead-Man's Drink, that could be anything. He imagined it crawling with crabs, and gonorrhea, and whatever sickly old man diseases Sanos Horasian had. This shirt was dead to him now. He tossed it in the toilet and flushed. A weak stream of toilet water washed over it, dragging a sleeve into the outlet and clogging it. Water bubbled and splashed off of the intruding shirt and the bowl slowly filled. Sahle left the stall to its fate.

The Men's room at the Dead Man's Drink was as unimpressive as the rest of the club. Its red-brown tiles were peeling off the wall, exposing the drywall underneath. Pipes caked with rust and limescale ran exposed along the bottom of the wall, connecting a chipped sink with the seatless, overstressed toilets hidden behind stalls that were little more than two-foot tall strips of decaying wood. A flickering light-bulb swung by a few wires on the ceiling, and its clicks and buzzes made the room look two times as bad. In one corner, there was the torn remnants of a poster. It showed a young girl, completely nude and making no attempt to hide it. She held a heavy gun of some type and grinned. The paper had faded so that she looked ghostly white against a vague beige background, and the bathroom went from damp to dry so often that the paper was now as much a part of the wall as any wall paper could be. Still, she was enticing, and Sahle felt his member stir at the sight of her.

It was no time for that. Sahle cleaned his face, threw water under his arms, and left the room.

When he entered the open halls of the Dead Man's Drink, he felt the cold hit his skin. He wasn't wearing anything above his waist, and Sevan was cold even in the summer. Above the walls, the hall opened up to the rest of the building, as there was no ceiling save for the roof itself. From here he could see the pair of pants that hung from a rafter above the main room, as it had when they first started working here months before. The floor warped and groaned with his every step, and he stepped softer as a result.

When he came into the main room, he spied the old man Sanos Horasian. He sat at one of the dining tables below the stages counting wadded money out of a lockbox. When he saw Sahle, he eyed his suspiciously.

"Where did this blacky lose his shirt, eh?" the old man spat. "This isn't one of those types of bars where the men pretend they are women. I don't want to see naked men walking around my property."

"I have pants." Sahle said succinctly. He eyed the corpse in glass that watched from behind the bar and gave this place its name. 

The old man let out a meaty [i]Hmph[/i]. "The Russian was looking for you." he barked. 

"Vasily?" Sahle asked. Vasily was the only Russian he knew. He was also the closest thing the old man had to a friend, so it was off putting that he called him The Russian. "Did he say where he would be?" Sahle asked.

"No." the old man replied, turning back to his box of money. "I don't know what he does."

Sahle left the building, trading the musty smells of stale beer and mildew for the crisp, thin air of the Armenian highlands. Sevan was a popular town, but it was a small one. The lakeside resort was kept surprisingly clean by crews of garbage men and street cleaners who were often veterans with a military approach to discipline, and the cold air kept any remnant filth from ripening. This meant that the booze, sex, and vomit of the nightlife was gone by sunrise. Sevan's scent in the morning was the carbon of cars and trucks belching up and down the road, and the wet, slimy smell of the nearby lake.

It was, however, too chilly for Sahle's tastes. He had grown up in Ethiopia, where the mountains stayed comfortably warm and the deserts of the rift valley seared hotter than anywhere else on Earth. He had woke up without shoes, or a shirt, and he was wearing only a pair of baggy pants. His torso was bare, and his nipples stiffened in the wind. He sped up his gait, careful to not look too suspicious despite being a half-naked African coming out of a bar just in time for breakfast.

The cold had the effect of waking him completely, though this way was just about as brutal as being kicked in the stomach. He began to remember images of the night before. Images of a familiar apartment complex, and a bottle of Vodka he had swiped from The Dead Man's Drink. He had be watching Vladmira's place again, hoping for... something. Maybe it was just to see Oziryan's mistress - or friend - or guest - or whatever she was. Maybe he hoped to see her undressing in her own window, or maybe he hoped that she might see him and invite him to undress with her. It was hard to tell. She was something that distracted him from all the shit that had been dealt to him. And, when it came down to it, she was ridiculously hot. 

"Friend!" he heard a familiar voice yell. It was Yared. He was thrust out the passenger side window of a dented old truck. His beard was as uncombed as ever, and he was wearing a thick shirt of plain wool. "Samel! Vasily is driving! He wants us for something." there was a pause. "Where did you put your shirt, friend?"

"It was grungy, friend!" Sahle answered. Being reminded of it made him feel cold all over again. He sauntered over to the truck, holding his arms close to him for warmth. 

"Come in here." Yared climbed out the window, groaning something that sounded kind of like "Friend" as he bent his neck unnaturally to get out. Yared popped out and landed on his feet. Sahle saw Vasily's face shadowed inside, and he was eying Sahle over in a way that seemed unusually serious for him. 

"Marc is in the back, friend." Yared replied. "I will ride with him. Here..." he reached into the bed and pulled out a woven wool blanket. Sahle noticed the brown-red stain in its corner at once, and remembered the serious eyes that had caught his when he looked in the truck. He wondered how he had every made a friend like Vasily the Russian. Yared climbed into the truck bed. Sahle wrapped himself in the blanket and climbed in the cab.

"I am thinking that it is too cold for the black man." Vasily greeted. His voice was more even now than it usually was. It lacked the sing-songy playfulness that he knew the Russian for. "Why are you running around town with shirt off?"

"I lost it." That was all he had to say about that. He had no reason to reveal that he had managed to piss his own shirt in his sleep. He still had some dignity. Sahle pulled the blanket tighter around himself and tried not to think about the brown stain that he knew in the depth of his mind to be blood. "Where are we going?" he asked dumbly.

"Oziryan is wanting a debt to be called in." Vasily responded. He kept his eyes on the road. Sevan City was lightly trafficked, but the few vehicles that did share the streets with them was navigated by the sorts of people who learned how to drive on family farms. It was deft attention, rather than strict rules, that governed the roads here.

The thought of Oziryan collecting on their debt made Sahle nervous. He had helped to keep them safe from the Egyptians that Barnham had sent hunting for them, and he had gifted Aaliyah with her new face. But he was a crime lord, there was no doubt about that, and what he wanted could hardly be good. Sahle knew that he wouldn't be asking them for clean his car.

"What are we going to do?" Sahle said, resigned. There was no other option but to accept it. He was nervous, but he had lived through so much already that he doubted they would be facing anything new. Such was the life of a fugitive.

"I will be telling you soon." Oziryan said sharply. "But you will be meeting a man first."

The ride grew quiet. Sahle struggled to think of anything but the inevitable trial they were preparing to face. He thought of Aaliyah, waking up alone and certainly looking for Sahle. And he thought of Vladmira, the fair haired Russian who had captured his imagination. He tried to imagine her naked, but he could only see Aaliyah's body, thinned by the horrors they had experienced over the last few months and so familiar to Sahle now that she seemed annoyingly plain. 

They passed a tanker truck parked in front of a fueling station. A hose sprouted from its side and dipped into an outlet in the tarmac, looking much like a fat worm crawling from the belly of its host to its home underground. The truck itself had once very clearly been of military use. It was a short, snubnosed Polish model with an olive drab paint-job and lines of thick black paint where its military markings had been. Sahle guessed that its driver had also been former military. He was young, but marked by an ugly burn scar on his forehead. He eyed them solemnly as they passed through what the tight gap in the road his truck left open. 

Sahle watched buildings go by, hoping more would sprout up between them and their destination so that he could enjoy this peace a little while longer. Sevan's architecture was simple. Some buildings were constructed from simple ruddy stone and showed hints of the Turkic, if not the Roman. Others were plastered and painted. As they passed one with an open alley way, Sahle saw where somebody had painted "Turkish is Devil" in native script. He remembered that the message had not been there last week.

"People are still mad about the Turks." he said inanely. 

Vasily choked a short laugh. "I am thinking they will be hating the Turks until a long time is gone." he replied. "People do not forget some hates."

Sahle knew of the terrible genocide the Turks had brought to this part of the world. He knew that the Armenians bore their grudge honestly, but there was something peculiar about turning it into graffiti. Vandalism like that seemed like something people did because they could not fight back with anything other than anonymous words. But Armenia had won, and the Turks had lost nearly everything. What was the worth of attacking them by painting on your neighbors wall?

"You know, I am knowing more about this town than you would expect." he tapped his own temple with his pointed finger and gave Sahle a sly look. That seemed more like the Vasily he knew, a comic armed to the teeth. "There is a family in town of old Armenian blood that had worked for a Turk who owned a grocery store. It was before the revolution, I am thinking. He paid them in very little money and made them work most of the day so that their lives were sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep..." The Russian paused. He lowered his voice as if this was a story being told over a campfire. "Then one day, the Armenians revolted, and the war was on. They revolted too. They locked their Turkish boss in the basement of his house and took it over. And they never let him out. The war was done, and they did not let him out."

Vasily stopped, and Sahle became confused. "You are saying they still have this man locked in his own basement?" he asked.

Vasily shrugged. "I hear they keep him like he is a pet. They feed him the food they don't eat and say cruel things to him. I am not knowing the whole story. I am thinking it was being said that he worked their child to death when he was very sick, but I am not knowing this."

"That has to be bullshit." Sahle replied. "Why would they go to the trouble? Wouldn't the police notice this?"

Vasily shrugged again. "The Law in Sevan is Armenian now, and they are not liking the Turk. Real hate. That is a scary thing, I am thinking. It can build up and build up and build up and then, when it is released." He took his hands off the wheel and mimed a tiny explosion. "Pwoosh! All of the hell breaks loose."

They arrive in the poorer part of town, far from the bars and clubs that formed Sevan's nucleus. Here, Sevan became rowhouses and low-ground tenements who's crumbling walls looked as old as the cyclopean ruins of castles and temples that dotted the treeless hills of the Armenian countryside. Life was meaner in this part of town, and Sahle began to imagine Oziryan's plans to be increasingly violent as they passed world-weary old women and rag-clad men with hungry eyes. 

The building they stopped in front of stood out from the rest despite the red-stone facade and unassuming architecture it had in common with them. A white plywood sign was hung between the first and second floors, and ran length-way across it, and on it were bright red Chinese characters below which were the words "Deng Wushu" were written in Armenian. Sahle stared at the building, trying to work out what part of Asia this was from, and what a "Deng Wushu" was. He decided that he did not know.

The driver's side door opened with a scrapping pop as Vasily climbed out into the street. Sahle debated whether or not to keep the blanket he had wrapped around his torso, before deciding that he had best keep it. Wearing a blanket or wearing no shirt, both would look strange. At least with the blanket he would be warm. As he climbed out of the car, he saw Marc for the first time and realized that he too was wrapped in a blanket.

"Marc" Sahle grinned and slapped the perpetual stoner on the back. "I did not see you back there, friend."

A clear line of snot was running out of Marc's nose and mingling with the sparse hairs of his mustache. "All I did was get in the truck, brother." Marc rasped. When he talked, he sounded like he thought whatever they were doing was part of an inside joke only they understood. "I don't even know what is going on." 

Yared looked far less confused. "Oziryan." he said succinctly, and Sahle knew that he knew. 

Sahle nodded. 

Sahle saw a look of knowing concern wash over Yared, but it was short lived. Within a moment, Yared was his as carefree and irreverent as he ever was. Sahle wondered how much the sleepy bearded Krar player hid behind his impish eyes. "Let us go in, friends. I want to know what a Wushu do."

The inside of Deng Wushu was as foreign looking as the sign outside. Most of the building was one room, open to the roof of the second story. The floors were a light, polished hard wood and the cream walls were decorated with a mixture of Asian paraphernalia and photographs of men posing in fighting stances. Three brightly painted statuettes stood on a shelf in the corner. The figures were bearded, two young and one old, and they seemed to be wearing some ancient style of robe. In front of them and on the same table was a small copper cup. It was filled with water.

Sahle and his friends caught up with Vasily around a corner in the widest section of the open space. He was talking to a small, portly man of Asian decent. The lighting was dim her, coming from two-few lights, and the corners of the room were obscured in a soft darkness.  

"Samel. Yared. Marc." Vasily called out, "Meet Deng Wu. He will be accompanying us."

Deng bowed, and Sahle saw where his greasy hair was thinning on top. "I am honored to make your acquaintance." Sahle smiled. Marc responded with his own wobbly bow, grinning like a dipshit as if the whole thing was one big joke.

It was only then that Sahle noticed the music. It was coming in from a compact record player sitting in the shadows at the back of the room. The singing was folksy and crooning, but there was something unique about the accompanying guitar that made it sound almost western, if not American. American music had gained some attention in Africa after the refugee airlift his father had ordered when wars swallowed the North American continent a decade ago. These styles had influenced music in Africa, but to hear the same styles influencing Asia...

"Deng. Good to meet you. But I got a question." Sahle heard Yared exclaim abruptly. "What is a Wushu then?"

"Wushu is an ancient Chinese art." Deng explained stiffly. "It is the balance of mind and control of body."

"It is kicking for fighting." Vasily added. "Deng teaches the Armenians so when they fight with no weapons they do not look so stupid."

Deng gave Vasily an annoyed glance, but he said nothing.

"We have a mission to be doing." Vasily began. Sahle felt his throat tingle nervously as he waited to here. Vasily turned to face Deng. "Oziryan is wanting to move his shipment."

Deng's expression did not change. He nodded. "Follow me then. We will need all of us to move it."

He lead them to a backroom, where boxes and cabinets sat next to stranger things, including a life-sized mannequin and a statue of a fat Buddha who's arm had been chipped off. The room was filled with a thick, musty air, and dust irritated Sahle's nose as their presences kicked it into the air. There was a large crate sitting on a pallet in the corner of the room. Sahle noticed that it was the first thing Deng and Vasily seemed to see.

Somewhere, Deng had found a crowbar. He wrenched open the top of the large crate. "It is still here, as it was." he explained. "I have not opened it until now."

Vasily waved his hand. "Oziryan trusts you, I am thinking." he said. "Let us show our friends this thing. Samel, Yared, Marc."

They stepped up and looked over. There was two divider walls cutting down the center so that they left a small gap, where a long thin bag held something blocky. "Do not be touching that." Vasily pointed and warned. "That is dry ice. It will be burning your skin."

Both sides of the crate were lined with foil. Deng pulled back the foil lining on top to reveal the secret that had brought them to this Chinese man's door so early in the morning.

They were long, thin sheets of blotting paper, perforated so that they could be broken into small finger-nail sized bits. On each bit was the same image - a smiling man with black skin. He has bushy hair and a near-cropped beard. In one hand he held a cane, and with the other he pointed outward. It was an image that Sahle knew well. This man's was the face of Acid.

"Doctor Feelgood." Marc gasped lustily. "If this is a gift, friends, I will take it."

"No." Vasily answered sharply. Deng returned the foil and closed the lid. "We are to be delivering this to the Georgian border tonight. You will be assisting us."

"Assisting?" Sahle asked. "How?"

"You will be muscle. The people we will be dealing with will rob us if we are too few."

Marc snickered. "They will be robbing us, friend, if they see who you got for muscle."

Sahle agreed. He had shot at men before, and he could hardly remember doing so. It had been a long time ago, and the events of that day had been unique. This was different, though. He had handled weapons since, but he feared them. Guns felt too unnatural in his hands. And Vasily knew all of this.

"This is not a question." Vasily answered. "You are going. Oziryan has ordered this, and you owe him I am thinking. Now come, help us lift this."