Morden Man
xVampire3go
Captain Uni
Memoria
Eddie Brock
Master Bruce
parelaxis
Cyrania
mattmanganonBeacon Heights
Little Walter snorted a line of crank off his large hunting knife. His eyes widened as it hit his bloodstream. His heart began to thump wildly in his chest. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He felt like he could take on the whole goddamn world. The crank was part of his pre-battle routine, and he required it of all his men. Like the viking berserkers or the brave men of the Wehrmacht, they would be in an altered state of being when they achieved glory, operating on a higher plane of existence. He tucked the knife back into the holster back on his hip and surveyed the troops in front of him.
Six burly, tatooed bikers wearing the cutoff jackets that proudly proclaimed them as members of the Crusaders Motorcyle Club. The symbol on the back of the jacket was a knight riding a chopper, a sword extened and ready for battle.
“CRUSADERS,” he yelled to the six heavily armed bikers standing in front of him. “MOUNT UP.”
The men mounted their motorcycles and kickstarted them to life with deafening roars. They headed out from their clubhouse and into the night. Little Walter - as MC president – rode at the front. The nickname of “Little” was of course ironic. Little Walter stood at six and a half feet tall. His body was covered in a canvas of tattoos – the centerpieces of the tats was the German Iron Cross tattooed under his left eye and the “MAKE AMERICA WHITE AGAIN” tattooed across his neck.
The pack of bikers rode through the streets of Beacon Heights headed for Northbridge. A little bar there had recently been taken over by the Bandidos MC. Despite numerous warnings over the years, plenty of other MCs tried to get a toehold into Calder City. And each and every one left town bloodied and with their tails between their legs. Walter and the men behind him were the Bandidos welcoming party.
Walter reached down with his right hand and pulled the 12-gauge shotgun from its holster by the chopper engine. He skidded his bike to a stop outside of a parking lot crowded with people. The rest of the Crusaders fell in line.
The parking lot held people, cars, and plenty of motorcycles. The men nearest the bikes all wore cutoff vests with the words BANDIDOS MC on the back. Unlike the very white Crusaders, the Bandidos were hispanic.
“Calder City is Crusaders country,” Little Walter roared. "And around here we don't habla any fucking espanol."
He opened fire on the crowd as the six Crusaders behind him followed his lead.
Steel Acres
Paladin woke up just before dawn like always. He had managed to sleep through the night without nightmares, or at least ones so timid they hadn’t registered in his mind. These days a dreamless sleep was as close to a good night’s sleep as he could muster.
He climbed out of bed and quickly tucked the sheets back into place so it was military tight and perfectly made. The twin bed rested on a boxspring in the far corner of the studio apartment. Only 500 square feet meant the bed took up most of the apartment’s floor space, but for Paladin it was more than enough. He had a tiny kitchenette, fridge, and a toilet with a shower, a milkcrate nightstand beside the bed had a small pile of library books on it Paladin was in the process of reading. Compared to some of the places he had lived, this was a mansion.
His morning workout routine was the same as it had been the last twenty years: 100 push-ups, 100 body squats, and 100 pull-ups on a bar he had installed in the bathroom doorway. Simple bodyweight exercises that could be done anywhere any time. Over the years he had done the workout in the heat of the desert, on aircraft carriers enroute to undisclosed locations, and snowy blacksights near the arctic circle.
After the body weight exercises, Paladin hit the neighborhood in a pair of running shorts and a tanktop. He jogged five miles around Steel Acres. The run was as much about watching others as it was cardio. He would run with a baseball cap tucked down low, just in case a camera happened to catch him. He never used the same route and always kept an eye out for potential tails. When he was satisfied he saw nobody following him, he headed back to his third story walkup and had a shower and a breakfast of leftover beans and rice from the bodega around the corner.
Once that was done, Paladin changed into a simple outfit of jeans and a plain navy t-shirt. A long time ago he had learned about the “gray man” approach to dressing, simple but not too simple, the goal was not to stand out at all. There was a trend of people wearing tactical gear as an attempt to signal some sort of identity. Like most fashion choices in today's world it was simply performantive. The real operators and killers you wouldn’t give a second glance to.
He made his way to the package store a few blocks away. He had a PO box set up under an alias he had paid years in advance on in cash. The box never received mail, and Paladin never sent any. The real reason for the box was storage. Inside the box was a burner cellphone that had the batter and the sim card removed. He retrieved the phone and headed towards Old Calder. He wanted to be out of the neighborhood before turning the phone on and having it ping against any cell towers.
Paladin set up shop in a small park just inside the limits of Old Calder. He found a bench to sit on and turned on the phone. It buzzed with texts and voicemails. The number to his phone only passed by word of mouth, he had never written it down or shared it with anyone. It was why the screening process was so critical. There would be crackpots and crazy people just trying to get attention, an occasional slimy man or woman looking for “help” to take out their cheating spouse, and the chance that someone asking for help was in reality setting up a trap. It was up to Paladin to sort through everything to see who was genuine, who he wanted to help, and who he actually could help.
“Mr. Paladin,” the voice said on the line. A man’s voice, raspy from a lifetime of cigarette smoking. “I need help finding my daughter. I’m worried she’s mixed up with some bad people. Last time I saw her a few months ago, she was with this surly looking biker guy. They came to the house to get her stuff, I think she was high, we had an arguement and that piece of shit biker roughed me up. I tried to get the police to look into it, but she’s an adult… they don’t really care. I don’t have much money, but I just… need help. I'm worried about her, I'm worried she's dead. Call me back if you can. Please.”
That message was from two days ago. Paladin played it back and listened to the sorrow and hopelessness in the man’s voice. He leaned back against the bench and took a breath before calling the number back.
Little Walter stomped through the carnage of the shootout with blood spatter on his boots. Screams and moans filled the air. Most of the people had fled once shots had been fired. Some of the Bandidos had tried to stand their ground and fire back, but they had been gunned down by the Crusaders. Six dead Bandidos by Little Walter’s count, too many civilians wounded for him to count.
“Well, well, well,” he said slowly as he approached the man crawling on the ground. “Look who it is.”
The Bandido on the ground had the PRESIDENT tab on the back of his jacket. Little Walter’s counterpart.
“Well, jefe, lookin’ like it’s a bad day to be a Bandido.”
“Please,” the man groaned. “Don’t…”
Walter put his boot on the man’s back, smearing his Bandido’s jacket with blood. The Bandido began to cry and scream for mercy. Walter aimed the shotgun at the back of his head and pulled the trigger. The shotgun kicked and the Bandido went silent.
"Adios, amigo."
