A New Foe

The gentle downpour of rain added to the already ethereal glow of 10th Avenue in Manhattan. The wet street sparkled under the glow of the lamp posts, headlights, and lit windows. Passerby milled up and down the sidewalk like ants while cars, large beetles, trundled slowly by through the uptown traffic. In the center of a respectable-looking block stood a building which, though nondescript, was nonetheless surrounded by a vast mob of people. The first two floors of the structure were simple beige stucco, with tall, thin windows and exposed support struts. The vague, stylized sign above the worn, handnailed double door read:

Zen

Above the second floor, the earthy stucco facade stopped abruptly and became polished, tinted glass. From there the building rose another twenty stories.
The mass of bodies outside, all milling around a zig-zagging velvet rope, was a microcosm of the New York "it" crowd. Young, vibrant, beautiful, and powerful. They stood in the drizzle, anxiously awaiting entrance into the mysterious Zen.
On the surface, Zen was one of most popular nightclubs in the city. Every evening, it catered to the Big Apple's wealthy elite. Once inside the double doors (always guarded by two men who looked to be professional wrestlers in tuxedoes) one would find oneself in a tasteful, minimalist, Eastern-inspired bar with a small dance floor and private booths dotted about the walls. It was dimly-lit and pretentious, as were most nightclubs in the city, but there was an unmistakble air of calm and power about the place. There was an air of quiet confidence.
Because below the surface, Zen, the nightclub, was something else entirely. It was in actuality a front for the one of the most powerful crime syndicates in the world. Known only as "The Management," this shadowy criminal organization had spread its tentacles into every illegal endeavor imaginable, from the low-brow to the high-class, petty to white collar; nothing was beyond the scope of The Management.
It was founded loosely at the turn of the century by a loose confederation of robber barons, who amassed billions in oil, steel, and other commodities, and yet always desired more. Over the years, it's membership grew to include other sorts of criminals: Triads, Columbian drug cartels, the Cosa Nostra. Now controlled by a board of some of the most powerful men on the planet, The Managment was not limited to specific regions or ethnic groups. It was a world-wide prescence, intent on shaping global economy to its malevolent will.
And this time it had set its sights on a target rather close to home . . .

Back outside, a man was striding confidently up the sidewalk towards Zen's guarded doors and the mob gathered before them. He was tall and slim and moved with lilting grace. His black suit and black shirt made him appear a shadow on the New York streets. A black fedora was perched on his crown at a jaunty angle, over his slicked, dark hair. With a disarming smile on his sharply handsome face, he cut through the line and stood before the two goliaths at the entrance.
"Can we help you, sir?" asked the less primitive of the two in a low, menacing growl.
"You sure can, big fella," the stranger replied. "I have an appointment with the man of the house. Perhaps it's on your list. You do keep a list, right?"
The more primitive of the two produced a clip board.
"Name?" asked the first ape.
"Jackie," said the man, "Jackie Forcella."
The gorillas exchanged a glance.
"We weren't told about this," said the first, apparently the spokesman of the duo.
"Naturally," said Jackie, "you're too low on the totem pole." He took a few steps forward. "Well, never mind, then. Just step aside and I'll--"
A large hand hit him in the chest, halting his advance. Jackie felt as though he'd been struck by a swinging side of beef. He took a few stumbling steps backwards, but recovered quickly.
"Sorry, sir," growled the spokesman, though his smile seemed to indicate he was not. "We can't let you in."
Jackie smiled as well, straightened his gold tie, and stepped forward toward the doors once more.
"That's okay," he said, "I'll let myself in."
The hand came at him again, but before it could make contact, even before the titan who owned it could register bafflement, Jackie spun to the right, wrapped both hands around the thick wrist, and executed a twisting, downward tug.
There was a sound like snapping celery stalks, a cry of anguish, and the spokesman toppled forward, betrayed by his own bulk and subsequent momentum. Jackie pushed him slightly to the left as he fell, so his descent was broken by the wrought iron base of a street light. The doorman's head struck the iron pedestal like a hammer on a gong, and he promptly fell unconscious.
All this happened before the other doorman could react. He was in the process of pulling a pistol from his jacket when Jackie ducked to the side and dug a knife blade into the soft flesh behind his knee. This colossus, too, fell to the ground. Jackie grabbed the steel pole which terminated one end of the velvet rope, and brought it down on the fallen guard's head.
This done, he dropped the pole, shot his cuffs and turned to face the crowd.
"Step right in, folks," he said, opening the door for them. He pulled a roll of hundreds from the pocket of the first guard and tossed them liberally into the cheering mass. "The drinks're on him."
With the rest of the security staff busy handling the flood of new club patrons, Jackie slipped smoothly down a discreet hallway. The hallway ended in a cul de sac-- the back wall completely taken up with a large bookcase.
Jackie halted before it and intently studied the rows of books.
"Which was it again?" he muttered to himself.
Then his eyes lit on a copy of The Outcasts of Poker Flats, by Bret Harte.
He gave the book a little tug and the whole bookcase-covered wall swung inward. He stepped past it, turned, and closed it behind him.
He turned back around to face the barrells of six large-caliber pistols, eagerly staring him in the face.
He gulped, but regained his composure.
"Kindly put those down. I'm here to see Callahan."
The six men in designer suits who had targeted him, hardened killers all, gave him a single, doubtful look, then lowered their weapons and ushered him forward to another door.
"I wish you'd get rid of that secret passageway," Jackie muttered to one guard. "Who do I look like, Nancy Drew?"
The man pulled a card from his pocket and ran it through a strip on the wall. There was a muted beep, and then a click, and another man reached out and opened the door.
The guard behind Jackie gave him an unceremonious shove into the second room, and then shut the door behind him.
Jackie found himself in a large, panelled room with thick, burgundy carpeting and a low ceiling. To his right was an office of sorts: a massive wooden desk with a flatscreen monitor perched upon it. Arranged around the desk were several filing cabinets. On the wall behind the desk was a towering map of the five boroughs.
To his left there was a pool table and bar. Two men in suits were playing pool, a third, in shirt sleeves and suspenders, was preparing a drink behind the counter.
In front of him was a huge, round table covered in green velvet. A card table.
At the edge of this table closest to Jackie, another Armani-clad goon sat dealing cards.
At the far side of the table a figure sat in the shadows- a hulking mountain of flesh that one would have to assume was a man, but would feel safer guessing was a bear. His whole massive form was obscured by darkness. The only visible parts of him were his hands- gnarled mitts situated at the ends of thick wrists.
It was this man, one Seamus Callahan, that Jackie had come to see.
He spoke.
"Well, Jackie, m'boy. You did a number on those poor doormen, didn't you? Tell me, Jack, was that necessary?"
His voice was a rumbling growl with a hint of an Irish accent.
Jackie strode closer to the table. "It was, Seamus. They were blocking my way."
In the shadows, Callahan's yellowed teeth shone in a humorless grin.
"My friends call me Seamus- least, they would if I had any. You kin call me Mr. Callahan, if you please.
"And it was not necessary. Your appointment ain't 'til tomorrah."
"Best to be early," Jackie said dismissively.
Callahan's humorless grin tightened. "Very well, lad.
"Lookin' fine n' fit you are. Glad t'see y'kid make it. Sit an' play a round."
Jackie did so, taking the seat across from Callahan. The man with the cards moved to the left and occupied a chair an equal distance between the two. He had been shuffling the cards. He now dealt. Callahan leaned forward a little more, exposing forearms as thick as a healthy man's thighs. His huge, scarred hands gathered the cards in, moving like plump, hungry spiders.
Jackie suppressed a shudder.
"Then we've got some business t'discuss, Jackie, lad. There's a wee job we'd like fer yeh ta handle."
"I'm honored that you thought of me, sir."
The big man chuckled. Jackie had an image in his mind of a huge, rusty machine crunching gravel into powder.
"Well, you may be new ta this game, boy, but after that display you put on in 'Jersey, we knew we could count on ya." He slid two cards to the dealer in exhange for two more. These he shuffled into his hand. Then he spoke again.
"Ye'd be goin' by yerself on this one, Jackie. Flyin' solo, as it were. You up for that?"
"Of course, sir. So long as I'm armed, I'm up for anything."
Now Callahan roared his laughter. He slapped a hand down on the table, which buckled under the weight.
"Tha's what I like ta hear!"
Suddenly he leaned forward. Jackie gasped.
The man was a monster.
His large head was bald and dented. It shone in the lamp light. Below the crown was a broad expanse of forehead, supported by two bushy, steel grey eyebrows.
It was the eyes, Jackie thought. That's what caught him off guard.
The man's eyes were terribly mismatched. His left eye was a calm blue; his right, surrounded by puckered, scarred flesh, was a sickening blue white. A pale death color. The color of a drowned man's skin, Jackie thought wildly.
The flesh around the right eye was stretched and torn, leaving the eye more exposed than it should have been and making it appear larger.
This startling difference in size and color made the man look dangerously insane.
A thick, steel grey mustache curled above his lip and across his jowls on either side, where it connected with his sideburns.
He was dressed in brown slacks and a stained wife beater, quite in contrast to his dapper guards. Callahan had never placed much value on expensive clothing.
Jackie stared at the man, his massive, hairy, scarred bulk straining to escaped the confines of his shirt. Callahan was huge. Standing, he must be 6'8", thought Jackie. He probably weighs a quarter of a ton. He looked like he could snap the heavy table in front of him in half.
His overall appearance was that of an old, battle-scarred medieval warrior. To Jackie, he looked like a barbarian.
Callahan was used to people being starled by his appearance. He let Jackie get accustomed to the sight of him and then he spoke again, low and slow and deliberate.
"Tell me, lad, have yeh heard of a company by the name of Ninja Pirate Incorporated?"

Rich

An urgent thump on the door.

*Knock, knock!*

Silence, broken only by sleepy, pillow-muffled murmurs.

*Knock, knock, knock, knock!*

Still no response.

*KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!*

Furious. Insistent. Unyielding.

The caller was losing patience, but standing firm. At this last burst, the sliding pneumatic door rocking in its frame, my head rose off of my pillow.

"Who's what?" I asked blearily, adding several "huh's" while blinking around at the darkened room. The squalor was lit barely by the annoyingly persistent daylight peeping around the edges of the blinds.

*KNOCK, KNOCK!*

I struggled gallantly to climb out of bed, but the task was too great at this early hour-- nearly noon by that silently glowing digital know-it-all on the nightstand. I succeeded only in tumbling off of my mattress and landing in a heap on the plush carpet, enveloped in my downy-soft comforter. And so downy-soft was it that I was tempted to resume sleeping where I left off. Unfortunately, the fiendish knocker knocked yet again, splintering my reverie to pieces.

"All right, villain!" I called to him. "You win!"

I stumbled to the door, groped feebly for the touchpad on the wall, found it, and eventually opened the door, which slid, rickety, into its wall sheath with a relieved hiss. I was momentarily blinded by the harsh light of the hallway and stood scratching my boxers in various places and squinting.

"Who dares disturb my slumber?" I yawned, expecting to see a large, burly, grizzled sort glowering at me when my vision adjusted. My tormentor failed to answer, and when I could finally see, it took a much different form than expected.

Caitlin stood, arms akimbo, regarding me with a sort of exasperated amusement.

"So this is what you've been doing all morning? Do you know how long we've been waiting?" "Speak to me not in riddles," I groaned weakly. "Who's "we" and why are "you" waiting?"

"Board meeting," she answered flatly. "Today. Tony announced it a month ago. The entire board of the directors-- of which you are still a member, though you hold that position by the skin of your teeth," she added, rather nastily, it seemed to me, "is supposed to be present. We're all there except you."

"Caitlin," I said with a benevolent patience that spoke volumes about my sterling character, "I am a busy man. I cannot be expected to remember these trivial matters. I have important things to do."

She peeped over my shoulder at the ruin that was my room: Scattered articles of clothing strewn about like corpses on a battlefield, divers pornographic magazines, broken lamps, overturned chairs, and dirty dishes. She noticed the woman on my bed. Her sensuous curves still for the moment, her lips in a perpetual sexy pucker, her eyes wide and staring, her plastic skin gleaming faintly in the light from the hallway. I notcied where her attention was focused and noted with rising anger her look of disgust.

"Don't look at Monique way," I said. "She's a nice girl and I think we have something special." Caitlin shook her head and turned her attention back to me.

"Well?" she said.

"Well what?" I asked, not ready for games at this time of the . . . noon.

"The board meeting was supposed to start an hour ago. Are you going to get ready and join us?"

I took a half-step back into my room and turned to look into a mirror hanging above a table by the door. My feet were bare, my furry legs uncovered up to the upper thigh, where a pair or boxer-briefs took over. My stocky torso bulged beneath a ripped and stained dingy white t-shirt. My eyes were bloodshot and crusted with sleep. I had a sandpaper-like stubble on my face and lint in my chin beard. My spongy mass of curly hair was up in a fantastic mess; flat along the left side, upon which I had been sleeping, bushy on the right. I took this all in and nodded, then turned back to my uninvited guest.
"Nope, good to go as is."

She looked at me with growing incredulity.

"Like that?"

"Like this. Let's rock and roll, baby."

And so we, a mismatched pair-- Caitlin, petite, in a skirt and suit jacket that accented her gentle curves, and myself, shuffling along in my bachelor/slob-chic, toussled hair, bulging, blocky body, stained boxers, and white t-shirt-- made our way down the honeycomb of hallways of the Ninja Pirate Inc. building.

We rode an elevator up to the 48th floor, me singing jovially along to the music- The Girl from Ipanema-- whilst my sexy escort did her best to feign frustration. I could tell she was taken by my carefree baritone. I had just reached end, and took in a great gasp of air, ready to hold that final note for as long as I could when I was checked by the impudent, officious ding of the elevator bell, alerting us that we had reached 48.

The doors opened and we found ourselves in a small, tiled foyer, opposite another pair of gleaming bronze elevator doors. At the back wall of the foyer, flanked by our elevator and the other, was a pedestal supporting a swirling modern art sculpture. We hung a right out of the lift and in a few steps were off the tile of the foyer and onto the thick carpet of a tastefully decorated lobby. There were plush, black-leather chairs and mahogany end tables. These tables were covered in a myriad of comic books and gaming magazines. The reception room had an overall Far East theme, reflecting Tony's adopted culture. A tall, marble structure-- part desk, part reception counter-- stood to our left. It was vacant. Veronica, Tony's buxom secretary, would be in the meeting, taking notes and flirting ineffectively with her boss.

At the far end of the room were two doorways. The one on the left led to Tony's personal office. The larger one, a little right of center and supporting two towering ebony doors, led to Tony's conference room.

Caitlin straigthened her skirt over her enticing hips, then darted a sharp, accusatory glance back at me. I was too quick for her, however, and had already turned my attention to a mural behind Veronica's desk.

"I thought you would have made an innuendo or crass sexual advance by now," she said, sounding almost pleased.

I did my best to appear insulted.

"I am a gentleman, Caitlin!" I said indignantly.

"So far this morning you have been. Usually you're a leering pervert."

"Agreed," I said.

There was a pause.

"As I have been so civilized, I think I am entitled to a reward."

Another pause. Our eyes met- hers narrowed, mine wide with excitement- like two gunfighters on the dusty street of some town in the Old West where all that gets you through is the speed of your trigger finger and the luck of the draw.

"Jus' lemme suck one titty!" I burst out, pleadingly.

Caitlin recoiled as if from a slap, huffed indignantly, and then started toward the doors. "Typical," she said angrily.

My face was stretched in a grin of satisfied mischief. Caitlin drew in a breath, then pushed open the doors.

Tony

I had been cradling my head in my hand, gazing unseeing down at the notes and reports in an unkempt pile in front of me, trying to drown out the lazy buzz of chatter when they walked in, Cait and Rich. I looked up, simultaneously relieved and angry. I wish I could say the chatter subsided. It quieted a little, at least, and changed tone.
"Well, Rich, thanks for finally gracing us with your dishevelled presence."
"Sorry, boss," my infuriating friend responded, reaching out a heavy, calloused hand and snatching an apple from the fruit bowl in the center of the table. He tried to polish it on his dingy white shirt, but succeeded only in making it dusty. He shrugged an polished it instead on Caitlin's pert, skirt-covered rear end, then threw me a broad wink.
This illicited several gasps and giggles, and a slap courtesy of Caitlin, all of which Rich didn't seem to notice. He sat in a swivel chair between his brother and Andrew, legs folded beneath him, and munched voraciously on the apple.
I turned from this display, sadly not a rare one at these meetings, and slowly looked around the table. Seated in an unkempt circle around me were the leaders of Ninja Pirate Incorporated. Respected heads of their respective departments. A motley crew of misfits, fiends, plunderers, maniacs, and sabotuers. My friends.
To my immediate left was Cap'n Jacob Motroni, Esq., co-founder of this company and my companion since boyhood.
To his left was Liz, head of art and software design. Sunewan, our secret weapon from the Far East came next. I had put her in charge of psychological research, which was probably a mistake. She was the first ninja so far in the group.
At 10 o'clock, from my vantage point, sat the venerable Dr. Bartholomew J. Sprockets, resident mad scientist and gibbering lunatic extraordinaire. Next was the as-always luminous Stephanie Lepine, the only person on the staff actually concerned with customer relations and the only customer service representative still able to tolerate exposure to sunlight. Directly across from me, and currently making lewd faces in my direction, was our head of demolition and acquisition of private property, Sam Sugrue. This little fireball was responsible for more chaos and destruction than all the rest of us put together. He is intermittently insane and brilliant, and sometimes both. He isn't purely pirate or purely ninja. He's usually adept at being the opposite of whichever he's trying to be. I love 'im.
At one o'clock, the late-comer sat. Richard Sugrue was vice-president in charge of groping and generally served as a fill-in for Cap'n Jake as Head of Piracy when the good Cap'n was off plundering.
He sat, gnawing on the core of his apple, in a sort of trance. I knew, however, that he was paying rapt attention.
Next came Andrew LeTellier, president of Ninja Pirate Records. His lanky limbs streched all about him, theatening to knock something over.
To his left was a hulking monstrosity named Cap'n Black Jack Huzuki-bot 3500. He was regional overseer and former CEO. He used to always try and kill us, but we sat and talked it over one day a few years back and now we're thick as thieves. He holds a mostly advisory position.
Caitlin was next in line. She was chief architect and interior designer and fashion consultant. Poor girl has a lot on her plate. Luckily she has gorgeous breasts. She sat rigid and indignant-looking.
Captain Dan McLaughlin, the only staff member to have an official, earned rank, sat to her left. He was head of aerospace design and our co-political advisor.
Finally there was Pawel, the only staff member to rival Andrew in lankiness. He was head of marketing.
My secretary, Veronica, wearing even less than she usually does, sat behind us and off to the side, taking the minutes of the meeting. She was endeavoring to make eye-contact with me, and repeatedly licking her lips. For some reason she tweaked one of her own nipples between her long, manicured fingernails.
I didn't have time to deduce what she was aiming to do, so I cleared my throat and began the meeting.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, smiling broadly.
"And Rich," said Caitlin, still pouting.
"Whadyou mean?" asked Dan. "Rich is a lady."
To my right, Pawel chuckled.
Rich appeared not to have noticed, but his cheeks flushed.
"Well, anyone's more of a lady than yer mom," Sam said to Dan, mysteriously producing a broken chair leg and brandishing it in a no-nonsense manner. "She was practically a whore last night when I paid to fuck her."
Sam was apparently in one of his insane moments.
I decided that if I wanted this meeting to go at least a half hour without bloodshed I'd need to stop this bickering posthaste.
The yammering of the assembled was brought to a gasping halt when a katana embedded itself in the middle of the conference table. Though it quieted them down, it was now well out of reach. Luckily, I had three more handy.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" I said again, casting a glare around at them, daring someone to make another quip. "So good of all of you to make it."
They were all still silent and shocked, so I decided to strike while the iron was hot and the steel buried in the table top.
"I realize this meeting seemed a little unnecessary to some of you. However, surely you appreciate how rare it is to get all members of the NP Council together in one place at one time. So I made up my mind to gather us all here to discuss the future of the company and hear about some of the new developments in our related fields. I hope all of you have prepared a short presentation, as per my instructions."
Off to the side, I heard Rich mutter something that sounded like, "Ah, fuckturtles."
To start with, I'll simply give a run-through of the company's progress so far. Please turn your attention to the screen behind me.
The windows of the room's south wall were slowly covered by a vast white sheet, lowered from the ceiling.
I turned a dial on the console in front of me. The lights dimmed. On the screen there appeared, in giant letters: NP Inc.
"The history of Ninja Pirate Incorporated began in 1952 when . . ."
I waited for the snores to start.

The sleek, unassuming Buick sped along the winding road, leaving rattling, upset leaves in it's wake. The car's smooth, black sides reflected the silent, sentinel trees which stood on either side of the worn macadam strip. After a long drive into the heart of nowhere, it came upon a sturdy, impressive-looking gate. The gate was the only visible entrance through a lichen-coated stone wall which stretched off into the distance on either side of the road. It leapt abruptly out of the untouched wilderness like the grin of a maitre'd.

The guard at the gate looked up from his worn copy of Spectacular Sports Stories and watched the luxury car's progress with detatched interest.

The Buick slowed, stopped, and the driver's side window rolled down. The guard stepped from his booth and approached. He peered stocially at the stranger inside who was audacious enough to interrupt his reading.

The stranger was a handsome man in his mid-twenties. His jet black hair was slicked back, except for two strands that fell in front of his sunglasses. He lowered the shades with a long, thin finger and revealing eyes as blue as the ink on a deck of Bicycle playing cards. The stranger grinned, exposing two rows of straight, white teeth-- broken, marred, the guard thought, by a garish gold canine which flickered arrogantly.

"Please state your name and business," the guard intoned.

"Sure thing, Chief," said the stranger, his voice crisp and sweet as armaretto. "I'm Leo Trellner, of Burbank Consolidated. I'm here to see a Mr. Tony Celi about a shipment of jet engines."

The guard nodded. He detected a trace of an accent in the man's speech.

"ID?"

Leo provided it.

While the guard gave it a thorough examination, he asked, "Say, where you from?"

"Staten Island, born and raised."

The guard nodded again.

Leo waited patiently while the guard checked his name on a computer.

"Sorry, mac, but you don't seem to be on here."

"Well that's strange," said Leo, apparently perplexed. "Mr. Celi said this meeting was of the highest priority. I came all the way here from Manhattan-- hell of a drive. I'd hate to have to reschedule. Still, I won't have to deal with Celi if that computer's wrong." The grin widened. The guard thought of Tony's dangerous outbursts. He looked uncertain.

"If I go up there and the meeting wasn't for today, what's the worst that'll happen? He'll think my calendar's off."

The guard thought in silence for a moment. Finally he said, "Fine, go on through."

"You're all right . . ." Trellner narrowed his gaze to the guard's ID badge, "Stemkins. Here." He reached into his pocket and produced a small blue and white disk about the size of a half dollar. "That's my lucky poker chip. If I'm wrong about all this, you can keep it, and I'll take full responsibility with the bossman."

The guard, Stemkins, looked relieved. "Sounds like a deal."

"Have a good day," Trellner said.

Stemkins echoed the sentiment, returned to the booth, and raised the heavy bar blocking the Buick's path. The Buick slipped by like smoke on four wheels. Stemkins looked at the poker chip, flipping it over in his hand.

"Nice fella," he said to himself. "Wonder if this thing'll bring me any luck."

Thirty seconds later, Stemkins, the guard house, and the poker chip exploded in a tremendous burst of fire and smoke. The charred crater left in the explosion's wake served as a testament to Stemkins' luck.

In the Buick, Jackie Forcella chuckled as he watched the conflagration in his rear view mirror. He licked his gold fang leisurely and tossed his fake ID out the window, continuing toward the main building of Ninja Pirate Inc.

Caitlin

I love Tony. I really do. But as he sat there, going over what I already knew-- what I had been there for when it took place-- even his gifted storytelling skills were not enough to keep me awake. As the prim-and-proper-sounding voice of the film narrator droned on, my thoughts turned from battles long past to the people around me.
I really could not believe Rich. I mean, when is he gonna grow up? Sure, the leering pervert act is sometimes kinda funny . . . and sometimes it’s even flattering, but it’s getting old. I gave him a quick glance across the table.
The quick glance, however, lingered and became a stare. He looked up and flashed me an infuriatingly likeable smile, and for a moment I lowered the defenses I’d built up in my head for so long and saw him as a man-- an attractive, potentially datable man, rather than just my friend.
Then he raised splayed fingers to his mouth, a backwards peace sign, and darted his tongue between them lecherously, trampolining his eyebrows as he did so. I felt the look on my face do a 180 from intrigued longing to pure disgust. This only seemed to encourage Richard, who kept up his obscene pantomime.
I looked away. My walls sprang back up. In that moment, as in so many others, I hated him.
My eyes came to rest on Dan, who was seated to my left. Clean-cut Dan. From the Air Force. He was in his uniform and, I must say, looked damn fine in it. He, too, caught me looking. He tossed me a dashing flick of his eyebrow and turned back to the presentation. At least there were some tolerable men in this place, I thought as I turned my attention back to the video presentation.

The Buick crossed the stout, stone bridge over the lake which lay in front of the main building like a one-sided moat. It pulled to a smooth, soundless stop, winking and gleaming in the sharp, autumn sun. The passenger door opened and Jackie stepped out.

He stood straight and tall. His narrow figure was accented by his long, close-fitting suit, which shone a resplendent white. A white fedora with a red band sat tipped on his head. He wore a black shirt and a white tie which was decorated in red and gold squares. He took a deep breath of the crisp air, retrieved a violin case from the back seat of the car, and strode toward the main door.
Jackie paused a moment before entering, admiring the simple, graceful architecture of the grand building. When his eyes had had their fill, he pulled open one of the four plexi-carbon doors and stepped inside.
The main lobby was pleasantly warm after the early winter chill of the outside. It was decorated in impeccable neo-modern style, with clear influences from the 1940’s and ‘50’s. Jackie was impressed.
“Dey got style,” he said, looking around.
He made his way to the row of elevators along the far wall and began to study a floor directory. “Can I help you, sir?” asked a deep voice at his elbow.
Jackie turned to see a very large security guard standing, arms crossed, behind him. The guard wore a full smile and didn’t seem to be a threat. Still, Jackie told himself, never can be too careful.
“As a matter of fact you could help me,” he said, returning the smile and slowly pulling a pistol from a shoulder holster. “It seems there are too many bullets in this gun.”

He fired three shots into the security guard-- two in the chest, one in the head—before the man could comprehend what was going on. The guard toppled over with that genuine smile, slightly tinged with surprise, frozen on his face.
The clerks at the reception desk all screamed in panic and began to run in different directions. Not quickly enough, sadly. Jackie hurled a handful of exploding poker chips before they could clear the blast radius, killing all ten of them and turning the reception counter into a reception crater.
Jackie walked back to the floor directory.
“Tony Celi, C.E.O.: 48. That’s all I needed to know.”
Jackie pushed the “up” button on the closest elevator and patiently waited for the doors to open.

Rich

The lights came back on. The screen rose again to its roust in the ceiling.
"And now that all the formalities and technicalities are out of the way, our first order of business is Sam's report of his archaeological expedition," I heard Tony say, and I looked up.
I had been focusing intently on Caitlin's breasts. She was wearing her shirt buttoned very low and those two delightful orbs looked poised to make a break for it at any time. Still, work before play. It was time to listen and contribute. I mean, I am an employee, after all. Besides, I never missed a chance to see my brother speak in public. I looked to the seat immediately to my right, where my sibling was sitting, and prepared myself for a show.
Sam was dressed that morning in a pinstiped suit coat, pajama pants, and a Batman t-shirt. His thick, black hair was combed in a style he referred to as "the unnecessary comb-over"-- that is to say, a great touselled mass of it was pushed awkwardly across his head. He pulled a bulky pipe out from his jacket pocket, grabbed some folders, and stood up. He started to make his way to the front of the room.
"Attention, ladies an' gennnelmen-- an' especially the ladies." He paused at Caitlin to gallantly bow and kiss her hand. "I have jus' returned from the far side of fuck-where with some rather exciting news.

"Someone get the lights!" he hollered.
"For what purpose, Sammy?" Tony felt inclined to ask. "Do you, too, have a power-point presentation?"
"Fuck no," Sam responded irritably, "I'm just hung over an' the lights're killing me. Now shut 'em off!"
Andrew turned to me. "Sam drinks?"
"Sam doesn't need to drink to get drunk."
The lights again went off.
Sam spoke.
"Well, our little story begins 'round about 720 B.C., at the height of the Neo-Assyrian Empire." "Sargon the Tartar was the emperor at that time, was he not?" I asked.
Sam slung a malevolent glare my way.
"Rich, quit fuckin' knowin' everything," he said simply, and returned to his presentation.
"So this motherfucker Sargon, former commander of the armies, seizes the throne. This is viewed as a bit of a miracle in most historical circles. His oppostition was so great, the chances of 'im doin' it were about fuck-tillion to one. Anyway, he does it. Then he takes over all of Judah and exiles all of the Jews. It's in the Bible. So what does he do with all these homeless foreskin-choppers? He sends 'em to work restoring the glory of the old capital at Nineveh. Well, while they're diggin' in the ruins an' shit, they stumble onto some ancient weapon which kills a healthy number of them. Sargon himself goes to inspect the damage and somehow harnesses the power of the weapon. Then he conquers everything else in the general vicinity of the Eastern Mediterranean Sea, to Egypt, an' over to Pakistan. After that Assyria reigns pretty much supreme for a century.
"In the mid- 600's, however, an alliance of Egyptian, Hebrew, and Babylonian warrior-sorcerors makes it to Nineveh and manages to imprison this destructive force in a tablet of basalt." "Basalt?" asked Steph.
"Greyish black volcanic rock common to the region of the Fertile Crescent. Hammurabi's code was etched on it," I said.
"Rich, I etched Sammurabi's code on yer mother's feritle crescent last night. So shuddup!" Sam said, and then went on with his narrative.
"Well it was a suicide mission. All the warrior-sorcerors died. But soon after that the Assyrian empire crumbles into dust. Nineveh is destroyed. And the tablet is ne'er seen again."
It was at this time that I noticed a pedestal to Sam's left. Perched upon this pedestal was an amorphous lump covered in a red velvet cloth. Sam turned to it and ripped the cloth away. There was an audible gasp.
Beneath the vale sat a chunk of grey-black stone with a few noticeably flat sides. Chiseled upon the smooth, flat surface facing us was an inhuman set of eyes- beady, surrounded by lines an wrinkles, underneath two eyebrows downturned-almost to the point of meeting in the middle- with rage. Beneath that were several lines of text in what appeared to be at least three languages. Cunieform, hieroglyphs, arabic lettering. All swirling together.
"Never seen again," Sam repeated himself, "until now."
He gazed around at us, a manic gleam in his eyes. We were all too shocked to speak.
"Well, needless to say, due to the intricasies of the text it has been very difficult to translate. My team and I will be working on it diligently day and night, in the hope that some of this power could be harnessed for the betterment of mankind. Hell, if this force is as overwhelming as they Assyrians said it was, it might even be able to get my brother laid."
There was a general round of laughter at this.
I grumbled angrily under my breath.
"Have you been able to translate any of it?" Pawel asked.
"Well," Sam said, a little hesitantly, "there was one word that kept appearing. As close as we could come to it, it means, 'Beware.'"
There was another tense silence at this.
"An' uh," Sam said, clearly afraid now, "we discovered the name of this force. The ancient Assyrians called it 'The Death Bringer,' and 'That which destroys.' The name they had for it, though . . . was Bakula."

Jackie Forcella decided not to wait for the elevator. Instead, he took the stairs, and had been stopping at every floor, getting a lay-out of the buidling and dispatching any security force he found.
He peeked his head out into a 40th floor hallway and peered around cautiously. Upon seeing no obstacles, he made his way down the corridor to where it forked at the end. Suddenly, Jackie heard the sound of an approaching group. He heard the muted squeak of combat boots and the metallic clicking of jostling weaponry. Guards. And, judging by the sound, a lot of them.
He dashed into a side room and shut the door behind him and waited for the soldiers to pass. Jackie turned his attention to his current hiding place. It was a small room, unremarkable save in one respect. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with file cabinets. Dull grey columns squashed shoulder-to-shoulder the entire perimeter of the room. Jackie opened one, at random.
He spent the next half hour scanning the documents. They all seemed to be on the subject of Ninja Pirate Incorporated inventions. Jackie had never seen anything like it. Page after page of technological marvels, some of which he refused to believe could actually work. Here, plans for an energy converted that harnessed geo-seismic power. There, blueprints to an underwater colony-- one that was, according to the paperwork, currently up and running. Space ships with sonic-propulsion engines. Shrinking rays. New species created through gene-splicing. The Management had always had the most state-of-the-art tech Jackie had ever seen, but this . . . this! And none of it was being used to hurt people or make money. The thought made Jackie quite distraught. He vowed that he'd let The Management know of these the moment he returned from the mission. He would not rest until someone-- preferably him-- used these scientific wonders to their full potential.

Tony

I sat through several more standard reports-- Dan still dealing with fall-out from the debacle with that mechanical suit of armor he "stole" from the U.S. government this past summer. Andrew explaining the delay on his newest CD. Rich outlining several prospective ventures for the company, notably film . . . adult film . . . listing feasible building sites for new regional headquaters, and demonstrating how to deal with violent reactions to unwarranted groping. Steph and Caitlin were only too happy to provide those violent reactions.
The meeting was scheduled to end with a presentation from Dr. Sprockets on a startling new technological innovation he had "just shit out one night." I was worn out from a morning of administrative duties, but I sat a little straighter in my seat as he took center stage. I was excited to hear about this. And, after Sam's stirring narrative and discoveries, this promised to be the second bit of good news for the day.
I turned my attention to the frazzled old man staggering toward me.
Doctor Bartholomew J. Sprockets, inventor, innovator, engineer, and all-around genius, had been with the company since its inception more than half a century ago. In that time he had created countless marvels which changed the lives of everyone on the planet.
Do you like CD's? There's one example. He invented them. Back in 1960. Eventually the record companies came around and switched to his system. Never gave him credit, though. The good doctor's technological breakthroughs are never accepted by the world at first. But rest assured, thanks to him, your grandkids won't have to worry about blindness, global warming, or not having flying cars.
Sprockets stands about 5'4" in his orthopedic slippers. A ragged tartan bathrobe was draped over his lumpy frame. Tufts of shock-white hair stood at attention around the sides of his mostly-bald head. His eyes landed on me. Or, rather, one of his eyes did. Sprockets electric-blue eyes never pointed in the same direction. They roved madly, never settling, like the eyes of a cameleon-- like loose marbles bulging from his brilliant skull.
He patted me on the shoulder when he reached me.
"I'll take the helm from here, Lucy," he said, smiling paternally down at me. "You're doin' a fine job. Tone down the gay, though."
I opened my mouth to say . . . something—I wasn’t sure what at the moment—but good ol’ Sprockets was just rolling placidly over me.
“All right, all right,” he said, “I’m here to tell you all about this new thing I invented. I'm not sure where to start, as I've never gotten used to explaining my work to ignorant clods. No offense."
No one present took any; next to Sprockets, Stephen Hawking is an ignorant clod.
"I assume you're all familiar with the laws of conservation of matter and energy?"
We nodded. "And you know that matter and energy are really all the same?" We nodded again. "Good. Well, that's pretty much it."
He started back for his seat.
"Uh, Doctor," I stopped him, "perhaps you could explain it to us as though he haven't been looking over your shoulder for the past year."
"Eh? Oh, I suppose so. "Please open them folders in front of you," he asked us. And we did so. "What you see there," he said, referring, I assume, to the complex drawings of circuitry and diodes, "Is a disintegration ray."
"Looks like a robot puked," Sam remarked.
Sprockets looked at his own copy.
"By golly, boy, you're right. 'Course, robot puke has more oil in it.
"Anyway, don't get excited over the disintegration part. That's kids' stuff. Oppenheimer invented one shortly after Los Alamos. But, lemme ask ya this. What happens to the stuff ya disintegrate?"
No one knew the answer.
"Exactly," Sprockets said. "If matter and energey can neither be created nor destroyed, what happens when ya dissassemble some of it? Nothin'. It just floats around in its purest form, messin' with stuff. Remember that big East Coast black out a little while back? That was the first trial run a this machine here. All that pure energy plays havoc with electronics."
Pawel raised his hand. "Doctor, are you saying you can break down matter past the atomic level in a matter of seconds?"
"Yessiree, Pete. We go a few steps sub-atomic, actually. But, again, all those ambient particles dancing around the near vicinity. What a waste. "So that's where the new development comes in. My team an' I have found a way to harness and collect the matter we dissassemble. In a basic sense we developed a device to attach to the disintegration ray that works like a specialized vacuum. It is programmed only to gather up all the freshly deconstructed matter." Sprockets looked around. "Now, unless there are any questions . . ." he said wearily.
A dozen hands sprung into the air.
"Very well then," he said and started back toward his seat.
The whole of the company sat stunned. This was certainly a startling, promising bit of news. Eventually they found speech. A burst of excited chatter
"Imagine the raw power this machine can harness."
"What if the matter could be reconstructed as we wished?"
"We end world hunger," Steph said.
"We secure the superiority of the U.S.," Caitlin and Dan said together.
"I could, like, make a chocolate car," said Sam.
We all turned to look at him.
"Chocolate car," he muttered to himself dreamily.
I turned around and spoke to my secretary.
"Veronica, would you kindly step out to your desk and cancel all my appointments for the afternoon. I need to look further into this disintegration ray."
She smiled, bobbed her head, and then strutted out of the conference room. Rich, Andrew, Sam, Jake, Pawel, and Dan followed her progress with hungry eyes, like a pack of wolves watching a plump doe. I had no time for such distractions. There was much to be discussed.


Jackie watched Veronica make her way to her tall desk. Though he was momentarily stunned by her jaw-dropping appearance, he recognized her as a golden opportunity. Quickly and quietly, he sneaked up behind her.

Veronica had lifted the phone off its cradle and was about to dial when a knife blade slid itself slowly against her throat. Her brown eyes went wide with terror. A voice spoke in her ear.
"Do exactly as I say or I'll sever your pretty little head from your pretty little shoulders."

Tony

I was engaged in serious conversation with Dr. Sprockets about potential uses for his newest invention when my intercom went off. Veronica was calling me from her desk.
"Boss?"
"Yes?" I asked, pressing the response button.
"You have a pressing appointment with a Mr. Leo Trellner, of Burbank Consolidated."
"I asked you to clear my appointments."
"I know, boss, but he's here now and he said there is a great deal of money riding on this meeting."
I sighed.
"What does he look like?"
"Boss?"
"Describe his general appearance."
"Uh, he's, well he's well dressed. Nice suit. Three piece. White. Nice shoes, too. Oh, and he's wearing spats."
"Spats you say? In that case, show him into my office. Let me end this meeting and I'll deal with him."
"Thanks, boss."
"Thank you."


Back outside, Jackie also thanked Veronica. Then he slammed the base of his knife hilt into the back of her skull, knocking her unconscious. He dragged her limp form into a coat closet and locked the door. Then he waited.

Pawel

The meeting adjourned in a flurry of scattered papers and mindless chatter. I wearily rose to my feet and turned to look out the towering windows which dominated the rear wall of Tony's conference room. It was indeed a glorious day, and made me wish I had a camera on hand. "Pawel, you coming?" asked a voice from my elbow.
I turned to see Tony standing there waiting for me, his arms full of folders.
“Sure thing, buddy,” I replied, “just admiring the view."
He matched my stride—no small feat for most people, considering the length of my legs—and we spoke as we made our way from the conference room.
“Did you know about this Trellner guy?” he asked me.
I professed I did not.
“Well, nevertheless I’d like you to meet him with me. Everyone else is booked and I need someone savy enough to deal with corporate executives by my side. I'm gonna try to wrangle Dan in here as well. I guess this Trellner guy want to sell us aeroplane parts."
We exited his conference room and turned toward the elevators. A figure was making his way toward us. A well dressed stranger who I happened to notice was wearing spats. I could only presume it was Trellner. We watched the him walk toward us, graceful and serene in his long, white suit. He was smiling. I remember distinctly the shimmer of what must have been a gold tooth. In his left hand he held a large violin case.
Tony tucked the folders under one arm, stepped forward, and stuck out his hand.
"Mr. Trellner, pleased to meet you," he said amiably.
The man ignored him. He came to a halt in the middle of the hallway and dropped to a crouch. He unclasped the violin case and pulled something from it. At first I refused to believe what I was seeing. I was still sleeping, I told myself. There's no way-
Then the man opened fire.
Without saying a word, without dropping his broad smile, he sent out a spray of shrieking hot lead from the barrell of his machine gun. For that was the item he had produced from within the violin case. And not just any machine gun. An antique Thompson gun. This maniac was attacking us with a Tommy gun.
The bullets cut down three members of the staff- an intern, a security guard, and Liz's secretary, Herman- before any of us could react. When our minds finally caught up with the violence, all hell broke loose.
Men and women screamed, panicked, and ran. Chairs and tables were flipped over, vases and windows shattered.
Tony, the group from the board meeting, and myself, dove to the left and to the right, half of us behind the receptionist's desk, the other half down a hallway and behind a wall. Bullets whizzed around us like angry hornets, shredding wallpaper and ripping chunks out of the walls. I turned to Tony. We, along with Rich and Sunewan, were wincing behind Veronica's tall marble desk. "That's a Tommy gun," I said to Tony.
"Yes." "That son of a bitch is firing at us with a Tommy gun."
"Yes."
"Does he think this is still 1938?" asked Rich through gritted teeth.
There was a lull in the conversation as the maniac concentrated his fire over our heads. Eventually he spun and peppered the far wall.
"He pulled it out of a violin case," I said to Tony.
"Yes."
"Who does that? Who actually carries automatic weapons in a violin case?"
"Apparently, he does," Sunewan said.
"Well, fearless leader," Rich asked Tony, "got a plan? Because if you don't I'm just gonna rush him as soon as that clip runs out and hit him until he's unconscious."
Tony smiled, and it filled us with a warm hope.
"Actually, Rich, that was my plan."
Rich returned the smile.
Just then the gunfire clicked to a stop. We listened for the telltale shick of the clip being removed.
As soon as we heard it, Rich leaned forward in his crouch, his thick muscles bulging, and said one word: "Dibs."
Then he spun and vaulted over the desk behind us.
We stood up and watched.
Rich tore across the carpeted lobby and managed to catch the intruder off guard. The assassain was still holding his gun, which I noticed now was either nickel- or chrome-plated, and he had just looked up to see what the commotion was about when Rich hit him.
He plowed into the man like a speeding Mack truck, sending them both crashing backward. They hit the ground, bounced, rolled, and landed on the tile floor between the two elevators. The Tommy gun flew in a shimmering arc and landed near the elevator on the right. Both Rich and the intruder struggled to their feet.
The intruder was fast.
Before Rich could ready himself, the assassain ducked and delivered a sharp elbow strike to his midsection. Rich doubled over with a grunt of pain and staggered back. The intruder rose, spun, and caught our burly defender on his bearded jaw with a roundhouse kick.
Rich refused to fall.
"A big, strong guy, huh?"
These were the first words I ever heard the stranger speak. He was out of breath, but sounded amused.
"I know how to handle big strong guys."
He flipped open a butterfly knife and held it down at his side-- unobtrusive, but his wrist was tensed.
"Probably not too big and strong in the brains department, eh?"
Rich, who I've noticed is insecure about his intellect, bellowed and rushed forward. The assassain dodged left and struck with his knife, slicing through Rich's shirt and leaving a fine trail of crimson. Rich crashed against the wall, huffing.
"A few more strategic cuts like that and you'll fold like a card table," the intruder said.
Richard turned and charged again, and, I'll admit it, I thought he was done.
I started forward, but Tony grabbed my arm.
"Not yet," he said, "Rich knows what he's doing."
I later found out Rich's dad was a boxing champion when he was young. Looking back, it was clear that he passed some of this training onto his son.
Rich blundered forward, looking like a bull at the end of its fight. The intruder was the eager matador, ready with his stilleto blade. But the matador doesn't always win.
At the last moment, Rich feinted left, then spun to the right and his heavy fist flew out.
He hit the assasain , who was busy slicing left at the space Rich briefly occupied, with a stunning right cross that actually lifted the man off his feet. He looked dazed and stumbled against the elevator doors. He turned slowly to see Rich, unmindful of the gash over his ribs, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, fists held up, in the typical boxer's stance.
The intruder spat out a mouthful of blood. Mixed in with the blood was something shiny and sharp. His gold tooth. He stared at it, unbelieving, for a moment. Then looked up at Richard, his eyes murderous and hate-filled.
"You'll bleed for that," he hissed.
"Let's go, tough guy," Rich said. "Haven't got all day."
The assassain charged, knife cutting the air wildly, but Richard judged the timing, stepped forward, and caught the man by his collar. He lifted, spun, and released, hurling the assassain across the enclosed space, into the unyieliding doors of the other elevator. The villain crumpled to the ground and lay still.
Richard turned to us, his rugged face lit up in a grin.
No one seemed to see what I saw. The intruder's hand tightened over his gun, which lay beside him.
"Wasn't so bad," Rich said. "Now, who's for some celebratory sex?"
"Rich, look out!" I called to him, but it was too late.
The heavy butt of the machine gun thumped into the back of his head. His eyes rolled up and he fell to the ground in a furry heap.

"I suppose an introduction is in order," the villain said, and, to our horror, reloaded. "My name is not Trellner. It's Forcella. Jackie Forcella. I'm here on behalf of an outside party." He paused here to pepper the walls above our heads with another spray of bullets. "I want you to know that, other than my tangle with yah friend over there, none of dis is personal. I'm just here to do a job, folks."
"Your mom did a job on me last night," Sam yelled from around the corner.
Jackie turned his attention away from us. "Now dat's just impolite," he said coldly, and fired wildly at the wall behind which Sam was currently hiding.
"Sam!" yelled Tony once Jackie had ceased firing, "please do not make remarks about the family members of psychopaths with automatic weapons, especially when I'm closer to the line of fire than you are."
"Can do, chief!" Sam hollered back.
"Listen," said Tony adopting an air of reason, "if we're doing formal introductions, than I might as well let you know that my name is Anthony Celi, and I am the CEO of this here company."
"I know who you are, Mr. Celi," Jackie said.
Tony paused, perturbed, and then went on.
"I realize Rich might have knocked out your tooth, and his brother, Sam, may have inadvertantly insulted your mother. They're quite a pair, those two," he said, almost to himself. "Anyway, what I'm getting at is, aside from them, no one here need have any more to do with you. I'm in charge, just talk with me and let these others go."
Jackie paused to consider the offer.
"Very well," he said at last. "Come out from behind that desk, slowly and unarmed, and I'll let the rest of these fine people go back to their lives bullet-free."
Tony gave me an urgent look and whispered, "You and Sunewan get out of here. Regroup with the others." Then he replied to Jackie. "Well, that's quite kind of you, sir. You're a real class act." As he was speaking, he was sliding open one of the drawers of Veronica's desk. The one directly above his head. He reached awkwardly up and backward and into the drawer and his hand searched madly around. "I don't believe we've ever run up against a gunman with your fine sense of sportsmanship and goodwill."
Suddenly, his hand closed on something and he brought it out. It was a picture of himself, with large, red hearts drawn all over it in what looked to be lipstick. He sighed, and darted his hand back into the drawer.
"In fact," he said to the assassain, "if this were any other circumstance, I'd make you a martini, sir."
"All well and good," Jackie cut him off, "but you can stop stalling and come out here. I promise I won't shoot you immediately."
"What a relief," Tony muttered sardonically.
He turned to me one last time. "I'm counting on you," he said, and he stood up.
The assassain had no time to react. The letter opener flew from Tony's fingers in a blur and buried itself in the back of his hand. With a cry of surprise and pain, he dropped his chrome-plated Tommy gun and clutched his wrist. Blood seeped from between his fingers.
Tony darted around the side of the desk and made for the intruder in a crouching run.
I didn't look back. I grabbed Sunewan by the arm and took off, crouching myself, toward the hallway and our friends.
By the time we got there, Cap'n Huzuki-bot and Dr. Sprockets had gone to sound the alarm and alert whatever security force was left. Steph and Liz had also taken off, each to aid in the evacuation of the building. Evacuation might seem to be a touch of overkill, but they had seen Tony in combat before; they were acting wisely.
"We've gotta get out of here," I said urgently, looking around.
"Fuck that, gypsy-dick," Sam said to me. He dashed out into the lobby. "I'm gonna get me a front-row seat."

To Be Continued . . .