Disorganized crime - jigoku

[supernal 22146]

"It's gorgeous up here."

Jericho was on the highest peak of the Black Dragon Tea House, a point on the building impossible to access without mountain climbing equipment or alternative means of travel. Jericho had nothing at his feet, and carried with him only what he had on his person: the rustic attire of an agriculturist (blue overalls, yellow shirt – think 'farmer' but don't say it condescendingly), a sword at his side, and a pack slung over one shoulder.

He was leaning against the tea house's spire, finding his footing in a place one could swear none existed but must, because there he stood.

"You wouldn't think 'futilitarians' would come out with something as beautiful as all this." He swept his hand over the cityscape, paper lanterns scintillating like fallen stars in an ocean of night. "You'd think they'd be happy living in mud huts or something like that, and not nice mud huts either but the kind with straw sticking out all over the place. And yet, here we are. Something about the nature of sapient beings means they don't always do what makes sense, I suppose."

# # # Kanrakugai – the red light district

"Fucking disgusting."

Jericho wasn't opposed to prostitution on principle. When it was properly regulated, it was no more and no less than an aspect of the free market. He didn't like underworld prostitution for the obvious reasons. A glance around the streets showed him that this place was somewhere in the middle; some were at the job like it was a job, but some were at it like an agenda forced on them, if not be means of violence than by those of debt and of circumstance. Glazed eyes carried their own suggestions.

He'd have to come back for those folks a little later, right now he had other people in mind.

Jericho took a turn into a narrow alley and waited, hoping one of the other two found what they were looking for . . . signs of a trail.

OOC

Edited April 4, 2020 by supernal

[Vaudevillian 632]

 'Heavy shit. It smells fresh. Ain't Opium.'

 Borges lurched forward, down wind of something. The man reached into his black button pocket, rubbing the scent of a disposed parcel onto his skin. He had a way with tracking scents through crowded areas. Like a bloodhound hunting, he grunted softly; sounding like a coarse swine. The half-man was onto something.

 'It's a blooming plant. Too leafy to be poppy....'

 He was certain of that, or rather, the nose knows. Fellmen chortled once, twice, wafting fumes while tilting his nose up. It wasn't in the private bathhouse proper, the cat's calling him near as he strolled by. Some smelled of reefer, other's opioid, and more, fear through their sweat; and unkept lovers. Victims of their vices, but not all.

 'Came and went. And came back. A poppy den, of course. They're moving around allot.'

  Another comparison of scent from his hands assured him, and he headed to the meet without delay. 

 "It's moving slowly through a smoke shop."

 Borges inferred as he approached the meet from the other end of the alley, holding the fur which lined his neck in tufts.

 

Edited April 4, 2020 by Darth Lager

[paradigm 2067]

Garland stood at the downward slope of the pagoda, a few meters shy of Jericho. This land was completely new to him and yet, this city reminded him of home...or parts of it, at least. He looked no more out of place than the coverall clad swordsman, long charcoal hair was tucked messily and tied back under a battered military cap, framing his scarred tan face. He wore a tight long sleeve undershirt and military trousers, sporting a sword belt and chest harness. The tools of his trade hunt at the ready: at his hip, the Izrali dueling sword and at his chest and back the tools of a forge master. 

 

“It...ah...is louder than I expected.” He said quietly in Izrali. “For some reason I thought it would be peaceful...serene even.”

 

Peering out at the city, Garland's golden eyes shimmered sparking with bestial rage. “I...ah...guess it’s foolish to think anyplace can be like that these days…”

 

——————

 

Garland's appreciation of the red light district was plastered on his youthful face. A seething rage boiled behind those hard Izrali features, a disgust for those who found profit from trading in flesh. Perhaps it was a bit prudish of him, but never let it be said that Garland looked kindly upon the exploitative of any populace. He did not make his way gently through, shoving any lingering john out of his path, his hulking form serving to quiet most complaints. After several bounding strides he met up at the rendezvous, his gaze settling on Borges with intensity. 

 

There was a pun to be made here...something about smoking the man out...but he couldn’t quite grasp it, couldn’t formulate the words behind the white hot rage rushing to the forefront. 

 

“One of us should approach as a buyer…” Garland noted, cracking his knuckles. 

[supernal 22146]

Jericho caught the fading tail-end of what Borges had to say as he turned into the alley, spurring Jericho into walking himself to close the distance and keep the conversation going.

"Okay so smoke shop. Come with, stay close enough to point me at him but keep a distance so they don't make us all at once."

Garland had something to say and it was constructive, had Jericho nodding along. He liked working with these two. They acted like professionals, that is people who did a job to a certain standard because they were paid to, even though they were amateurs, that is engaged in life-and-death operations for the love of it. For the igneous, near-spiritual satisfaction that followed catching a rat bastard digging his own grave and pilling in the dirt after them.

"I know a thing or two about smoking. And sniffing. And snorting. Drinking too. I'll be the buyer, Garland's baby face might throw 'em off otherwise. He comes with, because I'm too jumpy a fucking junkie to root around these places all on my lonesome but I'll make sure they know I'm all class, end of the day. Gotta make myself look a right tasty mark don't I?"

Inside of that same minute Jericho was shouldering his way into the establishment, a combination smoke shop and lounge, so that you could get your wares and consume them in the same place. There were some of the usual fare. Hookah and hashish commanded the lion's share of the room but there were different colored doors leading to different parts of the building and a little probing revealed these to cater to different vices. Opium, meth, other things with which Jericho was unfamiliar. He paid for a bench for him and Garland to sit at then cast his gaze towards Borges for his cue.

The opium door. Jericho stood before it, checked by a bouncer.

[Vaudevillian 632]

"Maybe it makes sense to them."

 Borges sympathized, crouched in a squat which seemed uncomfortable, on the pagoda beside Garland. Yet he remained still, balanced, taken in by Jikogu's livelihood. The aroma of tea tickled his nose, raising the hairs beneath his matching black derby and tank top, which tucked into his slacks.

 "Serenity in surrender."

 He hated the idea, the surreality of it. His padded hands dug into the inclination, sharp nailed, marking new territory.

------------

  Fellmen nodded in compliance, straightening his hat as Jericho and Garland took point. The half-man tugged at his mangled chin strap, pulling a few curly straggling hairs out. His ancestors totem allowed him to remain as outwardly normal as possible, that is, a very natural unnatural at least. Unfortunately, he still grew hair faster than a feral hobo. Thicker too.

 "That bad huh?"

 Borges chuckled as Jericho made fun of Garland. His youth was handsome on him, but the badger could see through that. They piled into the humid building, Borges just a bit behind the other two, paid for himself. He sat alone, hunched, sort of impatient looking, like he was trying to unwind. 

 He could make sense of a few of the smells. The one he wanted was definitely in the den, boy was it in there. Narcotic Tsukiyomi No Ran. They were cutting something with it, probably stiling it with liquid, and Jericho was hot on their trail. Almost. Borges covered his mouth with his right hand while Jericho looked at him, wiping sweat from his moustache and shaking his head, loosening his shoulders, and scratching his neck with his right hand. Nothing noteworthy to most people in a place like this.

 'No. One over.'

 He hinted, swiveling his right boot at an angle toward the next door, which read 'Opioids' and pumping his leg a few times.

Edited April 6, 2020 by Darth Lager

[paradigm 2067]

Garland was nonplussed by the friendly barb, nodding with a small polite smile. “Ah...yes. There is a similar relationship amongst certain addicts in my homeland, as well. I believe it’s called ’grooming’.” He said little else, merely following Jericho’s lead as the older man made his way into the smoke shop and took a seat.

 

The scent of the smoke shop was not necessarily unpleasant to Garland, rather it was alien and vaguely medicinal. He recognized some of the scents, but the atmospheric blend that assaulted him made him sniff uncomfortably. He couldn’t imagine how Borges stood it and for an instant, he took the half-man’s squirming as discomfort until the realization hit him. 

 

Wrong door.

 

A lump formed in Garland’s throat. Did Jericho know? Had he seen? Were they going to break through the wall? Wasn’t the goal not to cause a commotion? Had something changed? Had Garland been listening? Had he missed something? Garland wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, to be sure. Jericho was the leader, he couldn’t make a mistake, could he? Should Garland correct him? How did he correct him without the bouncer getting suspicious? Did he need to kill the bouncer? That came with a world of risks all its own. There had to be a way to communicate with Jericho that didn’t alert the bouncer to their righteous cause. What was their story again? 

 

Grooming. 

 

A former lifetime of experiences rushed through his mind in an instant. He’d been sent to the brothels in his youth. Wealthy men and women found some perverse pleasure in laying with a pit fighter. How had the male pleasure slaves carried themselves? How had they spoken? Garland removed his hair tie and repositioned the long dark locks about his face. 

 

Have to cover the scars. Left cheek jawline, upper nasal bridge right side, right eyebrow, right cheek. Positioning his hair, Garland moved in step stepping behind Jericho as  the bouncer began his once over of the orange haired man. 

 

“No,” Garland said in Izrali, sticking his lower lip out in a soft pout. Leaning down Garland wrapped an arm around Jericho’s shoulder placing a hand sensually against his chest. Pressing his head next to Jericho’s he shot ‘bedroom eyes’ towards, the bouncer, his lips brushing against Jericho’s cheek as he spoke. “We have opium where I’m from, daddy. I thought you were going to show me new things? New experiences? I want to try something new.” Leaning in, he presses his lips to Jericho’s ear and whispered as sweet a nothing as softly as he could. “SorrySorrySorrySorry.Wrong door.SorrySorrySorry.”

 

Garland needed to remind himself that he may owe Jericho a more in depth (possibly a three part) apology when they finished up this job...or at the very least he should buy the man dinner first. 

 

[supernal 22146]

"Yeah, maybe."

They had been atop the pagoda a little while in waiting for night to fall. Jericho had a habit of chewing on a length of straw, his surrogate for the chain-smoking habit of grittier men, but in his line of work he couldn't afford weak lungs.

"Fuck all that though. Might as well just roll over and die and leave more grassland the rest of us to figure out how many dead wolves it takes to keep a flock full of sheep fed."

# # #

Jericho noticed Borges and his signal right away. It was like Borges snapped his fingers and pointed to the other door, that was how fast Jericho caught on, his situational awareness an instrument finely honed through relentless, mercenary need. He was going to brush it off with the dope addict's unreliable, swaying swagger, but his retreat was checked by the sudden and near presence of Garland's uncomfortably muscular body.

Then Garland is even closer, the other man's limbs draped against his own body, words breaking against his cheek and neck in warm currents.

Jericho put a little distance between them, reached up and cupped Garland's face between the delicate grasp of his two hands.

"Listen to me you rat fucking bastard. I love you more than I think it should be possible for one person to love another, until the end of time and a little beyond that too. If you interrupt me again though, I'm going to smack you around until I see some tears in that gorgeous bastard face of yours. I'll show you something new alright. Get your sculpted ass over there."

Jericho nudged Garland in the appropriate direction, casting a final glance at the fazed bouncer.

"Women, right?"

When they were on the other side, Jericho softly closed the door shut and turned his attention to Garland.

"Hey! . . . not bad at all. Next time, maybe cousins?" Jericho gave him a real quick, crisp slap of encouragement on one shoulder and took a loiterer's pace in going further down the long hall, doors to rooms and staircases and other hallways hemming them in. Jericho turned now to Borges.

"So?"  

Edited April 11, 2020 by supernal

[Vaudevillian 632]

 Jericho was a shepard, his principles only hammering the fact home. The wayward children of humanity often fell prey to the masses of the wolves, and were led astray by falsehoods. Many had pack mentality, but few had proper guidance. Yet none among them sought change.

 He had the right idea, and Borges was in agreement. Kill the wolves, feed the starving flock, switch up the natural order. There was more to it, he knew. Survival of the fittest, at least from his own perspective. It seemed fitting to him, and he enjoyed it in truth, to be a wolf in sheepskin, who fed on the predators of the land. 

 "I see your point. Their submission has been a foundation. They traded their lives for the land, sheltering the wolves with palaces."

 He chuckled.

 "Bastad's."

------

 'Pretty Sumnabitch'

 He was impressed by Garlands ballsy antics. Unorthodox, efficient, uncoachable he swore, as they gained entry. Borges stood, lumbering forward, being patted down and filed in after his comrades. The hall was empty for now, besides the three of them, and the Half-Man caught up, and took point; lifting his nose.

 Upstairs, he could smell it, toward his right. Borges walked forward a bit, inspecting the small lounge. Down the hall and to his left was an ordering counter were he could hear someone talking to themselves, which wound overhead into a membership area overhung by a balcony. Above were, of course, escorts who serviced whoever had exclusive memberships or cash to spare. It was a joint operation, very well setup. 

 "I can make out some girls upstairs. Someone sitting just around that corner too."

 He pointed ahead and to the left.

 "Whatever I'm onto is upstairs, I can take us straight to it. Might get loud though. We could place an order for some 'Over the counter stuff' and try to wait it out in a booth, follow it out of here and into the streets. Your call."

 Borges spoke lowly, waiting for Jericho to call the shot.

[paradigm 2067]

Success! 

Well, kind of.  Jericho’s praise came with a pointer, one that had Garland’s head bobbing in agreement. Cousins? Yes, that might have been the simpler play, but there were cousins in plenty corners of the world who...best not to dwell on that now, though. Garland turned at Borges arrival and gave the half-man and a raised hand in greeting. 

They were in, or closer to their goal, at least. Slim fingers hands fit together and knuckles cracked as the youth glanced from the half-man to Jericho. “We’ve played it safe, so far.” He admitted, “But that was to prevent the target’s escape. If the dealer we’re looking for is just up the stairs, we can probably get to him before they can stop us...getting out however...” Garland wasn’t sure if the two appreciated his vocal thought process, but it helped the youth weigh his options.  “I’ll defer to you,” Garland said to Jericho. “But I think it’s time to crack some skulls.” 

[supernal 22146]

"Forget playing it safe. We're playing it smart. It's the belly of the beast all around us. We're in this guy's element and he's surrounded by the infrastructure of his organization. We can do damage and skip out but this isn't where I want things to come to ahead. One more rung in the ladder and then you can let loose. That's a promise."

Garland was right to be anxious. Taken to its logical extreme caution transformed into paralyzed indecision, and Garland had not taken hold of Justice's blade so that he could suss out trails and peep at keyholes, of that Jericho was certain.

But Jericho was right to keep a stranglehold on the pacing too; timing, perhaps more than any other single element, could decide not only the matter of victory but the degree to which it was attained. Jericho didn't want to scrape by. He wanted to overwhelm.

So his plans were structured and executed to that end. The decision he made was not a matter of selecting a lockpick to a crowbar, but of engineering the enemy to unlock the door for you, to have them roll out the red carpet and point out the valuables while they took you on a grand tour. He wanted to be desired, because then the betrayal would cut all the deeper.

"If it makes you feel better, time me. In less than half an hour you'll be punching someone's teeth down their throat."

# # # an hour later

Money was the great lubricant and Jericho had an econo-size tub of it. He didn't tell the others because they had no reason to know, not yet anyway, but Jericho was funded through the income streams of legitimate businesses in much the same way a cartel might launder their interests through trusts, shell companies, and fronts.

Not a silver tongue, not a golden touch, but a rhodium key, unlocked all the doors between their ground floor start and their second-floor destination.

A booth, with an O of plush cushioned seats, filled with a stream of the scantily clad interrupted by the occasional businessperson, mogul, and Justice operative. Drinking and eating had come and gone. Smoking he indulged in; injections were only for close friends, and snorting was something he'd rather do at home in a bath than at a club.

"You've got some really, really, really, really, really prime stuff!" Jericho let his words bubble with infectious enthusiasm, the junkie's excitement at the prospect of ever more drugs. "I'll take a case of everything to go, and maybe for some shiny metal you'd put all of us in a room and let me talk to your connect direct, Jarrod? I'll tell aaaallll of my friends that your spot is the spot to be at!"

[Vaudevillian 632]

 It had been almost an hour now, of playing it cool. Buttering the bread which Jericho had thrown around like play money. Fellmen knew the game all too well, he knew how to play it. Give the crowd the show they wanted, and never knock the hustle.

 His goonie demeanour fell straight in line with Jericho's playboy authority. These scum bags wanted to sell them drugs, and they were buying, Borges was using them. There was a faded gloss over his eyes, biting atop his numbed face. There was no cease in surprise either, for ever more he abused, his eyes growing wide, his collar relaxed and drab skin growing sweaty. However, he could shake himself of this at almost the drop of a dime.

 The Half-Man wore two long broads across his wirey chest. Each strung and laid against him, twirling his hairs, lavishly playing with his neck mange. Beastly pheromones had mixed with his oily skin, making the manipulation that much easier. They'd whisper into his ear from time to time, he'd laugh and compliment Jarrod on the establishments fine selection of bodies. There was even champagne, albeit, something the place had thrown together, definitely in the spur of the moments.

 Still, he hadn't detoured attention away from the surroundings, he was like a predator enjoying the sport of the hunt. There were a few other class acts who had come by, Borges catching a few names here and there for posterities sake, but nothing overtly alarming. Jericho worked his charm some more, casting another stone in the sellers direction, keeping it casually business; genuine in approach. They had rolled the red carpet so far, and it was doubtful they were stopping.

 Gently, he pulled his arms loose, pulling at his wrinkled white top and wiping some sweat from his face; which curled his moustache in vaudevillian fashion. He nodded his head in agreement with Jericho's request, red eyed, and relaxed. A meditated smile and vague ignorant chuckle really sold the act, making him come across as an incompetent. A sort of entourage figure, and not allot else.

 "Y-yes. It's always nice to make new friends."

 He giddily chided in, pointing his right hand toward Garland and busting into a hysteric stoned laughter, as if referencing an in joke. Fellmen wiped fake tears from his dried eyes before gentrifying the establishment.

 "This place is good. Real classy joint. And the women!"

 Borges kissed his fingers, and flourished them in the air with appraisal. He was sweetening the pot, and trying to sauce the deal over nicely.

 

[paradigm 2067]

There was nothing about Jarrod that Garland liked. From the way he styled his hair, to the threads he wore on his back, to the way his nostrils twitched when he breathed. Also, who wore sunglasses inside?! An asshole, that’s who. To his credit, Garland played the good little soldier falling in step with Jericho and Borges. A pair of women sat on either side playing with his hair and running their hands along his muscled form. While Garland was not unfamiliar with pleasures of the flesh, his mind was elsewhere, to be sure...like ripping Jarrod’s jaw off his face. 

 

The smug prick rubbed an unnaturally colored powder against his teeth and gums, grinned madly and shook his head. “Nah, nah, nah, my guy! Tip of the iceberg, bro! My connect’s got the hookup, it’s steak sauce bro! Choice prime rib, brah!” 

 

At Borges compliments, Jarrod tossed up a pair of finger guns and peered down the rims of his shades. “Ya got good taste my little furry dude! No matter what you’re looking to pound, Jarrod’s ya guy!” 

 

Garland closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Had the idiot just referred to himself in third person? Fortunately, frustrated Garland was indiscernible from high Garland. “Yes, very good.” Garland agreed. A pair of silent finger guns greeted Garland before running thumbs against index and middle fingers of both hands in the universal symbol for currency. “Dat shine moves mountains, bro? Feel me?! You say the where and when and Jarrod gonna give ya the hookup, bruh!”

[supernal 22146]

Borges was doing a fantastic job; he sold the act like it was a speculation bubble on the very verge of bursting. He was stuttering, near giggling, drinking, smoking, snorting, and fondling any material that happened to be swaggering by whichever organ was applicable at the time.

Garland needed more practice. He was a little stiff, and not in the way that counted, not in the way one expected when lavished with physical attention – he'd tempered that break in demeanor at the door, with the bouncer, so it was easy to explain why womenfolk didn't move the needle for him, but the raw intensity scouring jagged lines across his face could have been too easily mistaken for malicious intent, if not for the splendid array of drugs fanned between them all.

Jericho was more or less about to bust a nut. Not a sexual one. He lacked the earth-standard organs for an orgasm as the local populace conceived it. The swirling eddy of pleasurable emotions whirling, converging, curlicuing inside of him was on a psychological level, no, a spiritual satisfaction that condensed into a white-hot point of transcendental enlightenment. All because Jarrod was practically tripping over himself to give up the goods.

Jarrod couldn't be blamed, not entirely. The man was a fucking junkie. He probably had holes in his brain, probably one or more of his organs was shutting down on him and making him a complete idiot, or had been for years on end now. He was a criminal. Someone who, by the nature of their temperament and their disposition, thought themselves sacrosanct, separate from, above or aside from the governance which subjects itself onto all sentient creatures. Not the law of man, but the law of life, the formal matrix of Being in the Cruel World they exploited and never for a second imagined would exploit them back.

Justice was the glitch in their matrix.

"Yeah that sounds great Jay! I think we're best sticking around here in Kanrakugai. I wouldn't want to offend emperor Koji's delicate sensibilities by snorting some fine on the wrong side of the cobblestone right!" Easy, obnoxious, cultured laughter flows from Jericho.

"The Black Dragon has a smaller franchise tea house around here I think, no? The Red Salamander or did I just dream that up? It is a place? Okay great, how about we meet them there and we can sort of chop it all up over green tea and noodles?"

[Vaudevillian 632]

 Bada bing, Bada boom. Living a life of vice was just that easy when you had the right mind set, and the assets to back up your personality. Jarrod sold his pence minded penchant of pocket lining, no doubt, and the three would oblige. They would serve him his 'just deserts' in full.

 Jericho had arranged a meet, not long off, not far off. Borges cooed and apologized to his escorts, who insisted he stick around. From beneath them he slid, when the time came, straightening his collar and coaxing his hat from the girls playfully. He extended his hand and fist bumped Jarrod, his sweaty knuckles colliding in a trendy fashion.

 "I like this guy. Jarrod here, ain't a fuckin jabroni."

 Borges lied, through his teeth, pointing his hand at the goon and patting him on the shoulder. Getting cozy with Jarrod would only make things better down the line. He'd let the others wrap things up, gathering a few substances for down the road, as expected of a buyer. A hefty knapsack of synthetic drugs, painkillers, sedatives and the like. A bag of powder, and a hard case which housed some filled syringes.

 He listened in on Jericho, Garland, and Jarrod, waiting for his comrades before they had their leave of this place. The cat calling increased triply on their way out, and Borges blew kisses and flaunted false promises of return. They passed by the bouncers in the lobby separately again, for safe measure, and back down the stairs out front without problem. With a lofty groan, and a hearty sigh, Borges sobered up instinctively; his pupils normalizing and his muscles contracting. He rolled his shoulders while addressing the situation nonchalantly.

 "That went well enough, I suppose."

[supernal 22146]

"We just pulled off a sting in less time and with less spend than any national government you can find in this world, guaranteed. Three guys, no telecoms expenses, no worries about having a mole on the inside tipping them off. Yeah, maybe you two are working for someone or doing deals I may have to do something about at the end of the day, but sure as shit none of you had enough info to have been a plant from these guys. It's a job well fucking done, don't kid yourself."

Jericho gauged the wind and then led them three blocks downwind. They were tucked out of sight from the smoke shop, which served them fine seeing as sight wasn't the sense they would be relying on to hunt their prey; here they were less birds in flight, spotting targets in miniature from a great distance, than jackals on the hunt, having caught a scent and dogging after it through hills and rivers and forests.

Borges was their bloodhound. The pheromone he seeped into the air did more than stir the animal passions of the women lavished onto him by the shop's owner, they acted as taggants which his keen sense of smell could discern for dozens of miles. Minutes later, when Borges motioned with his head and the three of them took to stalking the streets, they could do so at a distance and with a leisurely pace. Borges could find Jarrod almost anywhere in the city, and Jericho was already convinced they were inevitably headed to the airdocks to begin with – landlocked as the imperial city was, what could make more sense in Genesaris?

"My loadout for this op is mostly necromantic. I can enfeeble en masse. I can also bypass physical barriers. Very easily for just myself. A little winded with another person. I can bring two but you'll need to spot me until I catch my breath. So I can get me or us inside, and I can faint anyone in the immediate vicinity.

"Borges is getting us right where we need to go. Do you need to hang back or can you rumble? And Garland. I don't know the specifics but I'm hearing you're our heavy. Now I need specifics."