News spreads.

It's only natural, of course.  The proverbial rumor mill is the oldest 
and most venerated source of information.  No matter how hard people 
try, it will never be shut down completely.  The more important 
something is the more people want to know it, and the harder you clamp 
down the more pressure builds up, until even the tinniest cracks can 
let loose a flood of knowledge.

Four words.

They spread across the underworld like wildfire despite efforts to the 
contrary.  Of course, the rank-and-file were kept in the dark; this 
knowledge remained only in the hands of the powerful.  The people who 
controlled people who controlled people: the elite of society's 
underbelly.

Five syllables.

It wouldn't be long before they really started flying.  Two, maybe 
three weeks tops.  Then every two-bit gangster worth his bullets would 
know of them.  You wouldn't be able to walk a block without hearing a 
whispered rendition of someone's fanciful theory.  What is this 
knowledge that would soon hold the minds of every criminal worth the 
name in its grip?

"The Demon is loose."



"I'M being MUGGED?"

The tone of that voice was hard to nail down.  Incredulity was 
certainly dominating, but there was a strange mix of I-can't-believe-
this-is-happening-to-me and ho-does-he-think-he-is in there too.  It 
was almost, but not quite, the voice of a very rich and conceited man 
being asked by a dirty beggar to not only give a few dollars, but also 
a nice mansion and guaranteed income.

Being the kind of mugger he was (i.e., not a very good one), the mugger 
(who shall, from now on, be named "The Mugger," which should give you a 
good idea of his life expectancy) didn't even try to figure out what 
kind of voice it was.

"Yeah, and since you're seemin' to not know how this be workin', I'll 
'xplain it to ya nice'n slow.  Me an' my gun an' my two friends here, 
we be wantin' your money.  So's you give it up, and you don't get hurt, 
see?"  The two friends behind him, both looking rather long on muscle 
and short on brain, agreed with their leader amidst some laughter.

"I'm being MUGGED!"  This time, the voice included a healthy amount of 
is-this-guy-serious and what-an-idiot as well.  Both went completely 
unnoticed.

"Yeah, we 'stablished that already.  Now drop ya groceries and reach 
deep down in'na that nice black trench coat and bring out ya wallet."

"YOU'RE mugging ME?  MUGGING me!  Who the hell are you?"

As we have already shown, The Mugger wasn't quite bright enough to pick 
up that this line was not uttered in quaking terror like it was 
supposed to be.  Still, at this point, it really wouldn't have mattered 
even if he did get a clue.

"Ha!  I'm the Black Demon, y'hear?  You evah get mo' money to lose, 
c'mon back an' I'll take it from ya again."

The trench coat clad man carefully put both of his brown grocery bags 
onto the ground and stepped forward with a lopsided grin on his face.  
"I should really be insulted by this, but all I can really think of is 
how much I should be pitying you," he said,

The Mugger looked like he was having trouble keeping the vein in his 
head from bursting his scalp open.  "WHAT?  HOW DARE YOU!" he yelled, 
running forward and thrusting his gun at the face of this strangely 
calm man.  "YOU'D BEST APPOLOG- AHHHHH!"

He abruptly cut off as the mugging "victim" reached up with his right 
hand to grab The Mugger's wrist, pulling the gun and hand that 
contained it towards The Mugger's left side, away from the threatened 
man's face.  Simultaneously, the man reached up with his left hand and 
broke The Mugger's gun arm with a strike at his elbow.  Almost before 
the mugger had a chance to scream (thankfully he wasn't fighting 
seriously, otherwise he would think his skills had dulled.  Really, 
giving the opponent time to scream?  How slow!), the man who really 
didn't seem about to be mugged anymore slid towards the man who really 
didn't seem about to mug someone anymore and knocked him out with an 
elbow strike to the head with his left hand.  Casually catching the gun 
in his right hand, he fired a bullet into each of the remaining 
muggers' legs, causing them both to collapse screaming.

Shaking his head, the lone upright man tossed the newly acquired gun 
into one of his supply bags to be thrown away later where morons like 
this couldn't get a hold of it.  Picking them both up, he walked away 
from the screams of the two conscious thugs without remorse.

"Feh, what posers," Garrick said.





 tHe bLacK pAcK 


 
  Day 2:   Five Man War
 

 
  Created by MtB
  This part by David Schwager
 



"So, what now?"

Those three simple words have been enough to throw countless leaders 
into dizzying tailspins.  Nothing kills the battle fervor of a real, 
red-blooded man like having to worry about silly niggling little 
details.  For every bold leader who stands at the front of the army and 
makes stirring speeches about justice and not being afraid to die, 
there's someone standing just behind and to the right who worries about 
little things like making sure there's enough food to last through the 
entire campaign.  If there isn't, bad things tend to happen (witness 
the invasion of Russia.  It doesn't matter which one, they all ended up 
pretty much the same way)

Logistics isn't the only problem, either.  Making goals is easy, but 
there are lots of steps between saying something like "let's invade 
Russia" and actually planting your flag in Moscow.  Sometimes, having a 
really simple goal is worse than a really complex one.  For instance:

Goal: kill Remy Forsythe.

Assets: five skilled but eccentric (people who can, and often do, kill 
ten men in as many seconds get the same treatment as rich people as far 
as being eccentric goes) fighters, their various armaments, a 
reasonably large but hardly unlimited government expense account for 
weapons, equipment, rent, and food.  Oh, and one lawyer that could be 
called in if needed, but probably wouldn't be.

Enemies: pretty much every crime organization.  Theoretically, there 
might be some willing to ally with the legendary Demon, but it was 
unlikely Remy had left such a bold opponent in something other than 
rubble.

Clear Problems: to kill Remy, you need to know where he is.  This is 
important information that is not likely to be found easily.  There's 
also the matter of having thousands of criminals with orders to kill 
your group on sight.  You're good, but not that good.  Let's not forget 
that a good number of those thousands are, most likely, already 
involved in actively hunting you down.

Question: "So, what now?"

Answer: .......................................................

In Garrick's case, it went: 1) find somewhere to live, 2) eat out 
somewhere expensive, 3) find supplies (including ammunition and food), 
and 4).  None of his allies knew what 4) was yet, but that was part of 
his plan.  No matter how much his sister pestered him, he refused to 
tell.

The reason was that Garrick didn't know what 4) was either, and was 
waiting to make something up appropriate later.  In case of an 
emergency, he could just say that 4) was "everything else," but chances 
are some situation would come up where he could look like a better 
leader by pretending to have prepared for it.  Sure, it was a bit 
dirty, but it was an old habit; he didn't get to be the head of 
Maccivelli by letting opportunities to improve his image slip by.  He 
thought that Icy might have caught onto the trick, but as long as she 
didn't say anything it didn't matter.

To his surprise, 1) had been incredibly quick and painless.  He had 
been worried when the real estate agent caught sight of Alexander's 
gattling gun, but after quickly sizing them up, the small man had 
apparently decided that these particular customers should be made as 
happy as possible and brought them to what appeared to be the best 
house he could find and offered to rent it to them at a significant 
discount.  Chances are they would be moving soon, but while it 
lasted... well, as Geraldine said, "Whoo, a real stone fireplace!  Hey, 
another one!  Alright, it's experiment time!"

If the syndicate didn't get them, Geraldine would, Garrick reflected 
morosely.

The house and two full floors, a small attic, and a basement.  There 
were plenty of doors, but Garrick wasn't worried, since more than half 
of them (and most members of a reasonably armed attacking force) would 
be able to make more doors at will (they were renting a house, not a 
bunker; some things you just had to accept, and shoddy armor was one of 
them).  The basement was quite spacious, albeit cold and rather bare, 
but it was fairly sturdy and would make a good place to store their 
bulkier equipment and a decent place to make a last stand at, having 
only one entrance (although, as has been said, more could easily be 
made if one had the inclination, otherwise smart people often just 
didn't think to do so) and, as Geraldine had brilliantly pointed out, 
the washing machine and dryer ("Well, if we're in a siege, it'd be nice 
to have clean clothes.  Er... and we can maybe drink the water if we 
get thirsty?).  The attic was small, cramped, and fairly useless even 
as a sniper roost (as Icy had said, "Unless the enemy wants to be nice 
and courteous and stay on the other side of the road, I can't get a 
good shot from these inward-slanting windows.  Honestly, weren't the 
people who built this thinking even basic fortification? ...Don't 
answer that.").  The two main floors were fairly unremarkable except 
for the stone fireplace on each and the wide staircase that connected 
them.  The kitchen, dining room, and most of the bedrooms were on the 
top floor, but the TV room, garage, study (now turned into Alexander's 
computer room) and main door were all on the lower one.  In short, it 
was an awfully nice house that made Garrick almost sorry that it was 
sure to get demolished soon.

Anyway, since 1) was over so quickly, they had decided to split up and 
proceed to 3) before doing 2).  When Garrick arrived back at their new 
home, he found that he was last one back.  Alexander was already 
plugging away at his new computer (Garrick was sure it was at least 
$3000, even though he had specifically told the giant to get something 
$2000 or under), and Geraldine was watching him type in amazement.  The 
Demon had a small chuckle at that.  People who hadn't seen him in 
action usually thought that Alexander's huge fingers would prevent him 
from being able to type, but he had trained himself to hit the center 
of each key quickly and precisely, which was really something 
considering he had only a few millimeters of space to spare when 
depressing a key.  The scariest part was that he typed faster and made 
fewer typos than people with normal-sized fingers (he claimed it was 
because his training gave him greater skill than those who simply type 
without actively trying to improve).

Heading upstairs, Garrick glanced into the kitchen, where Richmond was 
unpacking the food he and Geraldine had bought.  Richmond glanced over 
in the Demon's direction and gave him a quick thumbs-up, meaning his 
mission to steal all of Geraldine's cigarettes was successful.  
Garrick's non-veiled-at-all threats hadn't budged the man, but 
mentioning how dangerous cigarettes are to your health and how 
Geraldine would be dead before she was forty had gotten her husband to 
swear on his life to help her quit.  Which, in Garrick's mind, 
confirmed him as a nut, since, considering their chosen profession, it 
was unlikely that any of them would live for another ten years, let 
alone twenty (which is why he hadn't given up on forcing Geraldine OUT 
of their chosen profession).  Still, he filed away in his mind that 
Richmond's biggest weakness was his wife's health, which would have 
been a lot more useful if it wasn't one of Garrick's biggest weaknesses 
as well.  Still, the whole situation did give him a few moments of dark 
comedy.  Who would have thought that his sister's taste in men was just 
as bad as his own taste in women?

Heading around the corner, Garrick dumped his big bags of bullets on 
the dining room table, where the testament to his taste in women was 
already unloading her bags, which also contained various types of 
ammunition.  "I'm surprised you got back after I did," Icy said.

"Yeah, well, I got held up.  Some jokers tried to mug me.  HEY," he 
yelled to the house as a whole, "ANYONE WANT A CRAPPY HANDGUN?"

"OH, ME ME ME ME!" yelled back Geraldine from the lower floor.

"Wait, someone tried to MUG you?"  Icy paused in confusion.  "THEY 
tried to mug YOU?"

"Yeah, that was more or less my reaction too.  DAMNIT SIS, WHAT HAVE I 
TOLD YOU ABOUT USING HANDGUNS?  I had to leave them alive too, because 
I wasn't sure if they're considered civilian casualties.  Are they?"

"I KNOW, I KNOW," echoed back the demolitions expert.  "IF I HAVE TO 
USE ONE, MAKE IT A GOOD ONE.  BUT I DON'T WANT TO USE IT, I JUST WANT 
TO EXPERIMENT ON WAYS TO BLOW IT UP."

"OH, WELL THEN THAT'S OKAY.  Well, Icy?"

The sniper seemed lost in thought.  "I... really don't know.  I think 
if they attack you, they're fair game, but if you leave a swath of 
destruction all the way through the inner city, that's not going to be 
looked upon well."

"Alright, gotcha.  I can kill those who attack me within reason."  
Garrick made a face.  "Gah, I hate 'within reason.'"

"I'm sure you do, Demon, sir," said Richmond from the other side of the 
room.  If Garrick had less self control, he would have jumped in 
surprise: either his hearing had been dulled by prison or their blade 
expert was quieter than when they last met.  "Now that we're all here 
and I'm finished unpacking the spoilables, how about that nice dinner?  
I know a few good places here, unless they've been demolished or bought 
out or otherwise changed in the past few years."

"Sounds great," said Garrick.  "I guess we'll just trust your judgment  
on this one."

"My thanks, Demon, sir," Richmond said as he ghosted away.

Garrick paused, listening.  Even when trying, he couldn't hear 
footsteps.  Moving to the doorway, he looked down the hall and saw his 
target walking silently down the stairs.  Moving back inside, he looked 
at Icy.  "Did you hear-"

"No," she replied.

"I mean, sure, he's walking on a carpet, but still, we should've-"

"Guess not."



Dinner was GOOD.

Garrick had been greatly looking forward to his first non-prison meal 
in five years, which is why he had insisted on going somewhere fancy 
for it.  As you might imagine, the three of his companions who had also 
been incarcerated shared the Demon's great hunger (this is quite 
possibly the only time the Demon's great hunger actually refers to 
food).  By unanimous consent, they had ordered ten dishes and passed 
them around in the table, constantly recommending various foods to each 
other (if they hadn't been dropping over half a grand on this meal, a 
waiter would have politely complained a bit about the noise).  Somehow, 
all ten dishes were completely eaten, along with all fifteen deserts 
they ordered afterwards (as you might imagine, Alexander played a large 
part in both feats).  Appetites satiated, Garrick uttered the words of 
any great businessman upon handing the waiter his credit card.

"Thank god for expense accounts."



"Hey!  I have a great idea!" enthused Geraldine.  They were about 
halfway back home, and the walk was reminding Garrick to add 5) rent a 
car to their list of things to do.  "When you take the Maccivelli 
Syndicate back, we can have a meal like this every night, right?"

Garrick thought about it.  The idea certainly did have merit, and his 
stay in prison had helped him cultivate a much greater desire to use 
his wealth for personal enjoyment while he had it.  "Eh, sure, that is 
a good idea.  Whenever we're not hiding or something, we can go eat out 
like this.  We won't have to ration it out of fear of a revoked expense 
account, that's for sure."

"Eh?  Why would we be in hiding?" asked Geraldine.

The other four looked away as if she had said something silly and 
embarrassing.  Alexander finally took it upon himself to say something.

"Well, y'know... from the guvs and all."

"But they let bro out, right?  Why'd they want to go after him again?"

"This is why I didn't want my sister along, y'know," said Garrick in 
what would almost be a whiny voice.  "There's a reason she only had 
petty crimes up till now."

"Hey, what does it matter if my crimes look good?" said Geraldine in 
what was definitely a whiny voice.

"Gah!" screamed the Demon.  "Petty, not pretty!  Petty, as in small 
time!  Not important!  Look, let me give you the facts of life: the 
guvs want me dead only slightly less so than they want Remy dead.  The 
second his heart stops beating, they're gonna come after me in full 
force with tanks and jets and shit precisely BECAUSE they let me go!  
They don't want anyone the public to know I'm loose, because that would 
mean the public would know they let me loose!  That would be very, very 
bad for their image, and would spark all sorts of tribunals and court 
martials and shit that would leave the people who planned this back 
where I started this, by which I mean IN JAIL.  The four of us are 
gonna be on the run half the time, and even with the Syndicates power 
behind us, we'll have plenty of trouble.  There, now, any more 
questions?"

His younger sister was practically cowering against the wall in terror 
at the Demon's long rant.  Timidly, she raised one hand.  "Uh... just 
one... why did you say 'the four of us?'  Because I'm fairly sure I 
count five..."

Oops, thought Garrick.  "Oh, I thought I did say five."

Quick to follow up on any advantage she had, she continued her line of 
questioning.  "No, you said four.  Didn't he, guys?"  Looking around at 
the others for confirmation, she saw her husband and Alexander was not 
to meet her eyes and giving various non-committal noises, while Icy 
started away and into space... well, icily.  "Hey, what's wrong?"

Garrick, quick as always to recover his composure from his slip-up, 
replied.  "It's because I'm going to send you back home once we finish 
this, so it'll only be the four of us remaining.  Now c'mon, let's go 
home."

"Oh no you don't, not that easily!  You can't fool me that easily bro.  
Why would you let me chase after Remy but kick me out when the guvs 
come?  Hurry up and come clean!"

Icy sighed, and began walking again.  "What he means," she said, "is 
that the second Remy drops, your brother intends to drop me as well."

"Whu-whu-WHAT?  BIG BROTHER!  Is that true?  HEY!  Don't just walk away 
from me!" she yelled at his silently retreating form.  "Come back here-
"

Geraldine started to run after her brother, but was stopped by a 
gigantic hand placing itself on her shoulder.  "Girl, chill," said 
Alexander.  "It's their business."

"But... but... she's his girlfriend..."  Geraldine thought about it for 
a few seconds.  "Well, kinda his girlfriend anyway."

"Exactly," said Richmond quietly.  "She's his girlfriend, and she 
betrayed him.  He lost everything he had, including most of his friends 
to her betrayal.  He has to kill her, for himself and them.  That's 
just how things work."

"What about her then, huh?  Why's she so accepting of it?"

Her husband put his hand to his chin as if thinking.  "I guess it's 
like she said: she has her reasons."

"I think it's a truce, just like with the guvs," said Alexander.  "They 
both know they'll backstab each other in the end, but the only path 
they have is just to go for it and hope they end up on top."

Geraldine looked at the two men.  "That's... awfully cold, isn't it?"

Alexander shrugged.  "It's the way of the underworld.  Most of us 
aren't really friendly folks."

"Hmph.  I think you've got it all wrong," said Geraldine as she spun 
around and resumed walking.  "I think she's soooooooo in love with him 
that she wants to be together with him even if the only way to do it is 
to have him kill her."

The two remaining men stood there until the Demon's sister was out of 
sight.  Finally, Alexander spoke.  "Nice girl you got there.  Crazy as 
hell, but nice."

"Of course," replied Richmond, "they say much the same thing of me, 
only without the 'nice.'  I guess we're a perfect couple, hmm?  Now, 
run along back to the house.  I'm afraid I've got a bit of business to 
finish off before I return."

"Oh?  Wazzat?" asked Alexander.

"Nothing much," the blade master said with a smile.  "I just need to 
kill the talentless amateur who's been following us even since we left 
the restaurant."



Much later that night, after respective tempers were cooled, the five 
gathered for what was know officially known as 4) a group strategy and 
planning meeting (when asked why he had kept it a secret, Garrick 
replied that it was "because you can only plan long term strategies 
then your short term needs are met."  Icy had giggled.  Damn her, she 
HAD figured it out, thought Garrick).

Garrick looked around at the gathering.  All five were sitting at a 
good sized round table that was one of the only pieces of furniture the 
house had come with.  To Garrick's right was Icy and to his left was 
Alexander.  On the other side of the table, Richmond and Geraldine were 
sitting far too close together for Garrick's comfort, but he decided 
not to bring that up.  They were in some sort of downstairs lounge next 
to Alexander's computer room.  It was a little bare, but serviceable.

"Okay," began the Garrick, "first order of business.  Richmond, 
considering you were so late back to the house, I assume you took care 
of the guy tailing us?"

"Yes sir, Demon sir," replied Richmond lazily.  "I even left a little 
message on his recording device for Mr. Forscythe to find."  He leaned 
forward a bit and made a slightly disapproving face.  "You shouldn't 
have let your temper get in your way, sir, or you would have gotten rid 
of him yourself."

"Yeah, whatever," Garrick said as he dismissed the criticism with a 
wave of his hand.  "Now, second order of business-"

"Wait, we were being FOLLOWED?" asked Geraldine frantically.

Garrick sighed and put his face in his hand.  "Second order of 
business, I propose that Geraldine is banned from speaking again during 
strategy meetings.  All in favor?"  He raised his hand and looked 
around at four cold glares (one of which was positively Icy) and no 
hands.  "Fine, fine, the nays have it.  Okay then, onto our third order 
of business.  Any of you have any suggestions?"  As Geraldine began to 
speak, Garrick cut her off.  "And if anyone says something along the 
lines of 'we should blow Remy to pieces,' please keep your wisdom to 
yourself."

His sister looked at him with a hurt look.  "I'm not THAT clueless, 
bro.  I was gonna suggest that we infiltrate the syndicate.  I'm sure 
they're looking for new members, seeing as how they're about to face 
off against you."

"That's the stupidest-"

"Demon!" interrupted Alexander.

Garrick sighed.  "Alright, so it's not that bad an idea.  But 
unfortunately, all of us except you are far too well known to attempt 
it, and you're not suited for stealth missions OR for infiltrating the 
mob.  Especially alone.  Anyone else?"

"Alexander, of course," said Alice softly.

"Already on it," the giant said.  "I don't think I'll have get much 
tho'.  This Forcythe guy don' seem like the kind to make this easy on 
us.  I doubt his location is online in any way, and if it's not online, 
I can't get it.  I'm good, but I'm not God."

"So Alexander's out."  Garrick looked around.  "Anyone else?"

"The same way I got to you, Demon, sir."  Richmond smiled broadly at 
the reaction his words caused.

"And... that... would be?" said the Demon in his best intimidation 
voice.  It didn't work very well.

Richmond's smile became lazy again as he explained.  "You can't run a 
business like the syndicate in isolation, no matter how good you are.  
You talk to people, they talk to more people, and so on and so on down 
like the roots of a tree.  One leader with many Lieutenants, each with 
hundreds of men and officers..."

"We're all well aware of basic organization," said Icy as he trailed 
off.

"Yeah, even my sister knows this," said Garrick before being glared at 
by all four.  "Sorry, sorry.  Get on with it, Richie."

"Certain, Demon, sir," said Richmond without even a trace of the 
irritation Garrick hoped to cause with that nickname.  "Simply put, the 
easiest way to get to the top is being climbing the chain of command.  
You take a random thug, find out who and where he gets his orders from.  
Then you find that person, and find out who and where he gets his 
orders from.  So on and so on.  If you go up long enough, you'll make 
it to the top without fail."

"It's... a bit simple," said Garrick.

"The best plans are," replied Richmond easily.

"It'll be long and boring, and if we accidentally kill one of our links 
we'll have to start all over."

"There aren't that many layers of organization in the Syndicate," 
pointed out Icy reasonably.  "Most of the top lieutenants should know 
something, and besides, do you have any better ideas?"

Once again, Garrick sighed.  "No, I guess not.  Well, barring further 
suggestions, we'll move onto our fourth order of business, namely, why 
furniture is generally too expensive to waste our money on when we can 
make do with things like sleeping bags instead of beds.  No, Geraldine, 
I don't want to hear it..."



"And so, Mr. Forscythe, sir, I'd appreciate it if you don't order any 
more men to tail us," said Richmond, grinning his usual sly smile from 
the large television that was currently playing back the last (and 
only, since the rest of the tape had been erased) recording of an 
extremely ill-fated spy.  "Or at the very least use someone with a bare 
modicum of skill; really, if this one had been any less competent, even 
Alexander or my cute wife would have heard him.  If you want to find 
our place of residence, I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more 
cunning than this.  Goodbye for now, but I'm sure we'll see each other 
again.  After all, I doubt you're careless enough to let me kill you 
from the shadows."

Remy Forscythe laughed at the recording.  Then he turned to his most 
trusted (or, more accurately, "least negatively trusted") Lieutenant, 
who had been recently drafted to work directly under Remy as his aide.  
"I want you to give Lieutenant Dougall the order to exterminate the 
five Black Pack members by any means necessary."  The name had been a 
spur-of-the-moment idea, but somehow it had stuck due to its 
appropriateness.  "Make it clear that if he doesn't succeed, he should 
consider saving himself the trouble and making his own pair of cement 
shoes.  Oh, and give him what basic info we have about their 
abilities."

The Lieutenant paused to consider this information before speaking.  
"Sir, with all due respect, Lieutenant Dougall is an incompetent.  His 
men are incompetents.  The rest of us Lieutenants use him as a dumping 
ground for our useless men, and if by chance he recruits someone 
talented, we steal him away.  In short, sir, the Black Pack will eat 
him alive."

Remy smiled and laughed gently.  "I'm glad I chose to promote you; I 
doubt any of the others would have been that honest with me.  But 
you're exactly right: Dougall is useless and the Black Pack will tear 
him apart.  However, that is exactly my purpose."  He leaned forward 
and widened his friendly smile, like he was talking about how great his 
lawn was coming in.  "In my organization, the only dumping ground for 
incompetents will be the morgue."

"Yes, sir," said the Lieutenant obediently.  He understood the plan 
now: use the Pack to purge the organization of a disliked element while 
at the same time wearing them down to the point where a better able 
group would have an easy time destroying them.  It was an excellent 
plan, since five men, no matter how skilled, were only five men.  
Right?

The Lieutenant did his best to block the legends of the Demon out of 
his mind.  The stories just had to be exaggerated.  Of course there was 
evidence that many of them had at least some basis in reality, but no 
single human could possibly do that kind of damage.

Right?



Lieutenant Dougall smiled a toothy grin as he received his orders.  
After all, rarely did such a glorious opportunity come to him.  
Destroying the Demon would win him great favor with the new boss, and 
it would be hard for even a brainless two-year old to screw this up.  
Sure, everyone had heard stories about the "Demon," but who in their 
right mind would believe such garbage?  They were obviously just myths 
the former leader had created to enhance his image and strike fear into 
his enemies.  Well, Dougall was one smart cookie, and he wasn't going 
to fall for it.

Of course, most of those who had known the Demon personally were killed 
during the upheaval after his imprisonment, so there wasn't much first-
hand information either way.  But still... no, forget it, it's 
impossible.

Right?

Right.

First he would need to find them.  That shouldn't be too hard, as he 
already had their general location.  All he needed now was to find them 
specifically.  Well, Dougall was one smart cookie, and he had someone 
just perfect for that job.  Specially imported just for this reason, 
you could say.  He would surely be able to find them and somehow relay 
that information back to the hit squad (indeed, although Dougall had no 
way of knowing it, his agent would perform those duties to the letter, 
although not in a way either might have imagined).

As for the hit squad, thirty gunmen should be more than enough.  They 
wouldn't even all need machine guns.  Even if half of them only had 
handguns, it wouldn't matter.

Well, maybe they SHOULD all have machine guns.

Y'know, just to be on the safe side.



After the meeting, their little group had broken up to do whatever they 
wanted.  Icy tinkered with her rifle, Alexander tinkered with his 
computer, Richmond tinkered with his blades, and Geraldine tinkered 
with her explosives.  For his part, Garrick had found Bonnie and Clyde 
in disturbingly good condition.  It was disturbing because someone had 
to have kept them in a condition that good, which would have meant 
regular cleaning even if they hadn't been used, and Garrick didn't want 
to think about who had been doing it (Icy, most likely) because that 
would mean thinking about WHY she- er, THEY had done it.  Instead, he 
thought about Geraldine and how to send her back home to her parents 
and college and boredom and away from getting a bullet through her 
brain and that crazy husband of hers.  This line of thought was 
hampered by his being able to hear Alice's familiar rifle tinkering 
(she was having some trouble with her sight attachment again; from the 
sound of it, her infrared scope was still refusing to slide in easily 
and NO NO NO think about Geraldine).  During his five years of 
incarceration, Garrick had only thought about one thing: kis-KILLING 
Alice "Icy" Rogers.  Killing her for betraying him.  Killing her for 
sending his friends to hell and him to the next best thing.  He would 
NOT allow himself to forgive her.

So, while trying to figure out how to get his sister to leave and 
trying to avoid figuring out exactly what his relationship with Icy 
was, Garrick quickly tired his mind out.  Opting to have his body join 
his mind, he went down to the basement to work out his prison-atrophied 
muscles a bit.  Since there wasn't any proper equipment there, he had 
to improvise with what he could find (using chairs instead of lifting 
weights, stick a box of bullets on his back when doing pushups, etc.).  
Luckily for him, he hadn't lost as much muscle as he feared, but he 
would definitely need to work harder to get back up to top shape.  
Finally tired out, he went back upstairs and to bed.  He made a special 
point to not look at Alice's room, or even check her location.  He did, 
however, check his sister's room, which he refused to think of as 
Richmond's room in any way, just to make sure that there were still two 
sleeping bags there.  While he didn't realistically expect them both to 
be used, the only thing keeping his sanity intact at the moment was the 
thin illusion that they might be (at least that was what he had told 
them, and he was only exaggerating slightly).



"Rise and shine bro!" cried Geraldine as she roused her only sibling 
from slumber.  "It's breakfast time!  C'mon and wake up or you don't 
eat!"

"Yeah yeah, whatever," mumbled Garrick as he got to his feet.  "Gimmie 
a minute to dress and I'll be right out."

Meanwhile, his sister started at him in slack-jawed amazement.  "Bro... 
since when can you get up like that?  It used to take me half an hour 
to roust you!"

"I wake up easy now," said the Demon.  "In my world, you either wake up 
fast or you don't wake up at all."

"But why... oh, right, you get killed in your sleep.  Alright, message 
received, just get out there."  Geraldine smiled as she left.  Finally, 
irrefutable proof that the criminal world wasn't entirely without 
merit!  It had made her brother a light sleeper!  Was their mom ever 
going to be disappointed when she found out.

Garrick received his first nasty shock of the day the second he walked 
into the kitchen expecting breakfast.  For one thing, no one but him 
and his sister was there.  For another thing, the only food was in a 
decidedly unprepared state.  Years of experience in deadly underworld 
plotting leapt to his aid, instantly connecting dozens of points of 
information into a clear picture of the scheme laid against him.

"No way!" he said vehemently.  "There is no way I'm helping you cook 
breakfast!"

"Oh, but you're the only one here whose cooking I can trust to not 
poison us!"

"I am a criminal boss!  I do not 'cook.'"

"But if you don't help, then you and Alexander won't eat."

Garrick paused, struck in an unexpected weak area.  "...What?" he said 
intelligently.

"You heard me!  If you don't help, then I won't give you or Alexander 
any food!"  She smiled at him, confident in her victory.

"Fine, go ahead," spoke the Demon, confident that she was bluffing.  
While she might see fit to deprive him off foodstuffs, she would never 
go so far as to exclude another for his misdeed.  Since she was 
bluffing on that, her entire position would crumble once she gave in.

"Okay, less work for me," she said as she began cooking.

The Demon looked on, slightly less sure but still confident in his 
judgment.

Then his stomach growled.



"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" guffawed Alexander.  "Who would'a thunk it, 
huh?"

"Yeah, laugh it up big guy," growled Garrick.

"I mean, it's a damn classic!" continued Alexander between fits of 
laughter.  "Whadda we call ya now?  The Cooking Demon?  The Demon With 
Spatulas?"

"See if I ever do you a favor again," grumbled Garrick from his 
position over the eggs.

"How about the Demon Chef?" suggested Richmond.

"The Frying Demon," added Icy.

Garrick glared flaming death at his sister.  "I hate you," he said 
simply, before turning and flipping a load of pancakes off the griddle.

"Yeah, yeah," she replied in that special way only siblings can.  
"Okay, the hash browns are done.  I'm gonna go dig out the salt and 
syrup and stuff."

"Whatever.  I still hate you."  It wasn't that his voice was un-
intimidating.  It's just...

"Y'know Demon, you'd be more intimidatin' if you weren' spoonin' out 
pancake batter."

Thanks, Alexander.  I couldn't put it better myself.

"Damnit!  This is exactly why I didn't want- oh, whoops," he stopped 
for a second to turn off the flame under the eggs and reach for a 
platter.  "Wait, what am I doing?  Si- Geraldine, get back here!  I 
refuse to do this anymore!"

"Oh, I dunno, Demon, sir.  You seem to be doing pretty well," observed 
Richmond.  "Oh, but you might want to flip those pancakes again."

"Nah, they need another thirty seconds at least- damnit, stop that!  I 
refuse to do this!  I am a skilled criminal mastermind, not a damn 
short order cook."  Garrick's declaration was somewhat lessened by the 
fact that he had to turn around to flip the pancakes ten seconds later.

Icy stared at him, trying desperately not to show just how much she 
wanted to laugh.  "I really don't know what's funnier, Garrick.  You 
cooking, or the fact that you seem so good at it."

"It wasn't my idea," he grumbled as he finished flipping the pancakes 
and moved the platter with the other finished pancakes closer.

"Oh?  Whose was it?" asked Icy.

"Our mom, of course," said Geraldine from the doorway.  "Hey, honey, 
get over here and help me with some of this stuff.  Oh, and remind me 
to never buy the bulk syrup canisters ever again."

"Of course, dearest," said Richmond as he glided to help his wife with 
her burden.  "So, your mother taught the good Demon how to cook?"

"Yep, him and me.  She insisted that she wouldn't raise a child who 
couldn't cook for themselves."

"Sis..." intoned Garrick in warning.

"Oh, relax, it's not like she's here.  Anyway, you'd be surprised; 
bro's actually a pretty good cook.  You should try the pasta sauce he 
makes-"

"SIS!" yelled Garrick.

"Geeze, what's UP with you?" wondered Geraldine.  "You've been in a 
total snit ever since I made you help out with the food.  I know you 
never exactly loved to cook, but you never minded it that much."

"It's because of his image," explained Icy offhandedly.  "'Merciless 
killer of hundreds' and 'makes a mean pasta sauce' don't mix well.  I 
don't know why he cares so much now though, since we're all friends."  
She paused and thought about that for a second.  "Well, almost friends.  
Close enough for mob work, anyway."

"Yeah," said Alexander, "we're all friends here.  Besides, now I know 
wha' ta' getcha for Christmas."  He paused as if thinking deeply.  
"Although I don't know where I'd find a black apron aroun' here..."

"I hate you all," mumbled Garrick.



After breakfast it was time for work, which consisted of walking around 
the most populated parts of the city with, as an exceptionally 
irritated Garrick put it, "All you fucking jokers in full battle gear.  
That ugly ass pink getup of yours, sis, that ludicrously oversized gun 
of yours, AL (knowing full well how much Alexander hated that 
contraction), and that snowwoman costume of yours, Alice.  Oh yeah, and 
try to act as much like the prancing idiot you are, Richmond.  Yeah, of 
course hide your gatling gun Alexander!  I dunno, put a tarp over it or 
something.  We're trying to attract the bad guys, not a fucking swat 
team."  The idea was to attract as much attention as possible, in the 
probably hope of drawing some of their targets to them.  If it looked 
like it wasn't working, they'd try raiding some of the old hideouts, 
but they doubted they would have much success; the syndicate didn't 
usually keep any hideouts active for more than three years, since at 
that point too many people tended to know about them and they weren't 
exactly safe anymore.

So, they walked down the biggest, most crowded streets they could, 
talking loudly and drawing more attention than any of them were 
particularly comfortable with.  Now if only someone looking for them 
would actually find them...

Several blocks away, thirty men with machine guns waited for their 
scout to give them a signal.



Sasuke glided from hiding place to hiding place, stalking his prey.  
Soon, very soon, he would use his small pocket radio to call in the 
rest of the squad, but for now his years of ninjitsu training rendered 
him undetectable.

Sure, he was a third generation US citizen and would be hard pressed to 
tell the difference between a Japanese, Chinese, and Korean man.  Sure, 
he hadn't really had a 'master' during any of his hard years of 
training, unless you counted his many ninja videos, both animated and 
live action.  Sure, he had never actually been to Japan, and had only 
picked up a few words of Japanese here and there through watching 
imported videos.  But he was confident that, if you traced back his 
lineage far enough, you would find many proud ninjas hiding in his 
family tree, much as he was today in a far more literal tree.  Truly, 
the blood of his ancestors ran strong in him!

Sasuke waited motionless in his tree for the group to pass beyond 
earshot.  He would finish the mission objectives perfectly!  He had 
already found them, and soon he would give the attack squad the signal 
to, um, attack!  He would succeed and show everyone exactly what he was 
made of!  He was invisible like a shadow.  He was quiet like a ghost.  
He was silent like greased monkey.  He was-

"Hey, is there someone in that tree up there?" asked Geraldine 
curiously.

-in deep shit, realized Sasuke as terror took hold.

In a somewhat cruel, yet not entirely undeserved, joke of fate on the 
poor Sasuke, every thought he had during this, his first real mission, 
was true, although not exactly in the way he had hoped.  For instance, 
while there were many ninjas within his family tree, most of them had 
been quite well known during their lives.  Indeed, Sasuke was hiding in 
his literal tree with about the same degree of concealment.  And while 
it is true that the blood of his ancestors ran strong in him, Sasuke 
would have been surprised to learn that many of his ancestors had been 
tragically killed in their first missions.  He would show everyone who 
saw him exactly what he was made of (red, mostly).  He was as invisible 
as a shadow at 10:30 in the morning on a brilliantly sunny day.  He was 
as quiet as the kind of ghost that wakes you up at midnight to chat 
about forging chains in life and likes to moan and rattle his copious 
examples.  He was, indeed, as silent as a monkey who had suddenly been 
coated with a thick layer of greasy sludge.

And most of all, he was in extremely deep shit.  In fact, it would not 
be inaccurate to say that it had no bottom.

"Yes, sis, that would be the grossly pathetic scout for some attack 
squad or other," said Garrick in his most condescending voice.  "He 
would be why we circled around this small area again, hoping he would 
look five feet past his nose and see us this time."

"Oh," said a faintly embarrassed Geraldine as she fished around her 
pockets.  Finally drawing forth a small round object, she tossed it 
upwards to the watcher who was now frozen in fear.  "Here, catch," she 
said.

Numbly, without thinking about it, Sasuke did.  He had just enough time 
to register that it was a grenade before he didn't register anything 
anymore.

It might have made him feel better to know that the grenade was timed 
to go off at his exact height, so even if he hadn't caught it the 
outcome wouldn't have been any different.  But then again, that 
knowledge probably wouldn't make any difference either.

Two things happened in rapid succession.  First, the entire crowd for 
three blocks cleared out of the streets like... well, like some psychos 
had just tossed a grenade into the air and blasted a person into little 
red bits (the cover-up would talk about a deadly gang shootout that 
left both sides dead and would eventually cause the city police budget 
to skyrocket, so all's well that ends well for The Man).  Second, the 
attack squad rounded the corner before Garrick had done more than begin 
to chew out his sister.  All thirty of them were there, as they had all 
heard the explosion and the screams and had put two and two together.

Surprising everyone, they actually got four.  For most of Dougall's 
men, this was cause for an award in and of itself.

Seeing their targets standing in the open, the thirty men opened fire.

Unfortunately, they weren't quite quick enough.

Alexander took off for one side of the road with surprising speed, 
covering ground in long strides, each of which would make many long 
jumpers proud.  He had his gatling gun in front of him like a tower 
shield to protect himself from stray bullets (it might get damaged, but 
not as much as he would).  As a testament to his speed, he was inside a 
nearby building before even a single bullet touched his firearm.

Garrick, meanwhile, was making a break for the other side of the road, 
only at a much slower pace since he had taken time to throw his trench 
coat over Icy and Geraldine and was forced to run with both of them 
under its protection.  While Icy was used to this style of travel and 
wouldn't have slowed him at all, Geraldine was most certainly not, and 
her rhythm clashed with the other two, forcing them to run slower.  
Geraldine did try to throw another grenade, but was stopped by her 
brother, who had had enough of her throwing explosives around.  Knowing 
her it would just end up caught in his trench coat anyway.  Even with 
all the delays, they reached the safety of a building before more than 
a few bullets hit the Demon's coat.  This was good, since even the 
heavy, bulletproof coat had its limits: too much fire (and thirty 
machine guns certain qualified as that) would pummel your body like 
hammers, breaking bones and bruising muscles.  Nevertheless, as long as 
he had some shelter, Garrick was not particularly worried about these 
enemies.  Indeed, as a testament to that unconcern, he had to fight 
long and hard to keep from grabbing Alice and giving her another deep 
kiss; running with her under his trench coat (even with Geraldine too) 
had brought back a lot of old memories that shouldn't have nearly as 
much importance to him as they did.  Eventually, the battle was won for 
him when Alice said simply "Roof," and ran towards the stairs, 
presumably to snipe from the top.

Richmond was not with either group.  Somehow, during the confusion of 
the attack squad's first appearance, he had disappeared.  No one had 
seen him vanish (not even the enemy they captured), but when they 
looked for him, he just wasn't there.  With the exception of Geraldine, 
none of the Black Pack was particularly worried about him.  Not because 
they didn't care much (although, with the exception of Geraldine, they 
didn't), but because they believed him to be far too skilled to die in 
such a way.

Alexander swung his ponderous weapon around to point it at where he 
remembered the enemy to be.  Revving it, he heard the beautiful (at 
least to the people he wasn't aiming at) hum of its cylinders rotating 
faster and faster.  When they reached maximum speed, he cut loose.

To be honest, a powerful gatling gun like that is less a 'gun' and more 
of a 'cannon.'  The bullets it spewed tore through the building wall 
like wet cardboard and ripped into the enemy squadron like hundreds of 
disturbingly large metal pellets going fast enough to tear cement like 
wet cardboard (in fact, several injuries were caused not by the bullets 
themselves but rather by shards of cement the bullets had sent flying 
like shrapnel).  Alexander's barrage killed or crippled at least twenty 
of the squadron right there, and he probably could have destroyed the 
rest too if he hadn't stopped and let the others work.  They did need 
at least one alive, he reminded himself as he let his guns whine fade 
away to be replaced by the moans and screams of pain.

"No damnit, don't use another grenade, it'll just make things more 
messy than they already are.  Besides, I need to see where I'm 
shooting," ordered Garrick as he leaned around the doorway.  He used 
the natural wall of the door and his trench coat to cover every part of 
him with safety except the tip of one gun and his right eye.  Looking 
at the remaining enemies, he quickly began to pick them off: one, two, 
three, four, five, six, seven, all felled with pinpoint accuracy in 
about as many seconds.

Then Richmond appeared out of nowhere behind the attack squadron.  
Well, that's not true; much like his disappearance, his reappearance 
was simply like him walking back onstage after a quick break.  No one 
saw him appear, but there he was, like you had just turned your head 
away and he had walked in while you weren't looking.  Except they were 
looking, and had been looking quite closely.

Garrick would kill to know how he did that.

With a bit of a chuckle, he dispatched two men in the blink of an eye 
and disarmed a third, holding a knife to his neck and drawing a drop of 
blood.  With a smile and a flick of the wrist, a blade sprouted in the 
neck of a wounded man several feet to the left who had been reaching 
for his gun.

When Icy reached the top of the building and looked through her scope 
at the scene below, she saw twenty-nine dead men and one prisoner.

Garrick stepped out from behind the doorway and looked at the lone man 
being held at knife point.  The Demon smiled a cold, nasty smile, one 
that spoke clearly of great pain that would be soon delivered to 
whoever was at the other end of that smile.  Then he spoke in a voice 
that did the exact opposite of inspiring confidence in ones own safety. 

"I love it when a plan comes together."

The prisoner fainted dead away.



Author's notes:

I love it when a part comes together.

I don't have much to say about this.  I think I went a bit heavy on the 
happy homeowner part of things, but on the other hand, I think that it 
served a decent purpose and set a good precedent.  Sure, we need plenty 
of shooting and mindless violence, but we also need a good setting and 
some coherent plot points and, most of all, a Lair of Justice for our 
heroes to plan their attacks.  Although, as Garrick says, I doubt this 
particular lair will last more than two or three parts before it gets 
blown up in some spectacular fashion.  I know I pushed a lot of 
character time and made a big thing out of the Demon-Icy love-hate 
thing, but I think it needed to be done.  Garrick isn't going to just 
get out of prison and say "Hey, I know you betrayed me and everything I 
held dear, but you're pretty, so let's shack up again."

I know that it's a bit early for it, but I tried to set down how the 
various sides are reacting to the whole "Garrick's loose" thing.  The 
government is waiting for Garrick to win so they can take him out 
again, and Garrick knows that but thinks he can beat whatever they 
eventually throw at him, just like they think they can beat whatever he 
eventually throws at them.  It's almost exactly like a Mexican 
standoff, except not.

On Dougall: he's not meant to last more than four or five parts.  He's 
also not meant to give away Remy's location.  He's meant to attack the 
Black Pack every episode and fail miserably, eventually leading to his 
death at their hands.  Whereupon they have to start all over on their 
"climbing the ladder" tactic with the next more competent Lieutenant.  
This can go on as long as everyone wants it.  What fun!

I would apologize to any otaku offended by Sasuke, but if he does 
offend you, you probably deserve it.  C'mon, I'm poking fun at myself 
as well here guys.  My only regret is that I couldn't make him a 
regular character, but he would probably just end up turning into a 
lame one-note joke anyway.  Which isn't surprising, since that's what 
he was.

I will apologize about the terrible, terrible accents I wrote.  I 
couldn't write them well if my life depended on it.  No offense was 
meant, either through mockery of minorities or through my terrible 
writing, although both may have occurred.

Sorry about the lack of any Christmas themes or anything.  I'm Jewish, 
so I'm not obligated to include them like you guys.  Ha ha!  Think of 
this as the only piece of current entertainment you're likely to find 
that doesn't have snow and evergreens and shiny little baubles and 
happy messages about how the real meaning of Christmas is, as Garrick 
would say, to give far, far more bullets than you receive.

Something like that, anyway.

David Schwager, SLADElevel99@yahoo.com, hoping that you enjoyed reading 
this as much as I enjoyed writing it.



"So," began Garrick slowly, "how do you say we torture him?"

"T-t-torture?" asked the frightened prisoner, who currently tied to a 
very sturdy chair.

"I saw we just cut off fingers until he talks," said Richmond in a 
singsong voice.  "Use a saw for extra pain."

"I know a powder you can rub in his cuts that stings like hell," 
offered Geraldine.  "Plus, you can ignite it and it'll burn for 
minutes, just weakly enough to not burn off his nerves completely."

The prisoner got a good, long look at the five people standing in a 
huddle just a few feet away.  They looked very happy, for people 
contemplating what torture to use.  He was pretty sure that was a bad 
sign.

"Well, if you two are laying claim to his hands, I'll take his feet," 
said Icy.  "I can get some liquid Nitrogen or something and completely 
immerse his feet in it.  If you do it right, his feet don't get numb, 
but the flesh actually freezes solid.  It's nice and slow and, judging 
from the screams I usually get, very painful."

"That's a good one," said Garrick admiringly.  "What about you, 
Alexander?"

"Oh, das easy.  I can get some electrodes and a power source from 
upstairs and rig a circuit to directly stimulate his pain nerves.  Just 
gimmie a leg or arm or somthin'."

"That's perfect!" exclaimed Garrick.  "Even after the other three have 
totally wrecked his limbs, you'll still be able to make him feel like 
those parts of him are in pain!"

"What, pray tell, are you going to do, Demon, sir, while we torture 
him?" asked Richmond questioningly.

"Oh, I don't want to use my methods on him unless he's a particularly 
tough nut to crack."  Garrick smiled menacingly, in full view of the 
prisoner.  "It would really be a waste if he's not tough enough to 
handle any of your ideas.  But don't worry, I do have a way to keep him 
from fainting during your tortures."

Finally, the prisoner broke free from the trance terror had him under.  
"Wait!  Don't torture me!  Please!  I'll do anything!  Don't you want 
something from me?  I'll do it!"

"Oh, don't worry," said Garrick dismissively.  "I wouldn't dare insult 
the legendary underworld loyalty by suggesting you give up information 
on your superiors without torture."

The prisoner only had to think about it for a second.  After all, while 
his superiors would kill him for giving up such information, his 
superiors weren't here right now, while five extremely deadly and 
mentally unstable torturers were.  Besides, if how easily they had 
destroyed the rest of his squadron was any indication, after they were 
done with whatever they planned to do, his superiors might not be in a 
condition to do anything to him except haunt him, and he didn't believe 
in ghosts.

It was much easier to believe in the Demon's smile.

He told them everything he knew.