~chapter one
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There was more smoke than air. In the far corner of the Onyx Club, Earl downed the last few remaining drops of his ice cold whiskey and leaned back into the fake leather seat. Digging into his pockets, he fished out a carton of cigarettes and idly tapped it against the table before pulling one out. From all around the club came the lively chatter of voices and sharp clinking of glasses, disturbed only briefly when someone opened the door and let in the chilly night air. A gang of dangerous looking men loitered by the alley side door, next to the broken down jukebox. Earl stood out in this crowd. His outcrop of short, spiky black hair matched the color of his suit.
With only a single, bare bulb hanging low over his table, Earl found it hard to see clearly any further than his empty glass. Through the gloom, he saw five or six men, who had been talking to the bartender Froll, approach his table. As they crowded around his table, he pocketed his carton of cigarettes and simpered.
“You reckon this is the one?” said the man on the far left, shoving Earl.
“Yeah,” sneered another, “what other dummy would wear that kinda suit in a place like this?”
The man on the far right stepped closer to the table and raised his arm at Earl. It was holding a pistol.
“You've got yourself some enemies,” said the first man.
Earl placed his cigarette between his teeth and straightened his tie. He looked expectantly at the gunman. Before the gangster could fire, Earl delivered a hefty kick to the table, sending it flying towards the men. In a fluid motion, he leapt sideways and pulled out his automatic. Two quick shots and two assassins collapsed. At this point, everybody had run screaming for the door, and Froll reached for the alarm. The thugs by the jukebox rushed to blockade the exits and some joined the fray. They scrambled to pull out their weapons as Earl continued to fire. Each shot brought down a challenger, but the thugs were nowhere near as accurate. Bottles and glasses smashed onto the floor as thugs knocked over tables. A stray shot broke the light bulb and set the wall behind Earl on fire. Blood spilled onto broken glass, covering up the dancing reflection of the fire. Snarling hoodlums stumbled over the bodies of their cronies as they sought to kill Earl. The fire only added to the haze in the room. Earl's rapid movements caused his suit and necktie to billow about him. Frustrated gunmen emptied clip after clip into his fluttering garments. The fire consumed what little oxygen was left in the air. Sweating profusely and barely conscious, the remaining hit men ran for the door, where they were picked off by Earl.
Just minutes after the battle started, Earl alone was victorious. For a few moments there was no sound save the cackling flame. Earl turned around and leaned forward to light his cigarette.
~chapter two
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Chorak Asten glanced at the small mirror on the corner of his desk and slicked down a few stray hairs. He looked around his comfortable study and admired the various antiques he had recently acquired.
There was a curt knock on the door. Chorak nodded at the two burly men standing by it, who in turn opened one of the large oaken panels. A rather large man, dressed in a starchy grey business suit, entered the room and parked himself onto a chair opposite Chorak.
“Cigar?” said Chorak.
The guest accepted, and examined the cigar. “Gurkha’s reserve,” he said.
“Only the best,” said Chorak. The two men sat in silence for a while, puffing on their cigars.
“Mr. Jacob Edra,” said Chorak, tapping his cigar. “I hope you bring good news.”
Jacob hesitated before he cleared his throat and said, “Everything is going according to plan. The lottery is running smoothly and we’re starting a racquet against that big oil boss, uh, Thomas. Thomas White.”
“But somebody’s givin’ you trouble,” said Chorak.
“It’s…it’s nothing. Nothing we can’t handle,” said Jacob, squeezing his cigar.
“Is that so, Mr. Edra?” said Chorak.
Jacob fidgeted and chewed on his cigar. Chorak leaned forward onto this desk and clasped his hands.
“Must I remind you, Mr. Edra,” said Chorak, “that the Audience does not tolerate failure.”
Jacob was silent.
The phone rang. Chorak grabbed the phone with a frown and said, “I though I told you – “ A pall fell over his face. “Are you sure? Send him in then.” Chorak put down the receiver and took a long drag on his cigar.
“Who is it?” said Jacob. Chorak ignored him and wrung his hands, while glancing anxiously about the room.
Then came the knock. Chorak nodded at his bodyguards and said, “Be ready, in case we might need to…”
The door opened to a tall man dressed in a sharp, black suit. A clean, white dress shirt lay underneath, and he wore a blood red, neatly tied necktie. His black hair was combed back, and his almost-clear blue eyes swept the room.
Chorak chuckled. “Y-you-you’re a… a phony…”
“You would do well not to doubt me,” said the man, pronouncing every syllable.
“Look,” said Jacob, getting out his is seat. “I think it’s time for me to l – “
“Nobody is leaving this room,” said the visitor. Jacob halted.
“Who are you?” said Chorak.
“My name is T. Remember it,” said T. “I am the one The Icarus employs to discipline members of the Audience who step out of line.”
Chorak said, “But, I’ve paid all my dues, attended – “
“Silence,” said T. “The Icarus is not blind. His law is just.”
“I was just here – “ said Jacob, frantically searching for an exit. Suddenly, a loud shot exploded in the room. Jacob fell to the ground, clutching his stomach. Blood spilled over his hands and stained his suit. He writhed on the floor screaming. T’s right hand was now holding an automatic.
Turning to the trembling and sweating Chorak, T said, “You have dealt with the Eyes in a most unsatisfactory manner. The Icarus is not pleased.” Now Chorak turned pale. Jacob was still thrashing. Chorak threw his bodyguards a furtive glance, but before they could move, T’s automatic spat two bullets. The bodyguards crumpled. A scream began to grow in Chorak’s throat. He clawed at his desk in frenzy.
T pulled the trigger for the fourth time, and Chorak slumped off his chair. T calmly strolled around the room, careful to step over the bodies, and admired Chorak’s collection. After a while, T found himself before Jacob. Jacob look up at T and coughed up some blood. His eyes had begun to glaze.
“Pathetic,” said T as he fired two shots in Jacob’s shoulders. “Scum like you makes me sick.”
He flicked off the lights, and melted into the darkness.
