3757 words (15 minute read)

Episode Seven: Edgelord of the Crime Rings (Revised)



“Nothing personal, Diesel,” Jellyfish Stan whispers.

“Really?” you manage to croak.

“No.” She raises her homemade cosh to bash your brains out. “This is as personal as it gets.”

You lift a hand to block the blow, to throw some kind of enchantment between you and your death.

But your noggin’s too rattled. Your thoughts move too slowly. It’s all in vain. Accept it, Diesel. The simplest, most idle of errors has sealed your fate.

When Jellyfish Stan claims your blood-soaked hat, how long before she realizes what I am? How long before she uses up all the wishes I can grant and sets me free at last?

Take that thought with you into the screaming depths of hell!

Ha!

Ha!

Shouldn’t Stan’s cudgel have dashed your brains out by now?

You blink multiple times until your blurry vision finally clears.

You see Jellyfish Stan standing over you, jaw dropped in the perfect picture of surprise. You see her stare at the red-bleeding stump where her left hand used to be.

Where’d her hand go, you wonder? It couldn’t have gone far. Never mind. You have bigger fish to fry.

“Striboga!” you shout, fingers brushing the hilt of yourjian.

Your blade leaps from its sheath, dragging your hand along for the ride. It carves a line across Stan’s stomach, splitting her unwashed clothes and gutting her like a fish.

Jellyfish Stan lets out an ear-piercing shriek and leaps away; coils of intestines spilling from her belly wound, grey, slime-slick strands that whip back and forth through the air.

“Oh no,” you hear her whimper as she backs away on hands and feet. “Oh no, oh no...” Her head twists this away and that, swiveling like a sentry camera. “Where’s my arm? Where’s my arm?”

Stan’s severed arm flies across the street and smacks her across the head. From the shadows of the nearby alley, a gravelly voice speaks up:

“Right here.”

You slowly rise up, holding your sword before you like a talisman. “Gremlina,” you whisper. “Ammita. Kumara. Kokua.” You stumble left and shift your foot to stabilize yourself. “Zoavita,” you add.

Your sword grows warm in your grip. Blue sparks drip from the edge of your blade like snowflakes with every tremble of your arm.

You savior walks out of the alley into daylight.

It’s the Mummy-Man you bumped into, the guy with the bandages, leather trench coat, and attitude.

He pulls a cloth from his pocket and wipes blood from the curved kukri knife in his right hand. The casual motion makes his leather trench coat fall open.

You behold a universe of knives, strapped to the lining of his coat and holsters of a tactical vest. Hunting knives, curved knives, dagger knives, chopping knives, serrated knives…you even think you see an obsidian dagger, its hilt wrapped in strips of hide.

Every single one of his knives has a hilt with brass knuckle loops. This, you realize, is a man who never has to choose between shanking someone or punching them.

Stan turns her head one-hundred-eighty degrees and spots the Mummy-Man. You hear her jaundiced teeth grind together in fury.

The Mummy-Man with the knives draws closer. Stan sticks her remaining hand into her coat pocket, fumbles for a it, she finally pulls out a big fat silver dollar, polished till it’s shiny.

What’s she doing with that, you wonder? Nobody uses currency in Cryptatown because of the Bale Crows—

—oh. Oh dear.

Jellyfish Stan rolls to her feet, silver coin in hand. She extends her middle finger, showing it to you, then the Mummy man.

“Eff y’all,” she tells you, and flips the coin high into the air.

Shrieks and squawks erupt from the surrounding rooftops. A storm of oily-black wings takes to the sky, blotting out the gray clouds and hazy sun.

Your heart skips a beat. You feel that unique strain of tingling fear that comes from knowing you’re about to be pecked to shreds.

A black silhouette dives down from the swarm overhead, homing in on the tumbling silver dollar like a heat-seeking missile. “Shiny!” the Bale Crow shrieks, his fancy top hat flopping back and forth on his head. He snatches the coin from the air with his talons and spreads his ink-dark wings.

“Shiny!” the Bale Crows shriek from above. “Shiny, shiny, shiny...!”

Run!” you shout at the Mummy-Man, stumbling toward him, “Don’t let them see your shiny stuff!”

The Bale Crows descend. Your world becomes a vortex of flapping wings and piercing beaks seeking out your shiny eyeballs.

You’re in no position or condition to fight. Thankfully, your enchanted sword’s eager to do the job for you. It tears free from you bruised fingers and dances through the air, slicing wings and pricking Crow breasts.

You sway and stumble through the cloud of murders of Crows, holding your arms over your head like a punch-drunk boxer. Your sword follows you, leaving trails of orange-blue flame with every twirl and aerial maneuver.

Time and again, your lucky shirt save your life, manipulating chance to bend threats out of your way. Grasping talons slide off your clothes, failing to acquire a grip. Feather and beaks get tangled up with each other instead of peeling ribbons off your skin.

How utterly pathetic, Diesel: without your precious magic, you’d already be plucked to pieces like a carrion corpse, stripped of flesh and glimmering valuables for the Bale Crows to display in their nests.

Your flesh is fragile; your melee skills non-existent!

Unlike the bandaged figure you stagger toward.

A dozen Bale Crows swoop around the Mummy-Man, clawing with their talons, snapping their onyx beaks, the eyes beneath their brass-lined monocles promising murder.

The Mummy-man flicks his kukri through the air. A dozen Bale Crows drop from the skies, dead or shrieking as their innards become...external.

More Bale Crows descend from above. The Mummy-Man ducks, rolls and somehow slips out of his swanky leather coat on the way up. He grabs the collar and twirls his coat over his head like a matador, tangling Bale Crows in its leather folds.

He draws a new knife from his vest and presses the stud on its hilt. You hear the hiss of compressed air and see the knife’s straight blade shoot from the hilt, spitting three Bale Crows in quick succession.

But that’s not all. As the Mummy-man attacks and defends with both his hands, you see his feet stamp down on the necks of screaming, wounded Bale Crows, crushing them with a single blow.

He’s killing with all four limbs at the same time, you realize. That should be impossible. No—based on your knowledge of basic neurology, that is impossible!

As the Mummy-Man drops his coat and reveals his vest full of stabbing implements, the Bale Crows lose interest in you and swarm toward the largest source of shiny things.

That’s good news for you in the short term. Still, once the Bale Crows kill your savior and grab all his “shinies,” you’ll probably be the carnivorous crow-beast equivalent of take-out.

And no one treats Dieselnoi Worawoot like takeout, you tell yourself.

“Yo!” you shout. “Mummy-man! Catch!”

You gesture with your fingers. Your antique jian loops through the air and swarms toward the cloud of Bale Crows, trailing a comet tail of flame. The sword vanishes into the swarming crow-beasts like a pebble in the ocean.

You hold your breath.

The air explodes. Charred top hats and feathers with meat-bits fly everywhere. As the Bale Crows scatter in dismay, you see the Mummy-Man spin in a circle, tracing burning rings in the air with your enchanted sword.

“Yes!” You pump your fist into the air.

Gray, ropy intestines wrap around your raised arm and yank you off your feet. You hit the cobblestone road hard, air rushing from your lungs. Acid seeps from the intestines, chewing at your wrist like a scalding flame

You try to scream. But without air in your lungs, you can only croak.

The intestines constrict and drag you across the street, away from the crows, the Mummy-Man…away from anyone who could save you, really.

“I’m getting really tired of this, Dieselnoi,” you hear Stan groan.

You look up. Jellyfish Stan’s definitely seen better days. Her severed arm stump is bleeding, and her remaining hand has been stripped to the bone by Bale Crow beaks. Her ragged coat is more rags than coat at this point, and some kind of green fluid leaks from the tear in her punctured eye.

More intestine strands slither from the rip in her stomach, wrapping around your ankles, pulling you toward her.

You wheeze, cough, and draw fresh air into your lungs. “This… really isn’t your day,” you tell Stan, wriggling like a fly trapped in a spider web.

Stan’s brow wrinkles. “No, it’s not,” she says with a sigh, “but I might as well end it on a high note.”

You scramble around with your free hand, looking for something—anything!— you can enchant.

You claw in vain at the bricks and find nothing: no weapon, no tool that can change your fate. Even your lucky shirt can’t save you from a situation that has no hope!

So then, Diesel: It seems that you only hope is to call on my power. Come now. No need to be coy…

You hear something whistle through the air. You see a silver wrench fly through the air and embed itself in Jellyfish Stan’s shoulder.

“Ow!” Stan says.

You hear a gunshot. You see a hole appear in Stan’s skull, a watery, acrid smelling sludge leaking out of her skull where her brain should be.

“OW!” Stan wails.

The intestines around your arm and legs loosen. You yank yourself free and crane your head backwards.

You spot Fausta Orobas and C, leaning out the window of your apartment, stretching alarmingly far over the ledge to keep your ‘zone of peace’ magic from affecting them. C waves cheerfully down at you, a three-loop handled wrench dangling from their fingers.

God bless masked anarchist mimes.

You get to your feet. Strange, you think. Despite the acid burns and head trauma, I feel kind of all right…no. Wait. There it is.

As the endorphins and adrenaline subside, an agony pulses in both your head and in your many scrapes, making your eyes water and your vision blur.

“Ugh—”

You stumble and fall forward. The Mummy-Man grips your shoulders and pulls you upright, holding you up until you find your feet again. Then he walks past you, his tattered leather trench coat draped across his shoulders.

Stan backs up against a tree, huddled up like a wounded wolf at bay. As the Mummy-Man approaches, she hisses and lashes out with the prehensile intestines pouring from her belly.

The Mummy-Man dodges, draws, and slices. Stan screams as stomach acid spills from her ruptured guts. The Mummy-Man steps into killing range. Stan’s scream chokes off to a whimper as she spots the trench knife he holds just above her heart.

“Give me a reason,” he rasps, jaw clenching beneath his web of facial bandages. “Tell me why you should continue living.”

Stan’s mouth works silently. Her pearl eyes constrict to pinpricks of light. “I—”

The Mummy-Man drives his trench knife through Jellyfish Stan’s heart, nailing her to the old oak tree. “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he says, letting go of his knife and stepping back.

Blood trickles from the corner of Stan’s mouth. She looks past the Mummy-Man towards you, her feverish eyes swollen with fury and terror.

Her unlife is in your hands, you realize. A few words of advice from your lips, and the Mummy-Man could end her forever using the weaknesses of her vampire strain.

Powdered glass. Prickly plants. Burning her alive with flame.

It would be just like old times…

“Nice technique,” you say loudly to the Mummy-Man. “I’ve never seen someone slay a vampire so quickly.”

C’mon, you think to yourself. Take the hint, Stan. For once in your unlife, think with your head, not your guts…

You see Jellyfish Stan’s eyes widen.

“Urp,” she croaks. “Grak.”

She slumps in place, head dangling at a far-too crooked angle, tongue lolling from her lips.

“Hmmph,” the Mummy-Man says, turning his back on Stan and walking towards you.

You relax: looks like the Mummy-Man isn’t all that familiar with Penanggalan Vampires.

“So,” you say. “You really saved my bacon back there. I’m grateful, believe you me…”

The Mummy-Man holds up your antique jian. Sparks flicker around the bronze blade’s edge as he adjusts his grip on the ornate metal handle.

“This is a useful weapon.” His gold-brown eyes bore into yours. “I want to buy it. What’s it worth?”

“Um,” you say. “It’s…not for sale?”

“I’ll pay one and a half million dollars for this sword,” the Mummy-Man says casually.

“Shhh!” you hiss, raising a finger to your lips. “Do you want the Bale Crows to come back?” You gesture toward the crow corpses and black feathers littering the streets. “They murder anyone who flaunts money in public!”

The Mummy-Man raises his eyebrow. “I would have transferred it to your account wirelessly,” he points out.

You sigh in relief. “That’s fair,” you say, “but I’m still not selling that sword.” You hold out your hand. “I’d like it back, please.”

The Mummy-Man stares at you. You wait for him to say something. He just keeps staring. Just when you’ve convinced yourself he’s going to ram your own blade through your gut, he flips the sword around and hands it to you hilt first.

“Thank you,” you say, stripping the spells from your sword and sliding it back into the sheath slung over your shoulders.

You wait for your bandaged rescuer to respond in some polite way: “It was nothing.” “I was just doing my job.” “I couldn’t have done it without your sword.”

The Mummy-Man just keeps staring at you, eyes glancing back and forth between your face and the injuries you’ve recently suffered.

You tug the brim of your porkpie hat down and take a deep breath. With a sigh, you exhale, and then inhale again. In and out, in and out, until your head is clear and your pain fades to a manageable ache.

“So,” you say. “Who are you?”

“My true name is classified,” the Mummy-Man tells you. “My code name is Mandrake.” He falls silent for a dramatic moment. “Mandrake Kayne.”

“Mandrake...Kayne?” you repeat, blinking.

“Mandrake Cay-un,” Kayne repeats, enunciating the syllables in his last name. His voice takes on a dramatic tone. “They also call me the Beast Breaker.”

A snort escapes your lips.

“Is something funny?” Kayne snarls, a bit of energy entering his voice.

“No!” you lie, covering your mouth.

“Mmmh,” Kayne says, growl half-muffled by the bandages around his lips.

You know you shouldn’t laugh; you really shouldn’t.

But still...the bandages. The knives. The huge slice of cowhide he calls a trench coat. Did this guy just watch a marathon of Blade, Matrix, and Batman movies? Does he play Reaper in Overwatch?

Are you really one to talk about crimes of fashion, Diesel? I’ve snooped through your foolish human memories: I know all about your phase

#

Dieselnoi Augustus Worawoot,” your father said with weary patience. “Take that ridiculous thing off this instant!”

Your teenage heart broke at the sight of your old man’s disgust and disappointment. Like most teenagers, you decided to respond with scorn and contempt.

“It’s not ridiculous!” You shouted, hating the way your words squeaked as they leave your mouth. “The leather and metal helps against beast-claws!”

“Oh?” Your father said, raising an eyebrow. “The store you got it from, did they say their clothes were beast-claw proof?”

“Uh…” you said.

“And these spikes,” he went on to say, reaching out and grasping your jacket’s lapel. “Are they supposed to be prickly? Are you supposed to kill monsters with your shoulders?”

“That’s not…” you said.

“They’re too shiny!” Dad said with a huff, letting go of your brand new jacket. “Monsters will see them glittering a mile off. It’s no good!”

You clenched your teeth and felt your blood boil.

“Okay,” you said, turning your back on your Dad. “Fine, then. Fine.” You pulled off your jacket and ripped your arms free from the sleeves with violent motions. “That’s fine.”

Your Dad started to look concerned: “Dieselnoi…”

“I get it,” you muttered. “I really do. Everything single choice I make is bad and wrong and is going to get everyone killed and I…!”

You kicked the lid off a nearby dumpster and shoved your brand new jacket between the black trash bags with all the savage energy of the world’s worst proctologist. “…I Just Want to Get Something Right For Once!”

You wheezed for breath. Your dad held his hands up to his mouth.

“Oh,” you say as the red faded from your vision. “Oh shit,” you moaned, digging through the trash. “That was new–!”

“Diesel,” your Dad said softly.

You froze: Dad never called you by that name. Not unless…

You turned back and saw your Dad smiling.

“Is that how you really feel?” He asked. “That you are screwing up all the time?”

“Well…” you said.

Dad rested a hand on your shoulder again: without the jacket, you could feel the strong, iron-hard grip of his wrinkled, tattooed hands.

“I won’t lie to you, Diesel,” he said. “You are a screw-up.”

“…huh?” You said

“When I was your age, I didn’t screw up half as often as you,” your Dad said, sagely nodding. “You’ve got a gift, Diesel, for coming up with the worst possible ideas.”

You feel your heart crack in two. “Oh,” you said softly. “Well, that’s good to know…”

“Yes!” Your dad said brightly. “It is good, these mistakes you make!”

“…this isn’t one of those Zen riddles, is it?” You asked your dad. “Because I get enough white guys trying to quote those things to me at parties…”

“God, no,” Dad said, looking queasy. “All I’m saying is that mistakes are how we learn. How we grow!” He chuckled. “I see you make mistakes all the time, Diesel, because you’re always trying new things to see how they work! And I admire that!”

You blinked several times, trying to banish the sudden feeling of warmth from your eyes. “C’mon, Dad,” you said, trying to look properly embarrassed. “I don’t need you to lay it on so thick.”

“It’s good you’re making these mistakes while you’re still young,” Dad told you, leaning forward to peer into the open trashcan. “If I ever sound harsh, it’s not because I’m angry, but because I want you to learn as much as you can from the things you try.”

He drove his arm into the layers of trash bags and fished out the spiked leather jacket.

“You don’t have to–!” You blurted out.

Dad shook out the leather jacket, flicked a brown piece of lettuce off the lapel, and then slipped it on. “What do you think?” He asked you, spreading his arms. “Cool?”

You gaped for a moment…

…then gave him a thumbs-up. “Cool.” You told him.

“You’re already a good Exorcist, Dieselnoi,” Dad told you. “And I’ll keep scolding, pestering and coaching you until you’re a great Exorcist.” His gentle smile turned feral as he drew his Daab sword from his belt and held it aloft. “Ong Phra, Paet-thit. Yot Mongkut,” he whispered, running his finger along the flat of his blade, stirring up the enchanted ink fused within the blade. “Ready for the Laai Phii, boy?” He asked.

“Yeah,” you said with a grin, drawing your own ink-fused Machete. “Let’s kick some hungry ghosts right in the butt!”

#

“…so what brings you to this lovely slice of a paradise, Kayne?” you ask, lowering your hand from your mouth.

“Who’s asking?” Kayne replies.

You touch a finger to the brim of your hat. “Dieselnoi Worawoot, at your service,” you say, introducing yourself with a short bow. “Coder, Magician and provisional Private Eye—”

“Do you live in this enclave of abominations?” Kayne bluntly asks.

“…uh,” you say after a moment. “Yes.”

Kayne sniffs at the air like a bloodhound. “You’re human,” he tells you, as if you didn’t already know that. His eyes harden: “Are you one of their thralls?”

“I’m someone who knows this neighborhood,” you reply with a huff, resting a hand on the hilt of your sword. “I might even be able to help you out, if you need it.”

Kayne stares at you silently. At first you think he didn’t hear you. Then you worry there’s something on your face. Finally, you realize he’s just thinking…

Kayne reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slender wallet.

“Wait,“ you say, voice edged with panic. “Keep waving that cash around, and the crows might come back–”

Kayne slips a folded photograph from his wallet and unfolds it. “Have you seen this child around?” He asks you.

You look at the picture.

It’s a picture of Fausta, the little girl hiding out in your upstairs flat right now.

Next Chapter: Episode Eight: Silent Slaughter (Revised)