Chapter One: Enyalios
As the blanket of clouds shrouded the night sky of New York, only the silver full moon shined through as the 1969 Mustang drove along the empty road. The vehicle was red with a black stripe running down the middle, tinted glass, and black leather seats. Behind the crimson chariot was a black van with a red stripe going across its side. It parked in the alleyway across from the brownstone the Red Horse’s driver parked at. From the vehicle exited a tall man with a muscular frame, olive skin, reddish brown eyes, and black hair. His strong face bore a thick, kempt, square goatee and a nose sharp as a spearhead. He wore a dark gray double-breasted suit over a red shirt, a black tie, a black snakeskin belt with a silver buckle that depicted a trio wolf heads, matching trousers, and a pair black crocodile leather boots. A duo of silver Colt Peacemakers were at his sides; one’s grip had a Native American riding a horse with a tomahawk in his hand carved into it, the other with a Japanese samurai riding an armored steed with a katana-wielding arm raised in the air.
He presented himself as a stern man with a hard face, like he had just fought in the front lines of a brutal war. The man walked up to the front door, knocking it slowly five times – each bang sounding like a gunshot – and quickly replacing his grim face with a smile.
“Hello?” Answered a young man wearing baggy shorts and a white shirt twice his size. He smelled of marijuana. “W-wait, are you here for the… t-the–”
“Yes. Yes I am.” Answered the suited man, knowing that this would turn into an entire conversation that would waste his time.
“Well come right in, buddy! Y-you got the money right?”
“Of course.”
“Good. The man’s upstairs.” The younger man walked back to his table to continue polluting his body. There were armed men in leather all around the rooms and stairs, most of which focused on a locked door.
“You here for the relic?” Asked a bald man erroneously wearing sunglasses indoors. “Also, you can’t keep your guns on you while you’re in there. Leave them on that table right there, please.” The suited man complied, resting the pair on the table next to a lamp and a bottle of water.
“Yes, I have the money out in my car, once I see the shit I’ll have my men bring it up here.”
“I don’t think that’s possible, man. You see–”
“Grayson! Let my client in, unless you still got that petty dick in your mouth!” Commanded a young voice with a stereotypical “gangster’s” accent, as the suited man had heard the younger people call it.
“Right away, sir.” The bald guard gave an annoyed glare at the suited man before closing the door behind him. The source of the voice was a Caucasian blonde man with a slight stubble who wore a suit in poor condition for the occasion.
“Martin Bell!” The young man tried to rest his arm on Martin’s shoulder as he took him to the seat.
“Spider.” Martin gave Spider a firm handshake instead, bewildering the seller. “Hey, I’ve heard that y’all got an ancient Greek relic up in here.”
“You heard right my friend! But before we get to that, let’s go over the price one more time.” The pair sat down at the table, where Jack Daniel’s was already poured in glasses, both on the rocks. “So, you understand that I want nine-hundred K for this bitch right here, because this is in fine ass condition. And you have the money?”
“Out in my car, just as agreed upon.” Martin gave a smile as he pointed out the window at the Mustang.
“Damn, you never said you had a car like that. Could’ve just gave me that girl and we would’ve been good.”
“Nah, I got a lot of memories with it. It was made for me by my brother when he was old enough to be capable of building shit like that.” Martin noticed a cross hanging on Spider’s wall. “You know, I grew up close with my mama. Told me to believe.”
“Oh, I didn’t take you for a religious type. Assumed you were an atheist like me.” Martin was disgusted but hid it with a slight smile as he furthered the conversation.
“That’s presumptuous. I ain’t Christian, if you wanted to know that.”
“Jewish?” Spider asked
“No, not Jewish.
“Wait, are you on that Islamic shit, man?” Spider laughed as he poured himself another glass.
“No… my mother always said, ‘you are what you believe’. That gave me a sense of higher power. Told the other folk to pray hard, all would be well.”
“Well, what do you believe in? What are you?” Martin gave a blank stare.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But let’s leave it at that.”
“Sure. Religion’s always kind of bored me out anyways… except for the Greek Gods. How Zeus was a thug and banged every hoe he saw, how his wife turned ‘em all into animals, and how Medusa was created when Poseidon raped her.”
“Who’s you’re favorite god?” Martin smiled, awaiting Spider’s answer as he pondered which god to pick.
“It would probably be… Apollo. He’s a thug, like Zeus. I think my favorite story about him is when he threw that apple at someone and started the Trojan War.”
“Jesus fuck, you’re dumb…” Martin muttered under his breath.
“Yo, the fuck you just say to me!?” Spider stood angry as the guards loaded their pistols and shotguns.
“Look, you know what? Let’s just shake on the thing, man.” the boss looked at the hand with disgust but shook it anyways. “You have a nice life, Spider. This has been a good night. I think I’m ready to buy the shit.”
“Really?” Spider stood, awaiting the nine-hundred thousand dollars.
“Yeah, why not?” Martin raised his wrist to his face. “On the roof.”
“What?” A bullet went straight into Spider’s head from the window, dropping him to the floor instantly and splattering blood and gore on his nearest guard. Before they could raise their weapons, bullets flew through the air, killing them all instantly. Martin sat calm in his chair, taking his first drink of the whiskey, appreciating the fine taste of the liquor. Martin stood, popped his knuckles, and held out his hand. He was gripping the silver revolver, aiming at a guard just now entering the room right between his eyes. The body fell with a hard thud. Next to die were the brownstone’s lights, leaving the building in complete darkness aside from the moonlight.
“They were annoying.” Said Martin, biting his cheeks in shame due to him talking in the way Spider did. He never really liked modern culture. “Epsilon, Omicron, Zeta, Rho, take the door.” Immediately after Martin gave the command, a loud bang came from downstairs followed by something heavy falling on the floor. The entirety of the ground floor was filled with smoke after Martin’s men threw smoke grenades into the room. They each wore dark grey helmets and body-armor, their goggles glowing with four red eyes that stared into their fearful targets. The men and women entering the door were armed with AR-15s, HK416s, and P320 M17 pistols, all modified with lasers, flashlights, and silencers, all given to them by Martin’s superior.
The smoke went off, and Martin heard the many quiet gunshots and thuds of fallen bodies. “Omicron! A rifle, please?” Out from the smoke came a black rifle – an M27 outfitted with a foregrip and silencer. Martin didn’t really need the others, but it was good to be faster and more efficient. He saw the smoke reach the upstairs, and felt the anger of the targets, which was mostly shrouded by confusion more than anything else. Through the smoke came red lines of light that stopped short when a person moved in front of them, at which point they would be immediately shot and killed. Three bodies fell to the ground as their blood stained the walls in front of Martin, who jumped down the railing and landed on a guard, breaking his neck before executing the two in front of him.
“Blake!? Gerald!?” Called out the man who greeted Martin at the door in the kitchen. Two of Martin’s men – Rho and Zeta – crouched at the island where he was panicking. Rho, a rather thin man who made it up by being tall, signaled Zeta to fire when he finished counting off his gloved fingers. At three, two bullets pierced through the man’s ears, spraying gore over the floor.
Martin walked through the building, searching for any survivors, but he then heard something fall in the closet. He called over Epsilon – a man armed with just two pistols. “Contact in the closet.” Martin mouthed. He held up his thumb, index finger, and middle finger, and counted down. Epsilon shot the handle of the door immediately swung it open, only to be shot pointblank in the chest by a shotgun shell, falling hard to the ground. All the other men and women unleashed hell upon the closet. Martin pulled over Epsilons helmet, revealing a red-haired man with green eyes and freckles across his cheeks and nose, and checked his pulse. “He’s alive, but unconscious. And angry as hell…” He said. Martin took the flashlight from Epsilons utility belt and shined the light in the now bloody closet. The suited man picked up the shotgun – a Remington model 1100, but too light to be full. “That stupid son of a bitch didn’t have any shells left in here.” Martin looked to his right and saw that the box had exploded.
Once the smoke cleared, the second in command, Alpha, shot all the men in the head. Every death had to be confirmed and accounted for. “There are twenty dead, sir. Eta and Iota are already pouring aluminum powder.”
“Good. Go back to the van and request clean-up. We leave in five minutes.”
“Sir, yes sir.” Alpha ran off to give the order to the other nine soldiers as Martin went to the wooden box that was on the table. It was locked, so the Stormer of Cities shot it open and inside was a war-torn iron sword with a tattered hilt that was so old that you could barely see that it was red. The only ornament on the weapon was a guard showing a golden wolf head biting into the dark gray blade and an eagle below it spreading its wings. Alright, come on. Please be it. Martin pricked his finger on the point of the blade. Sadly, there was no burning sensation, no horrific hallucinations, only the sting of pierced skin and the warm wetness of blood. Martin broke the iron blade with his knee, proving its fraudulence.
Damnit! Yelled Martin in his head. Where the hell could it be? He heard footsteps. Too quiet to be a survivor, too fast to be any of his other soldiers. Theta. She ran into the room and stood in attendance to her superior. “Sir – wait… it was another fake, sir?”
“Yes, Cindy. It was another fake. This was a waste of our time; they were too stereotypical for anyone, really.” Martin threw the blade to the other side of the room. “What do you have to report, Theta?”
“We finished pouring out the aluminum powder, sir.”
“I don’t see any in here, soldier.”
“Sir, we figured there was a lot of flammable shit already in here to begin with, sir.”
“Fair enough. Go to the van with the others. You’re relived for the night.”
“Sir, thank you, sir.” Theta walked off, avoiding stepping on the flammable powder. Once she was gone, Martin stood up, took a final swig of whiskey, and poured it out over the entire room. He took the water bottle off the small table where Grayson stood, walked out the front door, and poured it on the aluminum powder. The powder sparked violently, lighting the brownstone completely on fire in minutes. Martin entered his mustang and drove up to Manhattan as he tried to call his superior. He never answered.
Yggdrasil. It was the World Tree of the Norse world that branched out into nine realms: Midgard, land of the worshipping mortals, Svartalfheim, home of the blacksmithing dwarves, Alfheim, home of the benevolent light elves and the malicious dark elves, Helheim, realm of the dead who lived in eternal night, Niflheim, realm of ice and snow, Muspelheim, land of fire and volcanoes, Jötunheim, home of the awesome giants, Vanaheim, home of the rustic Vanir tribe of gods, and Asgard, realm of the great warmongering Aesir. However, like how the largest forests grow again after devasting fires, Yggdrasil was rebranded.
The tree still existed, but it now shared its name with the hotel chain that established itself in the great cities of the world and catered to the richer men in this new age, but it also served men and women who were higher than mere mortals.
It was already a cloudy morning by the time Martin reached his destination – about ten o’clock – Jötunheim Hotel, a concrete gray fifty-four story tower that had a duo of statues of giant men holding an eternal stony gaze. The hotel’s logo was set up in gray neon on the top left face of the tower; it was of three triangles – each of varying widths and heights – behind a right hand in a circle. Martin parked on the curb of a bistro across from the tower and walked through the bulletproof glass doors to the ornate lobby of Jötunheim. The lobby was a circular chamber with the ceiling and walls depicting endless gray mountains cutting through thick clouds and shrouded in a surreal golden sky. The glossy marble floors were filled with bustling people in suits and dresses glued to their phones as they walked sporadically checking in and out of the hotel. Sad, Martin thought, it’s a shame that these people work their whole lives only for monetary things so they can live mediocre lives. He saw a younger man on the phone, with who Martin could only assume was his superior, talking about how he was late for a meeting in Detroit with an Indian client and that if he wasn’t present by half past five his employment would be terminated. Martin snickered. They need better gods.
Martin walked up to the front desk – a large marble circle occupied by young women that surrounded a large statue of Atlas, the Titan of Endurance, holding the world on his back – and spoke to the older man in the circle who had the highest counter. He wore a black vest over a white shirt and was bald on the top of his head. He looked at Martin with dulling green eyes and smiled. “Good Morning, Mister Bell, are you looking to check out of your room or are you staying another night?”
“Where is he, Vili?” Martin asked angrily, but quiet enough so the women wouldn’t notice him and call security.
“May you narrow it down, Mister Bell? He is a very broad word.”
“You know who I mean…” He slowed his words to enunciate, to which Vili just stood there with his hands folded in front of his waist looking down on Martin, never ceasing his wide smile. “Where is the manager of this establishment?”
“Downstairs with his guest in the lounge, sir.” Martin walked off, dusting off his shoulders. “Have a good day, Mister Bell.” Vili called out, but only to have Martin punch a hole in the stone wall. He walked to through the hallways, taking a left past the restrooms and walking through the fire escape, which lead to a set of dim stairs only lit by electric torches. The narrow hallways down there were comprised of wooden floors and cobblestone walls decorated with paintings of mountain ranges.
The maze of halls led Martin to a steel door guarded by six heavily armed men. Most of these halls were filled with weapons and guards, much like the other eight towers in the world. “Name and number, please.” Requested the guard nearest to the padlock.
“You know who I am, Barry.” Martin replied dryly. Barry gave a blank look in response. Martin sighed and scratched his nose. “Martin Bell, three-zero-seven-three-zero-seven.” The guards immediately patted Martin down, one of them taking the silver revolver from his waist. “Fair enough.” Two guards put keycards into their slots, another performed a retina scan, the next man put his hand on the door, and the final guard typed in a keycode. The door roared open and the guards stood aside to resume their vigil as Martin walked through to the lounge.
The room was full of suited guards wielding rifles and pistols protecting two men playing chess. The man playing the black side of the board was tall with broad shoulders and skin of red sand. His eyes were black as eclipsed suns, tattoos of what could only be described of pure chaos were dull on his neck, and his black hair extended down to turn into a thick goatee. He wore a black suit with a vivid red shirt, four rings on his right hand and three on his left, a striped tie, and black oxfords. “So, I take it that you wish me to join you at the Temple along with the rest of our brothers and sisters? Am I correct in my assumptions, old man?”
“Yes, o great Lord of the Red Land, you would be a perfect member of my family. Mark my words desert god, if I am wrong about my reasons and my assembly is revealed to be nothing but a falsification thought up only to waste your precious time, you may cut off my head with my own blade.” Cheered an old man with a high English accent. His build was short and husky, his eyes a blunt gray that seemed to have a golden hue, and his hair a graying black. His clothes contrasted the red man; he wore a beige trench coat over a dull yellow vest, a white shirt, matching trousers, and brown loafers.
“Yes, I heard about your upcoming assembly.” The God of the Desert took the elder’s knight with his bishop, to which the old character fell the piece with one of his pawns. “How many gods have you invited to this gathering? There is talk among Silla that you managed to recruit some of the other managers – namely Kongfrey, Horne, and the Feathered Serpent.”
“Your sources are accurate, my comrade. However, I would prefer younger gods like our good friend Kongfrey – Dante Calavera is the epiphany of that point.” The yellow man moved a pawn, red drew back a rook, yellow threw in an onslaught of pawns, red unleashed his king upon the battlefield. Pieces fell every turn. “I will not have any more of my brothers and sisters and sons and daughters die like flies in a hospital. I am only trying to protect us, Set.”
“No, you want to know what I think?” Set’s king fell to the old man’s queen, leaving him with only a rook, a knight, and his black queen.
“What’s that brother?” The elder only lost seven of his pawns in this great game of theirs.
“You’re doing this for your wife that died in Massachusetts because the local mortals found out about Hekate and your babe took the fall for her. She said you were there when it happened. She saw you stare blankly at the roasting flesh as the village cheered on, cursing out your wife because that fucking Witch took in a small orphan boy and made him a soup with some flowers that made the batch purple. Ain’t that the reason, Horatio? Make up for her death? You want to gather all of us up just to listen to your eulogy for her.” The God of Chaos sat back, seeing how Horatio eliminated his pawns and checkmated his queen.
“I’m not doing this out of grief, you crocodile-toothed giraffe – I’m doing this in her memory so that no more gods die. Look at Marduk or Nergal – those fuckers are so old and weak that they can die any day now – and then take another glance at the Huntress or the Soldier who are still remotely powerful – and do you know why they’re still powerful to some extent? Because they are still receiving worship! Albeit not directly, the hunters who consume the flesh of big game and the soldiers who are shipped off to the Middle East in the name of God and country all pray to them with every arrow released and every bullet fired.”
“The Huntress is dead, Horatio.” The Egyptian stood, wiping off dust from his jacket.
“They never found her body, Set, that tells a lot.” Horatio rose – he was a foot and a half shorter than Set – and shook the murder’s hand.
“Central Park sure has a different story.” He too stood up.
“Will I meet you at the Temple?” Horatio paused before asking.
“I await to see what you have to say. Enjoy your day, Tick Tock Man.” Set walked off and noticed Martin in the room. His teeth shifted into sharp, white fangs that smiled in the Gunman’s direction. The Wily One turned to see the Soldier, smiling and spinning before shaking Martin’s hand.
“Martin! Boy is it great to see you-”
“Why the fuck would Spider of all people have my sword!?” Horatio was caught off guard.
“What do you want me to say? He had a sword that looked like yours so I let you off your leash to take it, how was I supposed to know it was fake?”
“Because the entire operation was confusing. Spider was a drug dealer hidden inside a brownstone protected by suited men and was in possession of a sword that looked exactly like mine. What the fuck was that?”
“The world can be very confusing, Martin. I heard Epsilon was shot square in his tit with a shotgun. Don’t worry, he’ll be back up in the next two weeks.”
“That’s not an answer, Horatio.” Hot rage filled Martin while Horatio looked on calmly.
“Walk with me, Soldier.” Horatio pulled a gleaming blade from his trench coat and spun it around his hand. It was a sickle made of sparkling diamond decorated with crystalline serpents and vines. The Tick Tock Man sliced the air, the wound marked by triangular crystal. “Madam Life’s a piece in bloom, Death’s going dogging everywhere. She’s the tenant in the room, he’s the ruffian on the stair.”
“I don’t have time for your amusements, old man.” Martin pulled his revolver from his back pocket and twirled it around his finger before holstering it. “Barry keeps taking my gun; he knows full well that I can just pull it from the air.”
“Well how do you pull your gun from the air, hm?”
“I pull the gun from the air by pulling the gun from the air, that’s how I pull the gun from the air. Cut those balls off with that sickle.” Martin punched Barry in his crotch with all his might. “Fucking orangutan.”
“Ha! Under the sunset far into Vermont, the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, as it ran light, or had to bear a load. His sister stood beside them in her apron to tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw, as if to prove saws knew what supper meant, leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap – he must have given the hand. However it was, neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh, as he swung toward them holding up the hand half in appeal, but half as if to keep the life from spilling. Then the boy saw all – Since he was old enough to know, big boy doing a man’s work, though a child at heart – He saw all spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off – The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’ So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then – the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little – less – nothing – and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.”
“You’re point, Horatio, or were you just spouting out poetry again?” Martin asked as they walked through the frozen lobby. Vili glared at him before returning to his post.
“I have a great purpose for you, Martin. A great one indeed.” The Tick Tock Man laughed, putting his hand on a paused man. “I will allow you the rest of the day so that you may prepare yourself. You have your marker on you, no?” In response Martin reached into his suit jacket and produced an iron card that was half an inch thick. It was red with black vines, wolf heads, and an elaborate shield in front of a spear decorating it. “Good. You should take a visit to the Popina and the Haberdashery, grab anything and everything you may need.”
“What am I doing?”
“I’ll tell you right now, my dear boy, now be patient. You have all the time in the world right now.” Martin was beginning to get annoyed, or at least more than he already was. When he was young he would be vexed if the world was at peace even for a second before a conflict arose somewhere in his homeland.
“Exactly, so just make the shortcut and give me my new ‘great purpose’ so I can equip myself best before noon.”
“All in good time, Martin, mio Dio.” When they reached the elevator decorated with the mountainous wallpapers and labyrinthine swirls etched into the marble accents. Horatio swung his sickle, awakening the old elevator operator wearing a bellhop’s jacket and hat. He looked up, squinting his eyes.
“Time?” He asked, his voice reminiscent of a frog’s croak.
“Oxford, England.” The elevator operator cranked the lever, the baroque chamber rose, and Antonio Vivaldi’s autumn piece played the whole way. “Martin, my great Battle Insatiate, my Fidus Achates, you are my instrument, and starting today I shall exercise you.”
“What sonata will I take part in.” The elevator opened to a wooden room filled with flowers and trees and singing birds. They walked through the glass door shrouded in foliage to enter an expansive stone garden occupied by marble statues of roaring lions, charging elephants, large fire breathing dragons, and in the center of it all, a large copy of the Binding of Polyphemus blanketed in green vegetation. The two stopped at the very edge of the roof, overlooking the cold, bustling streets and towers of New York.
“Not a sonata my boy, it’s a goddamn orchestra.” Horatio laughed into the air so loud that Martin could no longer hear the cars honking all the stories below them.
“Performed by who?”
“By every god in every pantheon in every realm, my dear Gunman. Ao Guang! Ganesh! Chaac! Anguta! Tsukuyomi! Radegast! Wakan Tanka! Bondye! Lugh! Tyr! Every god we can find, Martin, demi or otherwise, we’ll recruit every single one of them, no doubt about that.”
“So that’s what I waited five minutes for you to say? You want me to go out into the world and try to recruit every god I can for… whatever you’re doing? Why can’t you go yourself?”
“Because I am not loved that much by the community.”
“I’m not loved by the community!”
“Exactly! That’s the beauty of it! It’ll be good for both of us. The younger and more powerful gods like yourself are most vital so try to pick up Kongfrey, Shane, and Daisy for me; they’re on the bench about this. As said before, I need you to go to the Popina or the Haberdashery, ideally both given that you’ve worn that suit for six decades now, and pick up anything you may or may not need – guns, knives, drugs, anything. I’ve prepared an Yggdrasil plane to take you to Oregon in twelve hours, you have till then to get ready. Also, you’ll find your car waiting for you at the airport when you arrive and it will be filled with all of the things you equipped yourself with, so heads up.”
“Why am I leaving on such short notice?” Martin fidgeted a bullet around his fingers, trying his best not to succumb to the cold of December. The rest of his body didn’t feel the cold, but his fingers were miraculously sensitive to it.
“Because it’s the first of December, you only have till Christmas to recruit.”
“And where am I to escort them, Horatio? You can’t fit entire pantheons into that bunker.”
“You shall escort them to the Temple. She’s already begun preparing a great party for the occasion – fresh fruits, a salad bar the size of an apartment, gallons upon gallons of hot soup, a room full of succulent meat, and a river’s worth of wine. It’s going to be a great evening, Martin.”
“I’ll hold you to it. Where in Oregon will I go?”
“Portland, sadly. The city’s outgrown the Eldest… you can barely see her place in between all those glass towers that the mortals work in. It’s a terrible thing, really. Like a Renaissance pope, I exalt you. You may go, Soldier.”
“I’ll see you at Christmas, then.” Martin shook the Tick Tock Man’s hand before he swung his sickle once more. Snow began to fall, not a speck of white landing on them as they parted.
“I do hope you’ll find your axe, Martin!” Horatio called out. Martin said nothing as he started back to the elevator and wiped off his revolver with his red handkerchief. He was going to complete the task given to him, but first he was going to sleep. He hadn’t in the past four days.
Martin began working for the Tick Tock Man after the events of Pearl Harbor, where the world thought him to be a sergeant major died when the planes dropped their bombs and fired walls of bullets at the naval vessels. The Soldier was then known by the name of Mark Spears, a man who was born in Frankfort, Kentucky and had no wife or children or even living parents. He was just there. Markus would have preferred to fight in the war alongside his men, pushing the front against the Japanese who attacked American vessels because they stopped supplying them with gasoline and the Germans who slaughtered millions of men, women, and children for the sole purpose of them being Jewish. But when the Tick Tock Man offered Markus back his sword, how could he say no? So he faked his death, changed his name, and worked as a bodyguard, assassin, or mercenary to whomever his employer pointed his finger at. However, he did allow him to fight in Vietnam, much to Martin’s delight. Nearly ninety years later, Martin only found fakes everywhere his looked. But he endured, reported back to Horatio, and kept searching for his blade, but no avail.
Martin walked into the rococo restaurant where he parked, which was named the Popina. Tables draped in white were occupied by men in suits, women in dresses, and at one booth, a baby wearing a tuxedo onesie and a yellow bib reading MY PARENTS FUCKED 9 MONTHS AGO AND ALL I GOT OUT OF IT WAS A PAIR OF STUBBY LEGS THAT I CAN’T EVEN USE that made Martin chuckle before he sat at the bar.
“Can I help you, sir?” Asked the young barmaid who seemed no older than twenty-two in Martin’s mind. He reached into his pocket to retrieve the iron marker and slid it across the table to her. He met her blonde eyes, and they distorted into bright green irises in black sclera with vertical slits for pupils. “Right this way, Signor Bell.” She lifted the wooden board to her side and beckoned Martin into the kitchen. They walked through the room where the chefs prepared their expensive meals that were too disproportional to cost three times what they were worth until the two reached a wooden door with a large tree carved into it, each of its nine branches painted a different color; red Muspelheim, blue Niflheim, silver Jötunheim, gold Asgard, green Vanaheim, white Alfheim, black Svartalfheim, purple Helheim, orange Midgard. She opened the door and let Martin divulge into the ostentatious room filled with wine bars, animal furs, and GS-777 rocket launchers in glass boxes.
Firearms and blades and mannequins wearing different variations of body armor were strewn about the chamber. Martin walked down the cherrywood stairs observing Austrian pistols and Italian rifles that were kept displayed in the wall’s indents. The Soldier saw taxidermy bears and stuffed eagles, modified M21s and tactical SPAS-12s, and in the back of the room between two world war era tanks was a man dressed in a sleek black suit giving a short woman a Glock 19. Then he noticed Martin in the room and smiled, his hand reaching for a long wooden box behind him. “Good evening, Signor Bell. Horatio told me to prepare for your arrival.” Said Johnny Midnight, whose actual name was Johnmichael Mezzanotte but accepted the alias anyways as people wouldn’t heel to call him Signor Mezzanotte. “What should it be? An M134? A Japanese kunai? Or maybe one of our latest ballistic knives?”
“No, bring me my M4A1, please. SOPMOD kit, too.” Midnight opened the box on the table and pulled out the black rifle currently outfitted with a laser, a bipod, and an ACOG scope. “Add a textured foregrip and a flashlight because lord knows I’m going to have to visit the Shadow King.” Midnight immediately fit the accessories onto the rifle and folded his hands on the glass once he was finished.
“Scope?”
“ACOG, but keep the thermal in my pocket for the night.”
“Ammunition?”
“Two boxes. I don’t think I’ll have to fight one of them, but it’s good to be prepared.”
“Cutlery, sir?” Midnight produced a cloth occupied by many blades, many of which were made to be thrown but could’ve been used for universal purposes..
“Ka-bar, black, antler.” Midnight placed the antler-handled knife in the wooden box with the rifle, leaving a large blank square beside them.
“Shall we move onto garments?”
“Yes.” They walked over to a library of racks consisting of suits, jackets, and bulletproof tactical vests.
“Would you like to keep your current suit as it is? We just received a shipment of Vulcan’s new carbon fiber vests and jackets if you would like to trade them in.”
“Sounds smart. Shane is definitely going to try and shoot me after Shanghai. You’d think someone would be glad that their boss’s opponent was eliminated.”
“And for casual wear?”
“Box seven-forty-one.” Midnight walked off and produced a metal bucket.
“Will you need anything else?”
“No.”
“Very well. Addio, Signor Bell.” He held out his hand, and the Soldier gave him ten clear coins with a serpentine haired head one side and a bovine skull on the other. Midnight then inserted them into a machine that gave back tens of hundred-dollar bills. Martin took the bucket into the dressing room and replaced his gray suit with a black leather jacket, a red T-shirt, dark cargo pants, and a pair of black sunglasses while he retained the belt and crocodile boots. The Soldier walked back up out of the Haberdashery, through the kitchen, and sat at a table in the Popina.
“Buonasera, Signor Bell. Casa Vuoi?” Asked the waitress.
“The ribeye, please. Blue rare. Thank you.” While he waited he checked the news on his phone. Twenty-two-year-old woman attacked by bear in Central Park Zoo after she snuck into it with friend, sues for four-hundred thousand. Noah’s Ark found in Turkey, only big enough to hold a few animals. Kid murders brother for spending in-game currency in Fortnite. Martin skimmed past the articles, most of them telling the mistakes of today’s young idiots that think a mountain lion won’t attack you if you try to feed it pizza. I remember what the children of my did, he thought, they went out into the wilderness surrounding the village and walked around until they found a bear to run from, a wolf to fight, or a nice river to fish and swim in. Then when they were older, and discovered women, they would seek out a fine mate. Good times, good times. It was a good time to be young Martin. He remembered how he and his brothers would join in mortal affairs, or sometimes they would screw each other over. The Soldier remembered the time he and his oldest brother were in their garden and how Martin eventually replaced his brother’s penis with a bundle of tree bark. The poets never saw it, but it was something that would stick with them until they died.
Eventually, Martin reached the end of the results. It wasn’t really an end, just news from last week, but it wasn’t that much different from the animal attacks. But something caught his eye. It was a photo of a slim faced man with bone white hair and blue eyes. MAN COMMITS SUICIDE BY JUMPING FROM CHRYSLER BUILDING…
On the night of November 23rd, an unnamed man jumped from the Chrysler Building. Police say that they had no record of the victim and that there were no signs of substance in his system. The reason for this suicide is currently unknown…
Martin scrolled through the articles of that day and found that there were powerful winds that flipped over lightweight cars and snow storms with sporadic lightning that made it almost impossible for flights to take place. The temperature high that day was thirty-one degrees. The high of the twenty-fourth was six. Aquilo, you bastard, Martin lamented in his head as he threw his phone on the table. Why was I not invited to the funeral for the Northern Wind? Do they still think I’m a murderous hound? Did Boreas even have a funeral? We’re all dying. The Huntress, the Northern Wind – wait. Who else have I missed? Sobek? Njörd? Huitzilopochtli?
The Soldier rose just as the waitress returned with his steak. “Sir! Your meal is here!” Martin gave her a hundred-dollar bill and started for the door.
“Cook it more. Give it to the first homeless man you see.” Martin checked to see if his revolver was still in his jacket. It then began to pour rain. “Fuck!” The leather shroud had no hood. Thunder boomed as the Brazen-Armed slammed the door of his Mustang. Dark clouds enveloped the silver crescent moon, dogs barked at pigeons, crows cawed as they feasted on food dropped by the hundreds of thousands of passersby, and rats ran through the streets only to be squashed by the many taxis and sedans. The Soldier drove fast through the city – he ran four red lights already – after he checked the time and saw that he only had twelve minutes to reach the airport. He decided to take a smaller road seeing how traffic and weather would make him late. Martin ran over something small – probably a rat – and spilled a bottle of water all over the passenger’s seat.
“Goddamnit!” There was a bright flash emanating from the alleyway.
He hit something.
He hit something big. Too big to be a dog. Too big to be a large dog. Martin jumped out of the Mustang and saw that he hit a person. A woman. She was maybe six, six-two feet tall, had fair skin, long, shiny, black hair with a hint of dark brown, and a strong frame. She wore a black leather jacket – this one had a hood – over a white shirt, ripped jeans, and a pair of black leather combat boots. Martin now knew exactly who he hit, and everyone thought she was dead. “Kass?”
ns 15.158.61.11da2
