Story of vice[/size]
Deal got awry…
Shaktar Txoatl took a long drag from his Hadié cigarette. Some people liked to ask themselves if the Imperial invasion of Theohuanacu had brought any good. Many of these people vehemently denied any positive aspects to the conquest. Txoatl begged to differ. The Hadié cigarettes made the entire ordeal worth it. He smiled at the thought. Besides, the invasion was what allowed his new business to thrive. He was dressed in blue jeans, with his right leg propped up on the wall behind him, and his head leaning against the brick façade of the building. A white, sleeve-less shirt, tight on his muscular upper body, did a poor job in concealing the pistol tucked between his lower back and his belt. He was not a man one would stop at to ask for direction. His arms were completely covered with ink. All his tattoos looked gang affiliated, and a subtle scar ran down his left cheek. He was no soldier. He had never fought for a country, or for a general, political ideology. But, he was a warrior, no doubt. His battlefields were not in far sprung nation-states, but on the streets. His wars were not fought over large-scale natural resources, mercantilism or political feuds. His wars were fought over drugs, sex and rock and roll. But, it would be a mistake to consider Shaktar Txoatl a lowly gang member. Shaktar was much more than that, although it’s true that his identity remained elusive to all but his closest partners.
He was the “ring leader” of one of the neighborhood branches of the “Mara Mxtoal”. This was a very large gang that operated in the northern area of Theohuanacu, especially in North Point, and had spread to southern Theohuanacu after the invasion. There were even members who lived in Tarn, across the straits, and rumors suggested that it had begun to spread to other areas of the Empire, taking into advantage the freedom of movement. The Mxtoal survived off drugs, and the recent legalization of drugs had hurt their business pretty bad. They could not compete with bigger, more established corporations for the supply of good quality drugs. So, some of the branches had begun to operate as mercenaries, or hit-men, killing for money. Unfortunately, profit off extortion had also fallen, as the gangs became less powerful due to the presence of well-trained policemen and Imperial troops. Furthermore, a lot of former gang members were leaving, turning to less nefarious business plans. Many of these “traitors” were killed—once Mxtoal, always Mxtoal. But, resources for profit were becoming scarce for the gangs. Many believed that it no longer paid. Gangs were no longer necessary. With violence rates decreasing and economic wealth supposedly settling in, the gangs were obsolete. There was nobody that needed protection—not even the gang members themselves. And so, a final, violent upsurge was bound to unwind.
Gang wars were inevitable, as the die-hard gangsters fought for the last available resources, or desperately tried to revive their line of business. A lot of warriors were looking forward to it. It would be a return to their old ways. Besides, they all thought of themselves as invincible. But, what they didn’t know was that the forthcoming gang war was not just going to be between the old school armies. There were going to be some new players. New mafias that did not exist prior to the invasion. These mafias were encountering the same problem. With market liberalization came the dismantling of the black market, and that was bad for business. So the remnants of these criminal organizations would have to fight for the little that was left. Survival of the fittest.
He took another drag, as he contemplated his future. His eyes darted up from the ground. Another man, similar-looking, was approaching. This man too was armed well enough to put a Macabee special warfare operative to shame. Shaktar nodded and the two outstretched their arms, forming “devil’s horns” with their hands and meeting at each other’s wrists. “What’s up, dawg? What you doin’ in these parts of town?”
The second man smiled and responded, “You can say I’m just passing by.”
“I call bullshit,” retorted Shaktar. “I know you too well, brother. A guy like you in this barhiod, all alone, and passing by me no less. So tell me, before I get pissed off, what’s up?”
The other man fidgeted a bit. He looked to some distant corner in some other street, and then looked back into Shaktar’s eyes. “I heard some rumors.”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about? Are you trying to start shit, dawg. That ain’t gonna fly with me. You should know that, motherfucker. Get the fuck out of here. Man, trying to bring drama an’ shit.”
“Boss, I’m talking Knights.” The two went silent; Shaktar didn’t respond violently this time. And so, the second man continued with his discourse, “I’ve been running the streets over at Hargrove Heights and they knew my connections. They told me they wanted to set something up with you. They want to hit something big over here, I think. I mean, it’s the only option.” He paused, to let all that sink in, and then went on, “They offered a treasure chest, homie.”
Shaktar shook his head. This was trouble. The Knights were not a gang. They did not fight for street power and credit. They did not fight for territory. This was because they were not in need of any territory. Probably, a large portion of the land used by these city gangs to organize their meetings or to distribute terror to other gang members were owned by members of the Knights of Pir-Sar. That was not their prerogative. They did not terrorize just to fight an enemy gang. They terrorized to shift world events in their favor. Shaktar thought of himself as a big fish, but even he recognized the inherent differences between a big fish and a fucking shark. And so, one could not blame him as he hesitated to respond to his partner before him. This type of news required thinking. It required pondering on a level at which not many decisions in a gang required. Accepting or rejection could mean a lot for his fortune. To be concrete, the Knights terrorized governments, but in Theohuanacu fighting against the government proved to be a losing battle. And Shaktar was not a loser.
He looked back at the other man. “Tell them I’m not interested, bro.”
The recipient’s face bled white. He stammered at first, “Christ dawg, that can mean your head and that can mean my head. You know as well as I that the Knight are not ones that like to be said no to.”
“Neither is the government. You know this as well as I do. We just have differing opinions on who will win in the end.”
The worst part was that backlash was inevitable. Either government forces would intervene, or the Knights of Pir-Sar would. Shaktar did not have experience with the Knights yet, although he did have plenty of experience battling government forces. But, he had heard rumors, and he honestly preferred not to fight any of the two if it was possible. But, his partner had brought war to his doorstep. Truth be told, it was probably not the guy’s fault that the Knights had targeted him specifically to bring Shaktar the news. But, at this point, that really didn’t matter to the Theohuanacu gang leader. He wasn’t particularly pleased that he had been forcefully included in a very precarious situation. He looked at the other guy and shook his head again. He told him, “You fucked up, man.”
“What, homie? What are you talking about?” It took the other guy some time to figure out what was coming to him. His eyes flared wide open and he took out his pistol from behind his back.
He was too slow. Shaktar grabbed it, snatched it and then used it to put a hole in the other guy’s forehead. The limp, dead body hit the floor with a thud. Shaktar looked at the lifeless man below him, as no sign of pity crossed his scarred face. There were other things to care more about… like his future. He threw the pistol on the floor, and reached into his pant’s right pocket, pulling out a slim cell phone. Flipping open the lid he pressed some buttons and then started to walk away. Soon enough, all his second-in-commands would receive: GREEN LIGHT.
Trouble was afoot.
Shaktar, despite not wanting anything to do with them, respected the Knights of Pir-Sar. They were the only ones that did not fight “within the bounds”. That is, they were uninterested in any black market share, or what have you. They did not fight within the rules of the game. They fought to change the rules of the game. They were economic terrorists, led by corporate businessmen. They were the epitome of evil. All of them were rich men prior to Emperor Fedor’s latest ace. The market liberalization had seriously hurt profit, as the government opened the reconstruction to all companies, whether foreign or not, and cut government subsidization of national industries. In other words, they now had to compete with a larger selection of adversaries, and many of these could provide cheaper prices and higher quality services and goods. Competition was a businessman’s least favorite word. Ironically, the Knights had been champions of the free-market before this little misunderstanding. During the War of Golden Succession they operated to force the government to reduce restrictions on trade with foreign nations. But, that was no longer their agenda, as it no longer benefited them. Now, they were looking for the complete opposite. They were bent on making their point known the “old fashion way”. That is, bombs, guns and other assorted methods of mayhem. They were people that attacked until they got their way. They were as bad as the government, in terms of persistence. Shaktar had virtually been put between the blade of a sword and the barrel of a gun. He put in best terms, “I’m fucked.”
He thought to himself, about what the Knights could want from him. What stopped them from carrying out their attack on whatever they wanted to carry out? It wasn’t as if the Mara would do anything about it. If there was one thing they didn’t screw with, it was the Knights of Pir-Sar. Shaktar’s answer remained elusive. Did they want manpower? Did they want intelligence? He figured he’d get his answer, one way or another, soon enough.
[SIZE="150"]Genesis[/SIZE]
The streets were no country for old men.
Darian Petría, a successful businessman for the struggling oil giant Díenstadi Petrogas, sat solemnly across the table from two other men in black suits. These were Ramos Fernán and Tern Fíerhal. Their faces were solemn. Petría was smoking a cigar, and he took it out of his mouth and flicked the ashes into the ash tray on the marble tabletop. He was not pleased. “That motherfucker hasn’t come back yet.”
He was referring to the gang banger who had approached Shaktar.
Fíerhal shook his head, “Fuck him. He probably got shot. That was not business for somebody uninvolved. The Mara probably doesn’t know the severity of the situation, let alone what we could possibly want. There’s no doubt that they know who we are and what we stand for, and most important, what we do to people who do not cooperate. That’s no the issue, I suppose. The issue is that they cannot fathom our goals. Our ambitions.”
Petría looked at Fíerhal, with a black stare, and said, “So, what the fuck do you propose?”
“Tell him what is going on, personally. And I don’t mean a nice, civilized talk. We need to establish a precedent. This country is ours. They need assimilate, or they need to do something else with their lives. The age of the Mara is dead, and the era of the Knights has begun.”
The gangs presented a threat to the Knights. They were used by government forces to organize attacks on Pir-Sar, given that these gangs had connections with the Knights. In other words, the government was using the gangs against themselves, turning friends into foes. And so, the Knights decided that the best course of action was to eliminate the problem. There would be no other gangs. But, their true intentions were even more sinister than that. It was assumed that they would spark a fight for survival when they threatened the wellbeing of the Maras. A gang war would effectively preoccupy government forces, while the Knights began their general offensive against foreign competing elements. So, if the gangs voluntarily “surrendered” great, and if not the Knights’ agenda would still be completed. One way or the other, the Knights of Pir-Sar always tended to get their way.
Petría stood up and signaled the other two men to follow him. The three businessmen walked out of the café and headed down the streets of North Point. Fernán took out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Code Red.”
Those two words were the only words he had to speak.
They entered a parking structure and walked over to a black Tango et Cartuma four-door sedan. Petría opened the trunk and unveiled a vast assortment of weapons, including rocket propelled grenades and the like. He looked at his two comrades, smiled and then said, “Arm yourself to the teeth, gentlemen. We are about to ride into hell.”
It is interesting to see the differences in the poverty level between two city neighborhoods. The café they were just sitting at only moments ago was located in the downtown district of North Point. Although no doubt still rampant with crime, it was mostly “owned” by high-end mobsters. They were about to drive into the “Lobán Valley”, a run-down, shanty-house neighborhoods that housed the majority of the workers who had once worked in the factories around it. They were slave labor, used by the warlords to produce their goods and services. To protect themselves from the warlords they had formed into gangs, creating a formidable defense and black market. Now, the Mara had turned Lobán Valley into their headquarters. It was almost an impregnable fortress. But, the creeping effects of wealth were undermining their movement. As capital increased, the need for protection from the Mara decreased. And, as aforementioned, their usual sources of income were quickly dissipating, as legal competitors took over. Nevertheless, Lobán Heights remained the most run-down neighborhood of North Point. And, with that in mind, the black T&C (Tango et Cartuma) rolled into Lobán.
The three men in the car were trained assassins. They were not high in the leadership list of the Knights, otherwise they wouldn’t be pulling off a mission like this. They were businessmen, but they were low-end gangsters. They were the grunts that took the wars to the streets. They did not pull any strings. It was quite to the contrary, as they had their strings pulled. Today’s attack was just a warning, to show that the Knights were not pleased with Shostak’s decision. The true storm would come later.
As the vehicle rolled through, a tattooed gangster threw up his gang sign, signaling for the unknown black vehicle to get out of town. Fernán unrolled his window, took out his pistol and put a bullet between the man’s eyes. It was on. Petría sped up, as Fernán dropped the gun and armed the rocket-propelled grenade launcher. They didn’t have any particular targets in mind. They were just there to spread fear and to introduce the Knights to Shostak’s Mara branch. The locals could hear the sounds of the gun fight that developed, as the black sedan rolled unperturbed down the streets. The gang responded in kind, trying to ambush the car and peppering it with bullets. But, it was all to no avail. Petría unrolled his window and yelled out, “Tell Shostak we’re coming for his ass.”
With that, the car sped away.
News traveled fast. Within hours most gangs in the city would know of what happened. They’d know that their future as gangs was in stake. If the Knights attacked the Mara, who else would they attack? Fear. Pressure. Adrenaline. The ingredients of a gang war.