Dornie News Network
....Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation. We now cut to a special sneak preview of our upcoming new action crime drama series, The War of the Car. Based on the hit nonfiction best seller by Henry Mackensen!
Somewhere in Sarajevo, Earth SSR, CREThe ancient city of Sarajevo, like many other Dornalian cities, was abuzz with activity this night. There wasn’t a particular reason for it really, other than it was the weekend. So, as such, people could be seen milling about. Some went for dinner at high and low establishments. Some went for cinemas showing everything from the latest Mal-Pop concert film (they were surprisingly popular in this part of Earth, and given the “Mystrian Wave” sweeping the CRE that was saying something) to the seminal C’tani romantic-tragedy,
Heart of Loss.
But, that’s not our focus. No, our focus is on a small garage that could have been anywhere in any city. A small garage tucked into a working class part of Sarajevo, far from the glitz and glamour of downtown. A garage named “Dimitar’s Foreign Auto-Body.”
Dimitar’s Foreign Auto-Body was, true to its name, an auto repair shop. One which was plastered with images of an African American man in a do-rag, with a thin face and an Adidas tracksuit and a halo around his head, along with red-white-blue tricolor flags with crosses and four symbols that looked like “C”’s on them. The music that played in this shop was a strange mix of accordion-laced turbofolk, and the thumping, pulsating rhythms and rhyming chants of street poets far from Sarajevo’s streets, singing about places like Compton, the Lower Hives, and so on.
The people working the auto-body shop on this late night were a team of women and men in coveralls and safety gear, wielding tools and working on repairing a couple of automobiles. Yugos, in this case, which were being given a custom paint job in a paint bay and also an engine swap with something a bit more powerful than stock. The people working the garages and paint-bays were all men and women with wolves/dog ears and tails, chattering amongst themselves in an evershifting mix of Serbian and the Forest Sister Russian they all shared. One tool they all had were obvious and open holsters, concealing all manner of pistols. Tokarevs and Glocks were present, as were phasers and other such things.
One of them stood statuesque over the rest, marshalling the whole lot with cheap cigarettes, zero tolerance for nonsense and even less tolerance for slowdowns. She shouted at them, switching between the languages as she went, “Fucking hurry up! We got a special order coming in ten minutes! TEN FUCKING MINUTES! Get those boxes off the dynos and the lifts. NOW!”
A cry of “YES BOSS!” could be heard as they all worked as quick as possible. The team worked with the precision of a NASCAR or F1 Pit Crew. The machines on the lifts would have to go, and soon. The Boss demanded it--so it would be done.
The woman, all the while, looked at a small PDA she had in her hands. She parsed it carefully for texts from the incoming client. The special order was a big one--a major contract she couldn’t afford to lose. After all they were her people--fellow worshippers of The Immortal Street Prophet could not be ignored. Especially not for a ritual like this. One which would, in the fine tradition of the Prophet, take the power from the powerful and give it to the people, to inspire others with his genius.
The woman texted back the Client, going, “I’ve got my people on it. Don’t worry.” Holstering her phone--thank the Prophet it was a burner phone, the better to evade the Bosnian Police who always liked to mess with the Prophet’s followers--she marched out into the garage, to see the cars getting ready to be moved off and driven into the night. The woman smiled, and said with praise, “Good! GOOD! Now that’s what I like to see! Now, get those fucking lifts and tools ready--and get your GOOD tools! We’ve got special orders here!”
The shouts of “Yes Boss!” could be heard once more, as the team prepared for the Order…
---
Outside of Dimitar’s, there were another pair of women with wolves’ ears and tails. This time, however, they were in a small Yugo, and unlike the ones inside the garage were dressed differently. Namely, they had long military surplus overcoats, covering up a pair of shortened Kalashnikov assault rifles as well as...well, what could be described as an
attempt at uniforms.
The two were looking over the whole scene with disgust. The thumping music, the crass shouting, the perversion of the finest of Italo-Yugoslav automotive engineering, the loud and garish flags….it offended the pair to their core. The Marshal would never tolerate this. It was everything
wrong about those inhabiting the garage. The nationalistic currents, the crass excess--the Marshal would surely have struck them down all to a man. Just as all who opposed brotherhood and unity would have been so struck, with the vengeance of the People whom He defended..
As it was, the Marshal had to rely on others to do His work. Others like the women in the car now keeping watch. It was a duty they did willingly. After all, as their commander had told them this was a significant mission. The thugs inside had stolen something of The Marshal’s, and now, they were to take it back. Other soldiers of The Marshal were waiting in the wings, waiting for the signal that indicated The Marshal’s Prize was in this dragon’s den. Then, they would attack, and bring back the Prize to the Marshal’s Headquarters in Belgrade. Textbook.
Soon enough, the Prize came. A long black limousine, being driven rather erratically, sped towards the garage. The women winced as the limousine executed a perfect J-turn, drifting as it lined up with the entrance to the garage and sped right in. Did those ruffians know no
shame?! Did they have no respect for history or the relics of one of the great movers of history? Why, one may as well have used The Marshal’s own uniform as a rag to clean up after ones’ visit to the toilet!
One of the women reached for her Kalashnikov out of rage, and the other placed her hand on her shoulder, going, “Not yet. Our time will come. Stick to the plan.”
The other woman sighed, and breathed in and out, going, “You’re right. It’s just--”
“I know. The way they treated The Marshal’s prize was offensive, and horrible. But we will rescue it from that lot.”
A nod, and then she pulled out her phone instead and sent a text en masse to several nearby phones.
“It’s here. Make the Knight’s Move.”
-----------
The limousine was soon parked on one of the lifts, and an outbreak of applause could be heard along with whistling and cheers. Shouts of “”WEST SIDE!” and other chants could be heard, as all gathered around and the occupants of the limo--a woman and a man with the same wolves’ ears and tails as the rest--got out triumphantly waving a baton and a bottle of champagne. With a mighty blow, the man used a chop of his hand to remove the cork, sending glass flying into one corner--to The Boss’s chagrin--and the eruption of champagne within.
The Boss shouted to the man, “ZORAN!”, to the woman, “SVETLANA!” and then to the assembled, “EVERYONE!” with a loud, thunderous voice. The assembled soon fell silent, and then turned to The Woman. The man named Zoran turned to The Woman, bowing his head slightly and going, “My bad, boss. Just got excited.”
With a gesture to the champagne bottle, the Boss commanded, “You know the ritual, Zoran. Pour one out first. Please.”
Zoran nodded, and ceremonially, he shouted, raising the bottle in the air, “For our homies, dead but not forgotten!”
“FOR OUR HOMIES!” came the shout back, as some of the champagne was spilled first onto the shop floor, then onto the limo itself. Then, came a cavalcade of small glasses and pourings of champagne into all of them, as Zoran shouted, “As the Prophet said, ‘Break out the Champagne glasses and the motherfuckin' condoms, have one on us, a'ight?!’” Zoran added as he poured, “And who are we to deny the Prophet’s order--especially as this is from the Marshal’s collection! That motherfucker had some good-ass taste!”
“And now, it’s the Prophet’s!” came a shout.
Zoran shouted, working the crowd, “Damn right! We’re straight ridahs! Those fuckin’ Titoists ain’t shit!”
“Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks!” came the reply, the room worked into a frenzy. Even the Boss couldn’t help but smile a bit, amused at how happy her soldiers were. The Boss, for her part, even threw in her own chant, shouting, “May The Prophet Save the Serbs!”
“Preach, sister! Preach!” was Zoran’s reply, raising his glass.
As The Boss went down, she continued to speak. “But our work here tonight is not done, brothers and sisters. For just as the Prophet taught his people and now teaches the Serbs his lyrical genius--wherever he is right now!--we shall continue to bring forth his inspiration into the world.” Gesturing to the limousine, The Boss shouted, “This machine represents the decay of the old times. The corruption of The Marshal of old. He spoke of revolution, but only to benefit his clique!”
“Hear here!” one man shouted, along with “Fuck that shit!”
“I mean, look at what this motherfucker has!” Reaching into the car, she pulled out a small runner’s baton. For a moment, The Boss seemed suddenly enraptured and seized by a sudden tingling and surge of energy within her that made her feel
mighty!Newly energized, the Boss shouted, “He made people give him fuckin
batons, yo! And he had fuckin champaigne and everything else! And this fuckin Caddy! And all the while, this motherfucker oppressed the people below--including the Serbs the Prophet so gloriously saved through his sick beats!” The Boss then shouted, suddenly feeling strangely invigorated since she picked up the baton, “The fuck kind of god is that?!”
“No god worth worshipping!” one man shouted, as others spat at the mention of The Marshal. The Boss then said, “Now, we’ve done good. We’ve taken this Caddy back to the street, and gave it back to the Serbian g’s and homies down here. Tonight, we’re going to strip it of all that bullshit the Marshal put on it, and give it the style of the streets to show to those bustas that the Prophet’s children mean business!”
Raising her glass, she shouted, “WEST SIIIIIIDE!”
“WEST SIDE! WEST SIDE!” Random hand signs--some of the four C-like symbols on the flags, and some spelling out “w’s”--were flashed as shouts of “WEST SIDE TILL WE DIE!” were chanted.
Then, the Boss caught a glimpse out of her eye, and suddenly dived to the side, with others looking confused before a stray gunshot hit the floor where she stood. All of a sudden, a panic set in, as everyone involved pulled out their pistols and took cover behind toolboxes and other features. The Boss herself pulled out her M57 Tokarev, and shouted, “Who the fuck’s shooting at us!?”
The answer would come soon enough, with the sound of cars and at least a couple of trucks pulling up to the front, with sudden flashes of light erupting in the room as men covered their eyes and tried to get out of the way--the Boss included.
As The Boss got to safety, she could see a large group of armed men and women like herself approaching the garage, taking up positions on the streets and even manning a couple of machineguns from some old Yugos. The uniforms--being an attempt to mimic an old pre-Apocalypse military uniform worn by those who had been commanded by The Marshal during his wars on the Ustasha and Nazis--were a dead giveaway as to whom their opponents were along with their Kalashnikovs and other weapons. The Boss then shouted to her men, “QUIET!” as one particularly garishly uniformed woman with wolf’s ears and a tail and a pair of spectacles stepped out of her opponents’ ranks, along with a Kalashnikov.
“I am Lieutenant Stana Dervishalidovic, of the Marshal’s Partisans! We have you surrounded! There is no hope of escape! We order you to immediately surrender The Marshal’s Chariot, His Baton of Athletics, and His Champagne!” Lieutenant Dervishalidovic added, with a hearty cock of her AK, “We don’t want to have to use force, but we will!”
The Boss leapt up, and shouted, “BITCH, FUCK YOU!” Flashing a middle finger and cocking her Tokarev, she shouted, “How about y’all go fuck yourself, you Turk!? Y’all think you can step to me?! Maritza Blagojevic
runs these streets!”
The use of the slur provoked the Lieutenant, who shouted immediately, “YOU RUN NOTHING!” Composing herself, Lieutenant Dervishalidovic raised her rifle and shouted, “Now! Surrender the car, or you can join your corpse-god!” As if to return one insult for another, she added on quickly, “Jokes on you though, what he makes is
not really music!”
Maritza glared at the Lieutenant. She had heard
many insults about the Prophet. But none cut more than hearing that his musical genius was not music. After a pregnant pause, Maritza declared, “Fuck off. THis negotiation is over!”
“I see. Very well!” The Lieutenant gestured for her men to move up, and in turn Maritza’s men moved up to take cover. Then, Maritza pulled out a small boombox. For a few moments, the air was thick with tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Then, she pushed a button.
It was one of the Prophet’s most aggressive songs. One that began with some immortal lines about having relations with a large man’s woman.
And then, at the Prophet’s proclamation denouncing the clique from whence the listener came, the men in the garage opened fire on their tormentors. A fusillade of poorly aimed shots, energy and ballistic rang out, drowning out the music in a hail of gunfire. At least two or three Partisans fell with parts of their body suddenly exploding in showers of gore. The LIeutenant herself seemed to dash away, flash-stepping to evade the fusillade to one side as her Partisans immediately opened fire with long bursts of machine gun fire, with care to avoid the Marshal’s Belongings.
As gunfire flew over the heads of the Prophet’s fighters, they riddled the garage with gunshots, tearing the Prophet’s images and the flags as they forced the fighters to keep their heads down. Those who did not keep their heads down were reduced to a fine red mist. To her horror, Maritza noticed the Partisans moving up under the cover of fire, and her men pinned. Then, she gritted her teeth. These were her people, and by the Prophet’s rhymes, she would get them out.
So, she began chanting rapidly, rapping in the way she knew how. At first creaky and the epitome of a piss-take rap, the rapping took on further intensity. Before long, her men suddenly began shouting all manner of profanities as they, to a man, began blindfiring from behind cover. They seemed braver, more energized, and whatever fear they had before was gone. Still, a chant which inspired courage would only go so far. Now, she needed more.
So, she shouted, “EVERYONE! FALL BACK!” over the din, as she gestured to the others to fall back and get out of the garage. Sure enough, the gangsters began covering for one another, doing everything from using gunfire to throwing magic fireballs out of their hands at their foes--all to the tune of chanted, fast spoken music.
Still, the Partisans refused to let up, and they answered the magic with their own. It was only for a brief second that Maritza saw her counterpart shout a hearty but silent “URAAAAA!” which seemed to reverberate in the air, causing the stragglers in her ranks to stumble and hold their heads in their hands to contain the blood gushing out of their ears. One man’s head seemed to collapse in on itself, as gore flowed out of his ears.
Maritza herself held on, and retaliated by shooting the Lieutenant by aiming for her open mouth. This did not succeed, but it shocked the Lieutenant enough to make her stop her assault. Realizing that more was needed, however, Maritza ran into her office, and kicked open her desk to reveal a prize she had kept ready for a time like this.
---
The Lieutenant urged her men forward. So far, the enemy had been put to rout, as expected. Mere thugs could not hope to hold against those empowered by His guidance. Chanting “URA! URA!” the Lieutenant ran into the garage, firing bursts from her AK at the gangsters within as her men fanned out throughout the facility. Those that could not be caught were of no consequence. THe Lieutenant wasn’t kidding about the fact there were men at the rear who would take care of the thugs.
Still, there were more pressing matters on the inside. She walked to the Marshal’s Chariot, and sighed. The barbarians had poured champagne over it. Good thing they had taken only one bottle. Still, the idea of wasted drink spilled on the Marshal’s Chariot offended her and she ordered her men to clean it up. One man duly obeyed, finding the cleanest shop towel he could find and wiping up the spilled champagne.
As this occurred, the Lieutenant sniffed the air. Something wasn’t right.
Soon, her instincts were proven correct. For as soon as she could turn around, she was confronted with the sight of a blur moving about behind a pillar. Then another one. Then, as the Lieutenant ordered her men to get ready, Maritza appeared in the middle of them, the Baton of Athleticism on her belt and dramatic dust cloud of sorts announcing her presence as she wielded with impossible strength and speed a M53 machine gun held with gloves and a fresh belt of ammo, shouting, “GUESS WHO’S BACK, FUCKERS!?” as she began firing bursts into the enemy ranks. The Partisans scattered, but not before the Lieutenant opened fire with her Kalashnikov, gaining an attack of opportunity. The shots caused Maritza to stumble. But, the madwoman only turned rapidly and began firing bursts at the Lieutenant, shouting all manner of curses. The Lieutenant leapt to the side, opening fire with her rifle again and hitting Maritza in the shoulder.
Still, her opponent seemed to be unstoppable, and the Lieutenant knew that being confronted with a M53 machine gun was bad news. Thus, the Lieutenant got into cover and began firing again, ordering her men to do likewise. Soon, the shots connected with the mad gangster, but nothing really seemed to slow her down--though she was looking more and more like hamburger as she tore through the enemy’s ranks, causing the Partisans to lose more men. Lieutenant Dervishalidovic had to hand it to the Marshal--when His power imbued someone, it
really imbued someone. Then, she perished the thought. The Marshal would never allow His guidance to be imparted to someone so base.
And then, it hit her. A plan to stop the rampage. Quickly, the Lieutenant cast a bright flare in front of Maritza causing her to be blinded for a few seconds as she shouted in pain. Then, she ordered one of her men to run and snatch the Baton….
...which was done rather quickly, as Maritza now seemed to heave and breathe deeply, panting out of exhaustion with a horrified gasp. At that, the woman stumbled and turned around, firing wild bursts into the air as her eyesight came back, shouting “This isn’t over, fuckers!”
The Lieutenant would have gone for the kill at that point..but then, the sounds of sirens could be heard and a text confirmed it was time to go--the police would be there soon. And at that, the Lieutenant ordered a retreat.
---
By the time the Bosnian Police got to Dimitar’s, there would be nothing but questions. Namely, what the hell was all that gunfire about? Why was the place on fire? And just how many people
did these sides have, that there would be so many shell fragments and the odd dead body?
Either way, they would not get the answers they sought--not at the moment anyway. And certainly not from the Partisans driving away in the Marshal’s Chariot, and certainly not from Maritza and her forces, who were at the moment having Maritza rest in a back alley doctor’s house while emergency surgery and healing magic coursed through her veins.
All the while, everyone had the feeling this would not be quite over.
The Lieutenant knew that women like Maritza were dangerous, and would not see a slight go unreacted to if they could help it. Yet, it would be a worthy struggle just the same. Just as the Marshal had once said, “We have spilt an ocean of blood for the brotherhood and unity of our peoples and we shall not allow anyone to touch or destroy it from within.”
And, Maritza in turn could only think of avenging the loss of a prize to go to The Prophet. She knew she would have a lot to answer for from both the Prophet’s Children, as well as those Partisans who would lord the victory over them. Still, as the Prophet once sang, “Who shot me, but ya punks didn't finish/Now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace[...]”