O Scorpion, the most twisted hero of them, all returns in his latest adventure!!!!
A shapely red-head approached with a smile. She wore a small set of ebon wings tied to her back and a battery-powered halo that gave off a ruddy glow. A fallen angel, she was appropriately dressed for an employee of The Abyss. He’d heard good things about this nightclub; that was why he was here. He wasn’t disappointed so far. “What can I get you?” The bartender pitched her voice to be heard over the rabid thumping of the house band. “A sour apple Pucker,” Cain said,“and your phone number.” “You think you can handle me?” “I’m willing to find out.” A new voice broke in on the conversation. “Cain! You made it.” “That usually happens,” he said, watching the bartender move off, “when money’s involved.” He turned to face the speaker, recognizing the voice. “So, Mitch, what you got for me?” Mitch slid a small manila envelope across the bar to him. Cain let it sit there, neglected. The bartender returned with his drink. He handed her a twenty. “Run a tab. When that’s gone, I’ll give you more.” He took the yellow-green drink in hand and introduced it to his palate, savoring the alcohol flushing his throat. He sighed with pleasure, setting the emptied glass back on the bar. When the bartender left, Mitch leaned in, keeping his words vague. “Here’s a photo of an…uh…obstacle someone has with their current business operations. My client wants this obstacle… removed…in a decisive manner.” “Why come to me?” Cain asked. “I’ve been out of this line of work for a long time.” “There aren’t a lot of heavy hitters in town right now. And this…obstacle…is closely related to someone known to have it in for you, who‘s caused you annoyance in the past. It is thought you might enjoy getting paid to settle an old score.” “Now you have intrigued me,” Cain said. “I can’t recall leaving any unresolved issues laying around.” He drew the envelope closer with one hand while opening it with the other. “How much?” he asked. “Price is not an issue.” Cain raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” “This thing needs to be done immediately for reasons I can‘t go into.” “Do you understand the risk you’re taking in showing me this photo,” Cain asked, drawing it out, but not looking at it yet. “I’m not sure what you mean,” Mitch said, sweeping a rusty brown strand of hair back from onyx eyes. “I believe in keeping the planet clean. When I sanitize an…obstacle…its because the mess is a bad mess, not a good one. I don’t sanitize good messes.” Mitch stared. “You have strange standards.” “Most people think so. If I look at this photo, and see a good mess, I‘m coming in on the other side. Now, do you want me to look at this or not?” Plucking the photo from Cain’s lax hand, Mitch smiled in apology. “Never mind.” As Mitch departed, Cain signaled the bartender for another drink. She brought it over. “About that phone number…” he said. “You are persistent.” He shrugged, grinning. “I thought you cops were fond of undercover work.” “I…don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, eyes widening in a brief burst of panic that she quickly suppressed. “I know an undercover narc when I see one,” he said, taking care to speak loud enough for her to hear, but not loud enough for anyone else. He wanted a date, not a dead cop. “You’re completely wrong,” she said. “But please don’t say anything; I need this job.” “Your phone number.” “Blackmailing little twerp! ”She wrote her number on a napkin, and slid it over to him. It had the nightclub’s logo printed on it and the slogan: Come to the Abyss for a taste of heaven. He looked up. “My name’s Cain. And to know me is to love me. When do you get off?” “Midnight. But I’m going home alone.” With that, she flounced furiously away. Cain watched her go, admiring how little her jeans left to the imagination. He picked up his second drink and took a sip, turning toward the stage. The house band played vigorously, as if to make up for a lack of skill. Cain began to seriously consider sanitizing the group for free, as a public service. Before the impulse could root too deeply, he was diverted by the appearance of a heavyset man in an off-the-rack suit. The stranger marched up to him, grabbed his arm, and tugged, speaking in low rumble. “C’mon you. We need to have words.” The stranger had COP stamped all over him. The night was getting interesting. Cain allowed himself to be led toward the front entrance. “Sure,” he said, “I can use a break from the music anyway.” The stranger glowered and grinned simultaneously, sending mixed signals. “I know what you mean,” he said. “They should pay people to come in here.” Outside the building, Cain was led to a nondescript panel van. The side door slid open and he was dragged in and patted down. He could have easily prevented all this, but he wanted to see if what he suspected was true ; this situation had the feel of a vice stake-out. Cain addressed the man that had brought him here. “So what’s this all about, Grumpy?” “You’re interfering in a police investigation.” The cop flashed a badge. “Who are you? Lets see some ID.” “That won’t be necessary,” another officer said. “I recognize him. That’s Detective Wright’s arch nemesis--the Scorpion.” The word had an electric effect on the men jammed into the van. Cain sensed a grudging respect, not that he was going to admit to being a legendary criminal. “It’s pronounced with a Portuguese inflection, Oh Scor…pee…yown,” he said. “And his identity has yet to be proven, though I’m honored by the comparison.” “Enough with the games,” Grumpy said. “What are you doing here and how did you spot the bartender as a plant?” “I am here mixing business with pleasure, nothing that need concern you. As far as the lovely lady inside--body language tells it all; there’s an unconscious swagger, a confidence, radiated by people that routinely strap on a gun and carry a shield.” An officer wearing headphones broke into the conversation. “Something’s wrong. Morgan’s calling for an ambulance. A woman‘s passed out on the dance floor.” “I’m going back,” Grumpy said. “Delgado, you’re with me. The rest of you stay here.” The door opened. Grumpy and Delgado jumped out running. Cain vaulted after them. The move was too quick for anyone to prevent. Cain streaked past the cops as if they were standing still. Grumpy called after him. “Hey, you, get back here. Where do you think you’re going.” “Inside,“ Cain called back. It’s not like anyone actually placed me under arrest. Besides, I didn’t finish my drink. Within the dim-lit night club, a thick ring of patrons had formed. Excited voices filled the air, heard clearly since the band had stopped playing. Cain elbowed his way through to where a young woman lay sprawled on the dance floor. Her blond hair was loose, rippling every-which-way. She wore a royal blue dress that matched her nails and lipstick. He noticed that her legs were uncommonly well developed, suggesting she was an athlete or dancer. Beside her lax hand was a blue rose. Cain didn’t need to ask about vital signs. The girl was staring blindly, her face pale, frozen in ecstasy. Cain had seen death enough times to know it at first glance. Dead as day-old sushi, but she died happy. The Grumpy and Delgado emerged from the crowd, waving shields. “Police,” Grumpy called out. “Everyone back up. Give the woman some air.” His meaty hand clamped onto Cain’s arm as if to make very sure of where he was at all times. “Your suggestion’s a little late,” Cain said. “She’s dead.” The bartender stood and nodded, turning troubled eyes their way. Grumpy sent Delgado to watch the door, then turned to the bartender with an interrogative tone. “What happened here?” “I don’t know officer,” Morgan was staying in her role. “I was at the bar, heard screaming, and came over. I found her this way.” “Alright,” Grumpy raised his voice, “no one leaves until I get name, address, and a phone number at least. And I want all of you to pull back. No one is to touch anything anywhere near the body. This is now an official crime scene.” Under his glare, the crowd retreated to the tabled area. The bartender went with them. Cain followed as Grumpy made a cell phone call. Soon, the rest of his men arrived. They knew the routine; while one officer covered the back entrance, others gathered personal information from the patrons. Cain located his abandoned drink by its color, a translucent yellow-green, and threw it down his throat with complete disregard for his liver. Ah, just what I needed. Sitting at the bar, he watched the police do their work; it seemed a new hobby he was developing. As he sat there, Mitch came up to him, a desperate look in his eyes. He smelled of fear. “Cain, you’ve got to help me!” “I do?” “I’ve still got that picture on me.” “So. It shouldn’t mean anything to the police.” “It’s a picture of the dead girl. She saved us the trouble of…you know…but it won’t look good.” “You’re telling me,” Cain said. “My prints are on that photo.” “What do I do with it?” “Wipe it clean, and ditch it.“ “The police are watching everyone too closely. I’m not smooth enough. You do it,” Mitch urged. “I’ve got a better idea.” “Why are you smiling like that Cain? It’s…scary.” “Sit next to me and do as I say,” Cain said. “Sure.” Mitch sat down, facing the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. He whispered out the side of his mouth. “Now what?” “While I order another drink, set the photo face down on the bar like it’s of little importance.” “That’s your plan?” “Be patient. It’s a virtue. “Give me a cigarette and your lighter.” Mitch set them on the bar. Cain scooped them up as the bartender approached, then picked up the print. “Your girlfriend? Nice photo,” he commented, brushing it off with a handkerchief. “I’ll just get this lint for you.” “You want another Pucker?” Morgan asked. “No.” He looked up smiling. “I’m ready for a change of pace. Set me up with a Suicide Blast. Make it a double.” She looked at him with grudging respect. The drink he named was the most caustic blend of alcohols known to the modern world. “You might be man enough for me after all,” she conceded. As she moved away, Cain set the photo back on the bar, face down. A moment later, Morgan brought him the drink and noticed the freshly lit cigarette hanging from his mouth. “You know it’s against the law to smoke in California bars. Put it out,” she ordered. “Yes Ma’am.” He packed his voice with contrition, picking up the drink with one hand while, extracted the cancer stick with the other. He threw most of the drink down his throat, shook his head violently side-to-side, and sighed with pleasure as the bartender moved off. Cain set the glass back on the bar and dropped the burning cigarette in it, igniting the lingering fumes. “Oh, my!” he exclaimed, emoting horror and surprise as flames surged up. He accidentally knocked the glass over attempting to extinguish it. The photo caught fire. A moment later, the bartender rushed back and smacked the fire out with a damp bar towel. She scowled at Cain in irritation. “Are you quite through?” she asked. “Sorry,” he apologized, “I should be more careful.” “Damn straight,” she said, cleaning up the mess. Still glaring at him, she took the smoking photo in hand and trashed it. As she went to serve another customer, Mitch leaned over. “That was beautiful. You managed to burn out the dead girl’s face on the photo. No one can attach any significance to it now, so it doesn‘t matter that our prints are on it along with the bartenders." Cain nodded agreement. “If asked, she’ll say she disposed of it after it was accidentally damaged. But don’t get too happy; I haven’t sent you my bill yet.” “What’s this going to cost me?” “Information. Who wanted that girl dead?” “You know I can’t tell you--” Cain turned a cold stare on Mitch. It was all the threat O Scorpion needed. “All right, but you didn’t hear it from me.” Mitch’s whispered voice dropped even lower. “This bar is owned by a Russian who caters to the appetites of his patrons, not all of them strictly legal. Some people get in debt to him because of their…habits. Those that can’t pay for their appetites, become either whores or dealers themselves. This lady was unwilling to follow the usual pattern, and wanted more product--or she’d direct unwanted attention to the club. The owner believed that an example needed to be made, but the girl‘s father is a homicide detective.” “So that’s why your client was looking for a professional instead of handling this matter ‘in house’.” “That’s all I can say.” Mitch moved off, leaving Cain with his thoughts. Detective Coleman arrived, bursting into the club, face pale with deathly dread, and another piece of the puzzle slid into place. He was the father of the girl. That means Iris will be here before long. Partners are there for each other when things like like this happen. I think they’ll find this wasn’t just an overdose. The girl was murdered. Mitch had to have had a back-up man to go to when I turned the job done. Either that, or he did the job himself, slipping the girl ecstasy with certain impurities added. Cain wished he’d been able to finish the cigarette. It had stimulated a craving in him. With a sigh, he snagged a bowl of pretzels on the bar. They were the thin, straight kind. He set one in his mouth, sucking on its salty tip. I think a certain Russian gentleman wanted things done quickly and rushed things too fast. It wasn’t wise to have her die here, though I doubt the cops will find any product when they search the place--except on the rose; the girl was slipped her taste of heaven on velvet petals. A commotion erupted at the edge of the dance floor. Bellowing with outrage, Detective Coleman demanded to be let through. He and Iris were so focused on the dead girl, they didn’t notice Cain at first. Grumpy stopped the detectives, preserving the evidence of the crime scene, though as a curtesy, he brought them up to speed on the case. Cain knew the exact moment the homicide cop learned O Scorpion was there. Coleman’s face turned an angry red, his nostrils flared,and his eyes widened with wild speculation. His head jerked around. His gaze scanned the crowd until it locked onto him. Cain waved a friendly greeting. Coleman drew his gun. Cain did nothing, knowing neither Grumpy nor Detective Wright were going to let the irate policeman throw his life and career away. They jumped him and wrenched his gun away. Wright pocketed it as Coleman was escorted outside. Probably told to go home, Cain guessed. He really should know better than to blame me for this; I don’t use poison. O Scorpion kills with cold steel, face to face. In my own sick and twisted way, I am the soul of honor. Her face a stone mask, Detective Wright approached. “Tell me you didn’t have a hand is this, Cain.” “You didn’t have a hand in this, Cain.” “Don’t be funny. I’m not in the mood. What are you doing here?” “Just having a drink, Iris. Want to join me?” He signaled for the bartender to come over. The two women exchanged charged glances. They didn’t let on that they knew each other, but Cain saw the recognition in their faces. “That’s Detective Wright to you, Cain, and no, I don’t want a drink. I don’t feel very festive. Can you account for your movements since getting here?” she asked. “No problem. Go check with Grumpy.” “Grumpy?” “That’s my pet name for the lead detective over there. I was outside with him when the girl died. Before that, I was warming this very stool. The bartender can tell you I was never anywhere near Coleman‘s daughter.” “How do you know who’s daughter she was?” “His manic behavior was my first clue. Beyond that…I have my sources.” “Tell me everything you know,” she insisted. “Just a minute,” he said, unpocketing a wireless phone and the napkin Morgan gave him earlier. He punched in the phone number on the napkin. After a few rings, he heard a recorded voice dispensing the weather report for the local area. Cain wadded up the napkin and tossed it to the bartender who caught it reflexively. She gave me a fake number. Well, never let it be said a bad deed goes unpunished. Holding Morgan’s stare with his own, Cain spoke to Detective Wright. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.” “If I want to, Wright warned, “I can hold you indefinitely as a material witness.” “Yes,” he answered, facing her once more, “and I can sue you for harassment and have attempted murder charges filed against your partner for threatening me with a gun. This place is full of witnesses. Do we really need to go there?” “One of these days, Cain, I hope to have the pleasure of dancing on your grave.” Wright stalked away. Cain studied her retreating posterior until the crowd blocked it from view. “I thought I was your type,” Morgan said. Cain swiveled back to the bar. “Any woman is my type as long as she‘s beautiful with no more than ten percent body fat.” “I am appalled by your attitude,” Morgan said. “Hey,” Cain said, “I may be incredibly shallow, but at least I’m honest about it. Honesty‘s a virtue. You should try it.” He slid off the barstool. “Well it’s been fun, it’s been real, it’s even been real fun, but I gotta go.” “Wait,” Morgan said. She unfolded the crumpled napkin, scratched out the old number on it, and wrote a new one. She held it out to Cain. He took it without a word, turned, and walked away. Coming up on Grumpy, he slapped the man on the back in a friendly fashion. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’d like to get out of here.” Grumpy came about with a sour grimace and a glower. Cain waited for the gears of the man’s mind to turn a few times, processing the request. “I’m done with you for now, hopefully forever. If I want you,” the man visibly shuddered at the prospect, “I know where to find you.” Cain nodded, continuing on. Outside, he went to his mustang. He climbed in, showing no surprise at the man waiting there for him in the front passenger seat. O Scorpion started the vehicle. “Can I drop you somewhere, Detective?” “Sure, wherever,” Coleman said. “Take the scenic route.” Cain nodded, backing into the street. He guided the car through traffic, weaving around those too stupid to get out of his way. Oddly enough, the cop made no comment about the high speed maneuvers. Cain turned his radio on. Loud grunge rock punched out of the speakers. Coleman reached over and turned the volume down, before returning to a cross-armed slump. Cain continued to drive. He felt no need to make conversation. Eventually, he knew Coleman would get around to whatever was on his mind. They reached the detective’s house. He grunted in surprise. “How the hell do you know where I live? Cop addresses are not a matter of public record.” Cain shot the man a side-long glance. “Please! Do not judge my limitations by your own. A man will die who does not know his adversaries as well as he knows his friends.” “We’re not adversaries. If I’ve come after you in the past, it’s just because I’m a cop and you are murderous scum.” “That’s alleged murderous scum, if you don’t mind, and you left out the part about me bein' a 'force of nature'. "Sorry." His tone contradicted the apology. Cain indulged in further revelations. "If I have killed, and I’m not saying that I have, I’m no more guilty than the hurricane, tsunami, or earthquake that enlivens people's lives. I prefer to believe that concepts of good and evil don‘t really apply to me.” Coleman shook his head in amazement. “It never fails. I have never known a criminal to believe himself a bad person.” “Alleged criminal. Let’s be accurate.” “You know, one day, I am going to bring you down.” “I understand you have to try. Give it your best shot.” “Some other time.” “Go get some rest,” Cain advised. “You look like hell.” “I can’t. My daughter was all I had. Her mother left me for a dealer in Vegas. The house is empty now, way too empty.” “What do you want from me?” Cain asked. “Come in and have a drink. I want to show you something.” Curious, Cain killed the engine and got out. Coleman led him along a walkway to a ranch-style house. The detective fumbled his keys but eventually got the door open. The lights came on as Cain entered. He followed Coleman past a living room and kitchen, into a hallway that serviced several bedrooms. Coleman went to one of them. When Cain saw it, he knew the room wasn’t Coleman’s. The walls were a pale coral pink with white molding. There were posters on the wall of rock stars and ballet dancers. The nightstand held a phone, alarm clock, and can of diet cherry cola. Next to it, a huge canopy bed dominated the space, its curtains brilliant white lace. The bed’s quilt bore black and white tiger stripes. Squatting on a pillow, a purple unicorn with pink horn and hooves and black marble eyes stared forlornly. Coleman went to a dresser and rummaged through the things piled there as Cain joined him. The detective held up a framed photo that showed his daughter as a young child in a daisy costume, dancing in a grade school production. “She always wanted to be a dancer.” Coleman handed the photo to Cain, then picked up a pair of pink ballet shoes. “These were hers. They’re new. She bought them to celebrate getting accepted into a top-rated company. She was excited. Her whole life was ahead of her. The sky was the limit. I wanted it all for her. I wanted--” His words choked off. His eyes closed tightly. The man became a statue. Cain said nothing. He put the photo back on the dresser, turned, and left.
* * *
The night showed advanced age by turning gray. The sun will be up soon. I have to hurry. Encased in customized black armor, sheathed katana across his lap, he drove a stolen car through a wrought-iron gate, leaving it on the other side, windshield spider-webbed with cracks, grill-work caved in. I hope Mitch doesn’t mind that I borrowed his car. Cain strapped his sword on, hurrying toward a two-story colonial, taking an indirect route that hugged shrubbery and took advantage of lawn ornaments and willows for cover. In his hand, he carried an automatic pistol. The Spyder E99 used a cartridge of compressed air and a magazine clip stuffed with what had once been normal paintballs. Using a syringe, he’d replaced the paint with a dense quick-hardening compound. Private guards ran across the front lawn toward the broken gate as Cain crept along the side of the house. He fired several times, shattering all the spotlights illuminating the area, then let the paint gun hang at his side on its strap. Shielded by shadows, he peered through a bay window composed of expensive Italian glass. The room beyond was unlit and empty. He backed up and returned, vaulting through the glass. It showered onto plush carpeting and over-priced furniture with an industrial motif, all leather, tinted glass, and chrome. Cain landed and instantly drew his katana. He held it in his right hand while his left snagged the Spyder. Normally, no one would hear me coming. But I know there are still a few guards left inside. The Russian isn’t going to leave himself completely unprotected. The sound of breaking glass will lure some of the remaining men to me. That will make things easier when I get to my true target. Besides, this is more dramatic. I want news of this hit to circulate quickly, far and wide. It‘s been a while since I‘ve punched up my reputation. Leaving the living room, Cain entered a great open space floored with marble tile. Atop a wide winding staircase, he saw two men staring down at him, faces torqued by conjecture. His outlandish appearance gave him an edge; as the men hesitated, the Spyder phutted twice. Cain made both of his head shots, nailing the men between the eyes. They fell down the stairs, dropping automatics that clattered along beside them. Cain scaled the staircase swiftly. In the upper hall, he saw the Russian in a full-length night-shirt, cowering behind one final guard. The guard bared his teeth, firing a machine pistol that riddled the walls with lead slugs. Diving under the lethal spray, O Scorpion shot the man’s hands, making him drop his weapon. Rolling, Cain used his momentum to return to his feet. Released, the Spyder swung on its strap back to his side. Cain gripped his katana’s hilt in both hands as he closed on the two men. Two quick slashes severed their hold on the mortal coil. Their dead bodies collapsed as Cain sheathed his blade. He stepped over the bodies, going to the far end of the hall, to a room that overlooked a two-car garage. He slipped out a window, onto the garage roof and went to the edge where he lay flat. After the last of the returning guards entered the building, he climbed to the ground. It was child’s play, reaching the estate wall. He went over it easily despite his armor. Waiting for him there, was a beautiful girl on a motorcycle. “How’d whatever-it-was-you-were-doing go?” she asked. “Fine, Sara. Let‘s get out of here.” “Where to?” “Bed.” He climbed on the motorcycle behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He hadn’t seen Sara since the fire at Archie’s studio, when he'd saved her life, but when needing help, he’d thought of her as a likely candidate. Since he'd saved the shapely model from an insane killer artist, Cain was fairly certain she could be trusted. “Yours or mine?” She asked. “Lady’s choice.” The engine roared. They surged away as warm red tones seeped into the sky. The best part of all this is that Coleman will figure out who did it and why and will have to live with the knowledge that he owes me one. Cain sighed within his mask. It is so good to be me.
Lee, you're an awesome writer. The story is action-packed and suspenseful and your character, Cain, is very intriguing. I have to know. Is this part of a series? I would love to read more. Thank you for sharing it.
M.Rose
Reviewed by April Smith
7/7/2004
THis was great! Action-packed and suspenseful. I loved the plot twist of the villian doing a "favor" for his arch nemesis. Awesome! April
In a near-future Baltimore, an unemployed bipolar journalist and a teenage hacker are the last hope for a dystopian world controlled by a giant media corporation.
