Tales of the Parodyverse

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Messenger presents his first story in a year
Sun Mar 13, 2005 at 07:12:33 pm EST
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'Hell Can Wait' Part One: The Vendetta.
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"Bang, Bang... I shot you down...

Bang, Bang... You hit the ground...

Bang, Bang... that awful sound...

Bang... Bang...

    ........

... I used to shoot you down..."



‘Hell Can Wait’


Part One: The Vendetta…




All text is translated from Japanese:

Deep within the bowels of Mangatown, Boss Takai goes about his business. The plump crime figure sits in a dimly lit corner of a chic Sushi restaurant called 'Kabuki', where outsiders are not welcome. Surrounded by a paranoid entourage of guards, he calmly feasts on seal, quail eggs and other delicacies. Takai used to be a slick and charismatic crime boss in his youth, but the years have not been kind to him. He is bloated and his breathing is labored as he slurps down a bowl of fish eyes. One thing has not changed. Young girls, faces padded with white make-up and black eye-shadow, still cling to his shoulders. They giggle and blow softly in his ears. However, his mistresses now have sex with him not because they find him attractive, but because they fear for their lives if they refuse his advances. He slaps a girl away and calls her a whore. He shifts his glance to his most trusted aide and protector... a man in a black two-piece suit whose face is clad in a gas mask.

"Whisper..." Takai mumbles through his plump lips.

"Yes, master..." The man in the gas mask twirls an ivory cane in his hand as he returns his boss's glance.

"... I am fearful for my life. Some gaijin assassin is stalking me... He calls my personal number that only the bosses have... He waves at me from the roof across my office... Every night he haunts my dreams and in them he devours me like some kind of demon... This morning, he was in my office..."

"How could that be...?" Whisper rasps. "We watch guard over you 24-7."

"He left this..." Takai reaches into a suitcase and pulls out a shimmering rectangle of razor sharp metal. He slams it down on the table. "Who is he? What does he want?!"

"Hehn..." Whisper clutches his cane until his knuckles turn white. "This is a Razor Letter...." He studies his reflection in the sheet metal. "They say his name is Messenger. In a world of beauty and tragedy, he is the mediator. He claims to keep the world light by embracing the darkness... If he is after you, we may not be safe here--..."

As if on cue, the front door slams. A pair of boots treads in rain from outside, soaking the blood red carpet. A Sushi chef cuts his thumb by accident as he looks up.

"Sake..." The Caucasian man grunts in perfect Japanese as he approaches the bar. "Give me some fucking sake..."

The chef trembles like a leaf as blood streams down his hand. He grabs a warm bottle. His grip shakes so much that the contents spill over the counter.

"Give it to me!" The man in the black trench-coat snatches the bottle and downs the hot liquid in one gulp. Afterwards, he wipes his lips and lets out a contented sigh. He pushes the bottle back into the chef's arms. "Leave if you care to live..."

Boss Takai looks at the man from the far-end of the Sushi bar. "Th- That's him..." he stutters in a hollow voice. "The gaijin assassin... He's come to kill me..." All the guards reach into their coat pockets pulling out high-powered hand guns. The girls who had been gathered around Takai suddenly scatter and run out of the restaurant screaming.

Beneath the smoky lenses of his gas mask, Whisper watches the man's every move. He doesn't reach into his coat. He pushes a button on the tip of his cane and a giant blade slides out the end. "Messenger..."


"Takai!" Messenger shouts. In each hand he clutches chrome plated 9mm guns.

"What do you want with me?!" Takai screams back, his voice quivering.

"Master, please get back..." one of his guards advises him as he shields his employer with his body.

"I am an Angel of Death," the postman's boots clump as he slowly strides towards Takai's table. "You do not know me, but look upon my face and you will see every one of your victims. I am their keeper. I am their avenger. What do I want?" He raises his guns and softly chuckles. "Isn't it obvious?"

"NO!!" one of the guards cries as he flips the table and pulls on the trigger of an Uzi spreading a hail of bullets in the Messenger's direction. The vigilante darts from table to table dodging the lead that flies his way. He decides to return fire and as he dives behind a vase he aims and lets his instincts take care of the rest.

"Keep Takai safe at all cos-- yaaAARrrgAHghh--*" a guard falls as a bullet flies through his neck, reducing his chin and throat to a collapsed, bloody mess.

Midnight is ushered in, not with the toiling of bells, but with the rapid bursts of gunfire. It is like a twisted kind of Kabuki theater. The postman, his coat billowing around his waist like a cape, twirls in the air as if he were a ballerina... a couple of guns spin on his index fingers.... bits of hot lead explode out the barrel. Chunks of pulp and flesh splatter over plates of half-eaten sashimi as Takai's guards fall one by one.

...During all this, the man known as Whisper watches from the shadows and does nothing... except wait and observe.


"Hiroto..." one guard points to another. "Get the old man to the bathroo--aaAAAGHH--*" A kneecap explodes and gore covered bone fragments spray across the carpet.

Hiroto wipes the sweat from his brow as he shoots in the postman's general direction and watches his comrades fall in front of him. He pushes Takai towards the restroom. "Master, please! You need to get in there!"

Messenger throws his guns to the side as he runs out of ammo. A guard jumps on his back and wraps his arms around the postman's neck. “DIE! DIE! DIE!” he screams like a banshee as he tightens his grip. Messenger flips him over his shoulder and the slender man breaks a table in half with the force of his fall. Messenger grabs a bottle of still steaming sake and whips it across another attacker's face. He lets out a shrill cry as he grabs his shredded, bloody face. The postman kicks the wailing man in the sternum and he falls through a rice-paper wall.

And then, everything is silent, save for wailing police sirens in the distance. The Messenger glances around as he stands over a dozen broken and moaning bodies. He wipes other peoples’ blood off of his face. Gun smoke drifts through the restaurant…

“Takai…” Messenger mumbles. “Did you think it would be that easy to hide…?” he walks towards the bathroom.


Just then, the man known as Whisper emerges from the shadows. “Let’s talk…” he rasps.

The postman whirls around, a Razor Letter wedged in his fingers. “If you don’t want to end up like your friends, you will let me pass.”


Whisper laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. It is my sacred duty to protect Boss Takai. Your Japanese is very good, by the way…” Whisper walks past burnt out tables and pockmarked walls, studying the vigilante. “Not an easy language to learn. You seem different than the last time we tangled, however. More mature, more refined… more efficient and deadly.”

“I’m afraid you have the wrong killer…” Messenger snarls. “We’ve never met before. I would never forget a face as ugly as your’s…” he adds, noticing the visible burns protruding from behind Whisper’s gas mask.

“But Messenger… Don’t you remember…? You took my face!” Whisper raises his ivory cane in the postman’s direction and a blade shoots out. It takes the postman so by surprise he has no time to dodge out of the way. An eight inch blade lodges itself in his shoulder.

“Yaaargh!!---*” He squeals as he collapses to the ground, blood gushing down his arm.

He clutches the blade with his other hand so hard that it sinks into his palm.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Whisper looks over the postman who rolls on the ground in agony. “I could have aimed that for your heart… if I wanted to. You see, you’re not the only one who’s learnt some tricks since our last confrontation.”

The postman leans against a table as he staggers to his feet. He bites down on a Razor Letter as he grips the blade and pulls it out of his shoulder. He yelps as if he were an abused dog, and the bloody metal shard falls to the ground.

“Do you know what hurts more…? Feeling your skin melt off at temperatures exceeding three hundred degrees, being in a coma for a month, having your body reconstructed… piece by piece, relying on this damn mask to breathe… and the thirst for vengeance that eats away at one over the years. Long have I dreamed of the day when we would meet again…”

“I… don’t… know you!” Messenger winces as he swallows a pain-killer and wraps a shred of his trench coat around his wound.

“Oh, but you do… The year was 2000. A couple of assassins were on a rendezvous with death… I was hired by a munitions company to kill you and see if your Razor Letters could be mass-produced for use by America’s Special Forces. The whole damned thing got kind of out of hand, didn’t it? You shaved your head and went a little crazy… became a little erratic and sloppy… I thought it would be a cake-walk. Outside of a gas station I was about to finish you, when some yokel in a gas truck saw us and was taken by surprise. He swerved and his 18-wheeler monstrosity tipped over and fell on me, sandwiching me between a tanker and the pumps. I was doused in petroleum and my body was broken. I begged you for mercy… but you laughed, lit a cigar and… like a true coward… dropped the match and let the flames do your job for you. Except I didn’t die, did I?”


“Ah- Oh- … Oh my god…” Messenger stutters. His eyes widen. “… Smoke…?”

“Not anymore. Smoke died the day he went up in smoke. Now, I am known as Whisper. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that since my vocal chords were destroyed, I can only speak in hushed tones. Or …Perhaps it’s due to the fact that when I have a contract to fulfill and a man to kill, he never notices I’m there until his dying breathe. Either way… it’s Whisper. And today is not the day I will kill you.”

“I don't get it."

“I have waited too long to just destroy you here. I want to play with you… make you suffer… before I discard you like a cat would with a mouse. You are now functioning with a gimped shoulder. I could finish you tonight if I desired, but that would be far too easy… far too kind.” Whisper pauses and glances at the bathroom. “You were off to kill Boss Takai, weren’t you?” He pushes the bathroom door open and walks in. “You are a true fool and I am a fool for almost preventing you from completing your task.”

“Smo- Whisper… what the fuck do you think you’re doing…?” Messenger stumbles after him, but the pain is too great and he collapses on to a velvet booth just outside the restroom door.

As Whisper walks across the bathroom tiles, he hears a grown man’s sobs coming from the farthest stall. “Boss Takai, Hiroto… come out. I have stopped the gaijin.”

The rotund crime boss and a guard who still shivers in fear burst out of the stall. “But-… we heard… we heard…?” Hiroto stumbles over his words as he looks up at Whisper. “We just heard the vigilante speaking a minute ago.”

Without saying a word, Whisper presses a button on his cane and another blade pops out. He skewers Hiroto and lifts his body towards the ceiling as he slides down the length of the blade. He tries to speak, but blood not words come out of his mouth. Whisper lowers his cane and the limp body falls off of it.

“Whis- Whis- Whis- Whisper…” Takai finally manages to get out. “What- What are you doing? You’re my- You are--…”

“Hehn…” Whisper grunts. “I’m sorry, master… loyalty only runs so deep. Someone reminded me tonight that I have more important tasks to attend to.” The assassin lifts the cane in the air and brings it down right into Takai’s plump face, splitting it like an overripe melon. “And so the decadent shall fall…in a pool of their own filth and regrets.”

Messenger is leaning against the open restroom door. “I… don’t understand.”

“You’re an idiot.” Whisper replies as he grabs paper towels and wipes the blood off his blade. “You’ve always been the architect of your own destruction, haven’t you? By killing Takai, the five Yakuza families will all be competing for your blood. No matter how much he may have fallen from grace in recent years, Takai was an icon for his people … in the 60’s he was proof that the Japanese could succeed in the American crime market. I was just making things easier for you, so you wouldn’t have to strain yourself. You were going to kill him anyway, weren’t you? You should thank me.”

Squad cars screech to a halt outside. “Guess someone must have alerted the police. It’s time for me to sink back into the shadows. Suggest you do the same, postman. We will meet again…” Whisper murmurs as he throws smoke bombs to the floor. “…. You have my word.”

When the black fog clears, the man formerly known as Smoke is gone and the bathroom window is open.

Messenger hears cops bust open the door and scream for people to come out with their hands up.

"Shit..." the postman winces as he pulls himself through the narrow window, leaving a streak of blood behind him.


"HALT!!" a SWAT officer screams as he barges into the restroom with his gun drawn. He sprays the wall with bullets just as Messenger falls through the other side.


The postman lands in a dumpster in an alley outside the 'Kabuki' restuarant. He groans and after resting a few moments to catch his breathe, he rolls off of the mound of garbage. He squints as red and blue lights bounce off his face. "Gotta-... Gotta get outta here... I've killed crime bosses before. Hell, I've single-handedly taken out whole families. There's nothing the Yakuza can do to me that hasn't been done before..."


From the shadows, a man grins beneath his gas mask as he watches the postman scramble away. "Famous last words..."


........


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Next Morning…


Messenger wakes up with a start, his body lunging forward in his bed. His breath comes out in short panicked gasps. His brow is covered in cold sweat. He reaches into his cupboard, pulls out a bottle and drinks it. Then after a small coughing fit, he lights a cigarette.

“Bad dream, sweetie…?” a woman with matted black hair and dark eye-shadow asks as she rolls over.

Messenger glares down at her. “What are you still doing here?”

“Well… y’know… I-”

“Wallet is on the bed-side table. Take it all… I don’t care.” The Postman sits there nursing a bottle of aged whiskey, taking intermittent swigs.

“Your dime, honey,” she shrugs her shoulders as she dips in and pulls out several hundred dollar notes. “Wow. Why ya live in this shit-hole, if ya got so much money, anyhow?!”

Messenger just looks up at her and grits his teeth. “Are you still here?”

The woman puts on her clothing in silence and as she turns to leave the apartment, she glances back at him. “I shoulda’ known you were some crazy fuck when you asked to call me ‘Poisyn’ last night.”


A door slams.


The postman sits there cradling a bottle, a single tear welling up in one of his eyes. He rocks back and forth. “What are you thinking, Messenger…?” he mumbles to himself. “Is this how you honor her memory? Turning off the lights and pretending a devil is an angel?”

“SHIT!!” he screams in frustration as he hurls the half-empty fifth at the television set.

“Damn you, Poisyn. Why did I ever have to meet you? … You ruined me.”


…..



----------------------------------------------------------------------


Sunrise washes over the horizon… but no sunlight filters into an apartment which is completely shuttered from the outside world…


The man known as Whisper takes a deep breath. Long ago as he lay dying in a hospital, one of his connections rigged the World War II gas mask he wears to produce and circulate oxygen. Now, with trembling fingers he slips the mask off and looks at his reflection in the mirror. His face is gnarled and disfigured. He struggles to breathe without his mask, but, like a car wreck, he can’t help but look at what repulses him the most; his own seared face. What used to be a defined nose has been reduced to two flaps of skin. His lips are completely gone, with his sharp canine teeth exposed. Eyelids, ears, hair… all of it melted away as he lay pinned under several tons of flaming debris screaming. He still has several nerve storms a day; when his damaged nerve endings scream in pain in response to a five year old wound that will never heal.

“… *gasp*…. *gasp*…. *gasp*….” He quickly slides his mask back on.


“… *cough*… Damn you…. Messenger.” He sputters as his breathing and heart beat slows and return to normal. “You ruined me. Forever. The first time I faced you it was merely business. Now I have a vendetta. On some abstract level, I should thank you. It’s my burning thoughts of vengeance that kept me from taking my life all these… long years. You kept me going, you see… The thought I might one day burn you and destroy you like what you did to me. That day has finally come. Now, I have nothing to lose.

… I’m going to Hell…”

He smiles as he looks at the morning edition of the ‘Gothametropolis Gazette’. The headline reads ‘After Mafia Massacre, Yakuza Declare War on Messenger’.

“… but I’m taking you with me.”



To Be Continued:


NEXT: More surprises, revelations and a special appearance by--… well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?



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