Black Hearted

A walled television showed news coverage of Chuck Goyette leaving a TV station and walking to a waiting stretched limousine. 'The controversial cult leader stated he personally knows the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,' said accompanying audio. 'Resulting in several Christian groups accusing Goyette himself of being the Antichrist.'

A man in a charcoal grey Italian suit was the only one in the large office watching the broadcast. His name was Aaron Marx, a stern-looking 48-year-old hedge fund manager. He was lean, mustached, and cold-eyed. He had an air of sharp, efficient cruelty about him.

'This is embarrassing,' Marx said, critiquing the broadcast.

He threw the TV remote onto his desk and walked towards his office windows, passing a large portrait of murdering tyrant Mao Zedong as he went. In fact, right across his walls were pictures of unsavory characters and horrifying scenes.

Marx reached his office windows that offered views of New York's financial district. For five minutes, he stood there looking over eight blocks of money, power, and corruption. He could stand there doing that all day and night if it were at all practical.

On the street opposite, he could see his nightclub, The Devil's Pleasure Palace, which he'd owned for three years. A bit further along, he could make out the inconspicuous entrance to a local coven of the Order of International Satanists, of which he was a prominent member.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, and the voice of Kristen Goode, his personal assistant, followed.

'Good morning, Mr. Marx. Did you hear about Venice?'

'Yes, I did. What do you want?' he abruptly said.

'Mr. Irfan and Mr. Vacher are on their way up in the elevator to see you, sir.'

'Fine, send them straight in when they arrive.'

A Pair of Maniacs

Tony Vacher and Sabre Irfan were hard looking but well-dressed men. Aged in their late 30s, they shared the elevator as it climbed to the penthouse level. Both were ex-military from their respective countries, France and Pakistan. Due to some extremely depraved behavior, they each earned dishonorable discharges.

More broadly, it could be easily said no one in their home countries missed them or wanted them back.

The smaller of the two was the Frenchman Vacher. He was completely bald-headed and squat in form. He was fixing his foulard necktie in the lift's mirror.

'You ever consider wearing a tie?' Vacher asked tie-less Irfan, who was scrolling through perversion on his iPhone.

'No,' Irfan replied without looking up from his device. 'I don't want to appear like a peacock.'

'And screw you too,' Vacher bit back. 'The more time I spend with you, Irfan, the more I can see why you nearly ended up as a whack-job jihadi.'

Irfan rolled his eyes, but just months earlier, he had indeed sought to join a radical Islamic militant group. More for the possibility of unbridled violence than for anything else.

A week before his planned recruitment, Irfan left Karachi and flew to the Thai seaside town of Pattaya for five days of depravity. After he befriended Vacher at a seedy hotel, this turned into a month, and the idea of jihad fell to the wayside. Together, they ran amok in the city's places of disrepute until the Russian mafia and the Thai police chased them out.

From there, Irfan somehow managed to get into the States, where Vacher made a work referral for him to Marx. Irfan was surprised when he was offered a high-paying security consultant position with Black Crest Management.

Not that Irfan, the son of a high-ranking Pakistani general, wasn't qualified. He served in Pakistan's special forces and military intelligence for around 15 years. He spoke fluent English and some passable Mandarin. His amoral tendencies similarly made him an ideal fit for Marx, as did karmic reasons.

Their elevator journey came to a halt upon reaching the penthouse floor. Vacher took one last glance at his reflection, and Irfan switched off his iPhone. Both men got out and made their way to their employer's office.

Mess in Reno

Vacher and Irfan entered the office to find Marx seated at his desk, typing away on his computer keyboard.

'So, what is it? Why do you two have to see me at such short notice?' Marx said without looking at them.

'It's Peach, sir; he's having difficulties in Reno with your Mexican investors, Mr. Hector Herera in particular,' Vacher said. 'Some kind of random altercation with rival cartel gang members, apparently.'

Marx now looked at his minions, who he had earlier asked to report to him any issues related to account manager Albert Peach chaperoning his clients from the Amado cartel.

'What kind of altercation?' he asked.

'Some words exchanged, a bit of screaming, someone waved around a gun,' Vacher said.

'In public?'

'Broad daylight,' Vacher said while nodding. 'Sounded like a case of road rage.'

The Frenchman went on to describe how trouble started when one car bumped into another in a parking lot.

'Peach said it quickly escalated but, in the end, nothing much eventuated with cool heads managing to prevail, which he took the credit for. No cops involved, no one hurt, but threats were made, and so he's a bit spooked,'

Vacher said. 'He says Hector Herera is a wild one.'

Marx nodded.

'That is putting it mildly,' he said.

'And so, Peach would like some backup, if possible, in case things got further out of hand. There's a private eye in Reno I know of who could help,' Vacher said. 'An old guy by the name of Jack Day.'

Marx shook his head.

'What about some guys from Black Crow, some with time on their hands?' asked Vacher, referring to a subsidiary security company owned by Marx.

'No, it needs more of a personal touch. It's not really a security detail, so I want you two to handle it,' Marx said.

The order surprised Vacher. It wasn't a typical request.

'Sure, okay, Herera is just looking to buy a gambling machine factory, isn't he?' he queried.

'Yes. The business aspect is straightforward, but leave that to Mr. Peach,' Marx said. 'This firm's association with the Amado cartel has been long- standing, and I need it to remain that way and so I want Herera to be happy.'

'And what do you want us to do?' Vacher asked.

'Hopefully, nothing. The Amado cartel has a few hotheads in its ranks, and Herera is the worst of them. He is also an idiot of the highest order, but he's a nephew of Alfonso,' Marx said, referring to the cartel's drug lord. 'You are to ensure things don't go further awry and that he has a good time within boundaries. It may appear to be just a babysitting gig, but it's extremely important that nothing goes wrong,' he said without offering additional details.

Marx hit the intercom.

'Kristen, book Mr. Vacher and Mr. Irfan flights to Reno. They need to be back by Friday. They're on the way out to see you.'

Kristen acknowledged the orders.

Vacher and Irfan took that as their cue and exited.

The Call

Still at his desk, Marx brooded over how his well-laid plans were threatening to unravel. The news from Reno reminded him how fragile his task was, or at least appeared. He dialed his desk phone and five seconds later somebody at the other end answered.

It was Chuck Goyette, the cult leader. He was traveling in a stretched limousine while enjoying a foot massage from a follower dedicated to such tasks. He was on the call hands-free, not that Marx could see that.

'Mr. Goyette, I've been watching you on TV,' Marx said tersely.

At the other end, Goyette rolled his eyes.

'Yes, I've been busy. How may I help you, Mr. Marx?' he asked in a nonchalant tone.

Marx held his breath for a second before responding to ensure his voice didn't betray signs of irritation.

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'I'm just very surprised that certain issues, such as mystical mantras, are being so casually discussed on television,' Marx managed to say with a steady voice.

'Oh, just chill,' said Goyette. 'It's important to have some fun along the way, Mr. Marx, and besides, you shouldn't concern yourself so much. I'm in Los Angeles, and they love that kind of talk down here; all the supernatural, so let's keep it in perspective, shall we?'

'I'm still responsible for you all, Mr. Goyette. That's my singular perspective. This, what you're doing, is not part of the plan,' Marx said.

Goyette chuckled before replying.

'Mr. Marx, I think you're overlooking some fundamentals. You're merely the middleman, that's it, and yes, your services were appreciated upon our arrival, but that was then, and this is now,' he said. 'Regarding the future, we all know how it is going to pan out, so there is no point in making a fuss about what method is best.'

'No, I'm still responsible for you all, Mr. Goyette, and that was part of the covenant I made, and I will not stray from that. It would be beneficial for everyone if we meet again,' Marx said.

Goyette offered a loud sigh that spoke volumes.

'Marx, that's unquestionably impossible,' he replied, dropping the Mr. 'Ever since day one, Death has been independent, and I know you don't stalk her. Not that anyone in their right mind would.'

Marx abruptly cut in.

'Enough of the schtick. As agreed earlier, let's refer to her as Trudy when speaking via phone,' Marx said.

'Oh, keep your pants on, Marx. Call her whatever, but I'm sticking to character,' Goyette said. 'And then there's Famine, and yes, he is behind schedule, but at least he is still wandering around doing his thing Down Under, drawing at least some media attention. What did you want to call him? Bruce wasn't it?'

'That was the name we settled upon,' Marx said.

'You say Trudy, I say Death, you say Bruce, I say Famine. What was War again, Ivan, wasn't it? It's preposterous,' Goyette said.

'Again, it was something we agreed upon. Let's just stick to the plan.'

'You need to relax, Marx. You're only the middleman, and you're way overboard on this matter.'

'Without me, you'd have nothing. I could cut off your funds in a heartbeat,' Marx bit back.

'Now you're being rash. Look on the bright side, Marx. You have War in your stable, don't you? Is he depressed? I hope not, but if he is, it's probably because he's so, so idle,' Goyette said. 'Is he still cooped up in your boardroom? Is he still drawing like crazy? I hope so, it helps keep him evenly keeled in this realm — you don't want him unkeeled, that's for certain.'

It was then Marx's turn to sigh.

'Look, this is childish,' he said.

'Yes, I certainly agree,' Goyette shot back.

'Look, we just need to meet. Fly to New York.'

'I'm sorry, Marx, but my schedule will only get busier after today. I've now arrived at ZBS, so I can't talk anymore. Just make good on you and War's visit to China and North Korea. Ensure that you fulfill your end of the bargain,' Goyette said. 'That's all you have to do at this stage. Everything else is out of your hands.'

Goyette ended the call just as his limousine pulled into a parking lot at ZBS TV.

At his end, Marx hung up the phone and shook his head in frustration. It was a desperate conversation, and he wasn't surprised how it eventuated. He was at the point of giving up on trying to reason with any of the four otherworldly types. They were entirely on another level when it came to stubbornness.

But he had to push on and stick to the plan as he knew it to be. He stood from his desk and exited his office.

War

As Marx entered the reception area, he caught a last-second glimpse of Vacher and Irfan disappearing behind the lift's closing doors just before it went down.

'Can I assist with anything, Mr. Marx,' said a female voice from behind him.

Marx didn't bother turning to Kristen, who remained seated at the reception desk. 'You book their air tickets?' he asked, his tone typically unfriendly.

'Yes, sir.'

'I hope you're looking after him,' Marx said, nodding towards the glass-walled boardroom where a dark-haired man aged in his 30s sat alone at a long table. He had a full beard and was powerfully built, not that that was evident under the surplus-army jacket he wore. He was sketching on blank pieces of paper. Nearby on the floor was a bedroll that he'd slept on for the last ten nights.

'Has he eaten anything today?' Marx asked.

'Yes, he had what I got him this morning,' Kristen said, referring to some pulled-pork sandwiches. 'I'll get him some lunch soon.'

'What has he been doing?'

'The same. Just drawing.'

The hipster-lookalike had been drawing aplenty. Piles of drawn-on paper and used sketchbooks littered the table.

'Has he said anything?' Marx asked.

'Nothing beyond general courtesies,' she replied.

Marx looked at Kristen's generous and pretty face for the first time that day. He knew she was a decent person, and that made him wary of her. She's 100 percent Middle America, he thought. Typically, he hired people on the darker side or recommended by the coven, but for her, he made an exception. She was useful to him for other reasons.

'Have you talked to him?' he enquired.

'No, you asked me not to. He's just been sketching like always.'

Marx left her and went back into his office. He shut the door loudly behind him, leaving Kristen wondering how much longer she could last in a job with such an unsettling boss. She looked at her watch; it was time to get the sketcher some lunch.

Deli Viewing

Kristen was oblivious to the hustle and bustle of orders being taken and delivered in her favorite Lower Manhattan café delicatessen. She was too busy dealing with the million and one thoughts running through her mind as she waited for her own take-out order to be made. Her workplace was understandably upsetting her. It was a bizarre office to be a part of.

More than once over the past six months while working at Black Crest, the 29-year-old told herself she should get back to Texas, where her family was.

Her boss was the biggest and rudest jerk she'd ever met. Not only did she have to endure him, but there were his two security consultants: Vacher and Irfan. They all gave her the creeps, particularly the Frenchman, who sent shivers down her spine.

This fact alone disturbed Kristen. In essence, she was a no-fuss type who generally got on well with others, no matter their creed or color. She didn't like not liking people, but in these three, she saw little to admire.

She also found it odd that Vacher and Irfan were the only two Black Crest employees who Marx allowed into his office. The hundreds of others working in the building's lower levels never ventured up or directly dealt with their director and employer. What's more, Vacher and Irfan acted more like bodyguards half the time.

Such oddities resulted in her researching online about Marx, Black Crest, and the subsidiary Black Crow. What she found wasn't flattering. Parts of it were downright disturbing. Go to Hell kinda stuff. How much of it was true or false, though, she was unsure.

Now adding to the weirdness of working at Black Crest was 'Ivan' camped out in Marx's boardroom. Kristen didn't know much more than he was Marx's cousin who needed somewhere to stay, which she judged a falsehood given her boss owned apartments throughout Manhattan. She didn't see the two men interact much, and they certainly didn't look related. Ivan looked positively Arabic. But at least he ate whatever I brought him, she thought as her deli order arrived.

As she took the bag of tuna and avocado sandwiches, a staff member turned up the volume of a television mounted on the deli's wall.

Some customers and staff called for people to be quiet.

Kristen paused, wondering what the fuss was about.

'What's going on?' she asked a young guy next to her.

'It's Chuck Goyette, the cult guy who predicted the tsunami that hit Italy,' he told her.

Someone shushed them to be quiet.

She looked at the deli's television, where ZBS hosts — Robert and Anne — were interviewing Goyette.

'So just to be clear, Mr. Goyette, you're suggesting an additional earthquake will hit, one bigger than what caused the Venice tsunami?' Robert questioned.

Goyette nodded and then spoke with confidence.

'I'm not suggesting anything. Let's not weasel around, I'm specifically telling you that Death will strike again in Italy, and at 8 p.m., that's Pacific Standard Time, Rome will crumble,' Goyette said.

'Tonight? Rome?' Anne said, checking her watch.

'Correct, you got a scoop. Death will shortly do her mantra there, and soon it will cease to exist,' Goyette said. 'Of course, the Vatican will be reduced to rubble as well. That's a given at this stage.'

Despite sniggers of disbelief in the deli, most eyes remained glued to the TV as Goyette went on to describe what would happen to Rome. Summed up, it sounded horrific.

Then came the kicker.

'The catastrophes will, soon enough, move westwards, and in less than a week, what we will see in Rome will occur in New York.'

'Say what?!' someone in the deli shouted.

In the TV studio, Robert interjected.

'An earthquake in New York City in less than a week?' Robert asked.

'Yes, Death will arrive in New York in advance of that date to again perform her incantation, which will seal the city's fate,' Goyette explained.

It was Anne's turn to cut in.

'Excuse me, did you just say Death is a woman?'

Goyette smiled, raised his eyebrows while enjoying the drama of it all.

'I did, but she could take the form of a rabbit if she wanted to, but that would hardly be dramatic, now would it?' he said.

He noticed Anne frowning at him.

'Or, if she so chooses to, she may self-identify as a Labrador,' Goyette said, laughing at his own folly. 'But let's just call her Death for old times' sake, shall we?'

Another customer in the deli yelled at the TV.

'This fat jerk is nothing but a fraud,' the customer shouted. 'Turn this fake junk off.'

Others told him to be quiet, they wanted to hear Goyette describe how Death operates.

'Being in human form, Death has to travel wherever she needs to get to by whatever means she can,' he explained. 'It's a part of the challenge the four face, and they do face challenges in what they are doing. It's the nature of this realm. It's a tough gig. It's not easy you know.'

Anne, now wide-eyed, squirmed in her seat.

'Can you describe her for us?' she asked.

'I can, but I won't,' Goyette said.

There was stunned silence in the deli. It seemed like an eternity for Kristen and others watching before Anne asked another question.

'Many of our viewers may not be so familiar with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, can you at least briefly describe them for us? It's Death, Famine, War, and the Antichrist, isn't it?'

Goyette rolled his eyes.

'Look — Death, Famine, War, and the Antichrist or whatever you want to call them — they aren't human, but they're neither demons nor divine beings,' he said. 'They have been assigned this purpose; the destruction of humanity, or at the very least, they volunteered for it. But really, the biblical term the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse is just a reference point for them. Strictly speaking, they're not the four as described in the New Testament. They may have been inspired by these old things and from it taken a form that mankind can accept, so they have borrowed these ancient things.'

By now, Robert had had enough.

'Okay, so they're like a cover band?' he joked sourly.

Goyette gave Robert a look of disapproval.

'It's to help you understand. That's all. Hell, I'm not even a Christian,' Goyette exclaimed. 'I'm totally moral free. Sicko perverts, liars, and thieves are all welcome. My sole worry is that I may be infringing on some copyright issues, but my lawyers assure me I'm not.'

Anne was perplexed.

'So, help me here, what is your Temple Science Ministries about?' she asked.

'Survival. Nothing more, nothing less,' Goyette replied. 'And I'll take anyone with me who has the cash.'

Robert folded his arms and shook his head in disbelief but continued with his questioning.

'Well, Mr. Goyette, that's heartening to hear. Now the agricultural crisis in Australia, I presume, is due to Famine, one of the four you have been referring to, right?' Robert asked with a large dollop of mockery in his manner.

'Yes, but he is very slow and not living up to expectations,' said Goyette, non-plussed by Robert's attitude.

'Could what we see there in Australia just fizzle out then? You know, not eventuate to much?' Robert asked.

'That is conceivable.'

'So, if Famine goes to the wayside, becomes a bit of a Mr. Do-Nothing, and makes a mess of it all, then obviously things aren't set in stone, right? And so, presumably, these great disasters you're speaking about can also be averted. Am I accurate in presuming that, based on what you have just said?' Robert said.

Goyette then waffled on for half a minute, explaining why it was possible but improbable.

'If Famine falls short, the other three will simply take up the slack. It's just hard to see any other outcome apart from the end that I have seen, which I will speak about more at a suitable time.'

'Probably on another network,' Robert said.

'Probably,' Goyette responded.

Anne butted in.

'So, what gender is Famine? And what about War — girl or boy?'

By now, Kristen had seen enough. This is bonkers. Either the world or ZBS has lost the plot, she thought.

Kristen exited the deli, and ten minutes later, she gave the tuna and avocado sandwiches to the odd bearded sketcher in the boardroom, the guy known as War to some and Ivan to others.