…
Step Five: Shut Up and drive—now at 250 horsepower!
…
“Ooh, a storm is threat’ning myyy very liiife today...if I don’t get some sheellter, oh yeah I’m gonna fade away…”
Tires branded the road at one-hundred and thirty-five miles per hour. The roar of her V8 engine echoed throughout the lonely desert, moonlight graciously bouncing off the beautiful finish of her turquoise body. Her hips swayed easily along the path as her smooth gear shift nuzzled into the palm of my hand—the perfect dance partner. Her name was Mercedes-Benz, and this carjacker was six years her senior.
Mick Jagger and Merry Clayton’s all-too-enthusiastic voices blared at maximum volume through the speakers. “Waaaaar, children! It’s just a shot away! It’s just a shot away! Waaaaar, children...it’s just a shot away! It’s just a shot away!” Of course, neither me nor Leroy minded all that much. Compared to the incident that happened back at the gas station a few hours ago, listening to The Rolling Stones was like having a ménage à trois with two luscious blondes. Hell, at this point I’d eagerly pay the old poncy bastards to lull me to sleep with an hour long repeat of “Paint it Black”!
And we ain’t even been to the military base yet.
Christ.
Fuck my life in all the positions you like.
Every once in awhile, my gaze would discreetly shift towards the direction of my passenger, who was sitting to my left in good ol’ European automotive fashion. Leroy had been very quiet since we nabbed ourselves this sweet ride. I knew his mind wasn’t exactly in the best place. How could it be? He had fallen victim to the otherworldly forces plaguing this tainted island. He had been possessed by one of them...or maybe he actually became one of them? How long would it be before he turned again? How long would it be before I turned?
Before I turned…?
…
I yanked the sun visor down to look at my face. Other than sporting some seriously stricken browns and a noticeably sunburned complexion, I appeared to still be a normal human being. However, you never know in a hellhole like Casa do Diaño. My skin could suddenly fall off my body, revealing a grotesque skeleton with all of its muscles and organs still intact. Or, even better, some Dead by Dawn shit happens and my reflection jumps out of the mirror to kick my ass. Hey, I’ve had just about everything else happen to me, haven’t I? And it has been awhile since I’ve seen Genghis Two or Zombie Bastard lurking around the insides of my brain. Who’s to say they ain’t still around, waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump me?
After a moment of staring at my reflection, my left hand retreated from the steering wheel and touched my face. My fingertips gently tugged at the bags under my eyes, exposing the red-tinted whites hidden underneath the skin-flaps. Then I relaxed my jaw and lifted my lips. My tongue swiped across the bottoms of my upper teeth and then returned to poke at my canines for a while. Nothing outta the ordinary, it seemed. My teeth weren’t longer than they were before, nor were they any sharper. No discoloration, no distortion.
Everything looked alright.
But looks ain’t everything.
“Raaape, murder! It’s just a shot away! It’s just a shot away! Raaape, murder—yeeaaah! It’s just a shot away! It’s just a SHOT away! Raaape, MURDER! It’s just a shot away! It’s just a shot away—yeeaaah…”
Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Not all rapes and murders are committed on the fiery streets. And, evidently, not all atrocities are committed by man. The Stones ain’t gonna mention that detail, though. Merry Clayton sure as hell ain’t gonna blow her voice out over it. Only religion junkies really put a lot of stock in the supernatural. Hell, if you asked me a little over a month ago, I’d agree that it was all bullshit. But now? This was shit you’d see in a goddamn movie. I couldn’t tell if all of this was really happening or if I was actually in a padded room back in New York City, wailing about monsters like a traumatized Vietnam veteran.
Sorry, Mick.
There ain’t no shelter from these fires.
“I don’t know about you, friend…” Leroy’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts and I quickly flipped the sun visor back up. “...but I usually find it difficult to focus on my driving when I’m more interested in making faces in the mirror.” I looked over at him as my hand grabbed the steering wheel again. “Yeah? I imagine it would be hard for somebody who never drives actual cars.”
Leroy stared at me for a moment, no doubt contemplating how safe he should be when picking his next set of words. If the baggy eyes and overall mopey expression on his face was any indicator, I’d say that he felt like rank shit over this whole situation. He wanted to say he was sorry for injuring me. He wanted to say that he hoped I’d forgive him one of these days. You see, my friends, Leroy certainly wanted to say these things...but he wasn’t gonna; not right now, anyway. Before he could ask me for my forgiveness, he needed to first forgive himself for allowing what had happened to happen. This being said, I could tell it was gonna be a long time before he’d feel comfortable addressing the gigantic fucking elephant in the room.
“I do drive actual cars, believe it or not,” Leroy finally muttered, “I guess you forgot about the snow covering up the roads in Norte, Sur, and Oeste District.” I gave him an empty chuckle before looking back at the road. “There ain’t any snow where it matters currently.” He leaned forward in his seat, craning his neck toward me. “Is this your way of saying that you want me to take over the wheel?” I shook my head. “Nah, I’m okay. Besides, I doan trust you drivin’ with that leg of yours. Your pansy ass might hurt yourself by puttin’ too much pressure on the clutch or somethin’. Wind up rammin’ us into a fuckin’ cactus or two.” Leroy returned the empty chuckle. “Fair enough. But maybe I don’t trust you driving when all you want to do is stare at your damn reflection.”
Nice response.
He was trying to move forward; emphasis on the word “trying”.
Trying to place his worries on the back-burner.
Trying to find a reason to smile tonight.
Lord knew I needed to do the same.
I forced my lips to curl into a crooked smile as I looked over at Leroy again, trying to concoct a witty response that would lighten the mood. Something that would take our minds off this terrible night for a little while, at least. “What can I say? I’m a sexy bastard.” He snorted. “You’re certainly one of those things.” My smile widened as I gave him a delightfully cheesy wink. “You doan need to say which. I can see the lust in your eyes.” Leroy cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Right. Men who talk like Bugs Bunny’s drunken uncle while looking like they just shoved a quarter up their arsehole really get my loins foired up, I tell yah what.”
Ha.
“Yeah?” I responded, looking back at the road. “Tall black dudes that sound like spaced-out leprechauns ain’t exactly my thing, either.” Leroy scoffed and punched my shoulder. “Fuck you! Just focus on the road, you filthy American dog.” I licked my bottom lip, busting through the cheeky grin plastered onto my face. “You’re from Alabama, you fuckin’ lush. You just think you’re Irish!”
“You mean like how you pretend to be Italian?” My foot eased off the accelerator a bit. “Buddy, my old man’s folks immigrated from straight outta the Aeolian Islands. If I were any more Italian, I’d have meatballs stuffed in my pockets!” Leroy blew some air from his lips. “That only makes you Italian by blood, not upbringing. You’re still a greasy slimeball from Brooklyn.” At this point, I looked at him and rubbed my fingertips underneath my chin. “Vuoi scommettere, stronzo?” He cackled loudly, shaking his head. "Linguistics aside, you’re still a loud-mouth, hotdog sucking, football fetishizing brute!”
Up came my eyebrows. “Man, what?! I doan even—” Laughter erupted from my gut in a spontaneous burst. I’d never heard that description for Americans before. I was almost upset that I wasn’t the one that came up with it! But only almost. The only reason I was willing to let it slide this time around was because Leroy was willing to humor me in my feeble attempt to make a bad situation somewhat bearable. His mind was still a restricted area for me, but I was beginning to see remnants of the fun-loving guy I know through his rediscovered sense of humor.
He found his lost smile...for now, at least.
“You know what? Fuck you. You take the wheel; I gotta stretch my legs for a bit anyway.”
We don’t need two nervous trainwrecks blasting through the demon-inhabited desert, you know.
…
…
Hands bound.
Legs tied.
Lips sewn shut.
A tall, scantily-clad demoness towers over me as the hot desert sand burns into my skin.
“You already know that it’s not just the desert. You know well that our influence is strong even outside of this island. You’ve seen how our process normally works. You’ve experienced it first hand; for yourself and others. You should consider this knowledge a gift, and yet you always express disappointment over it. Pity. A typical human doing what typical humans are greatly known for doing; biting the hand that feeds them.
…
I do look forward to seeing what you have to offer our humble island, Mr. Boy. Maybe you truly can make it a safer place. If not for yourself, than maybe for those precious children of yours.”
She points Myra at the space between my eyes.
I hear the four clicks of death and my heart shatters into a million pieces; my own gun has betrayed me.
Her finger squeezes the trigger.
…
…
I jolted forward in my seat, drenched in sweat. Whether the sweat was the result of the dry desert air or what the dark crevices of my mind had cooked up for dinner, I wasn’t exactly sure. What I did know was that it was now daytime, probably late morning or early noon. Roger Daltrey was on the radio, singing about his love being vengeance. To my right was Leroy Barris, who had one hand grasping the steering wheel and the other aiming his nine-millimeter Beretta at me. I’d say that this action rattled me, but it honestly didn’t. I mean, I sorta shot this dude less than a day ago; not to mention that I bloodied his face up some time before demons decided to hijack his body.
At this point, I was expecting him to blow at least two or three holes through me.
“What’re you dreaming about, Genghis?” I wiped the sweat off my face with my cast. “Uh, well, you know...nothin’ that’s killed me yet.” Leroy snorted. “What a precious answer that is. Is it anything the both of us need to be concerned about?” I shrugged weakly. “We’re already concerned about everythin’ else, man. This ain’t nothin’ new to us.”
That was only partially true, ladies and gentlemen. The voice that spoke to me was probably new to Leroy, but definitely not me. This being was one that I’ve seen once before—back when I was watching David Jostens murder his girlfriend. Yes, I’m talking about the guinea pig shapeshifter bitch.
The “doting daughter” had rescued me from my old apartment back in Brooklyn, which was on fire for some reason. She dropped me off in the desert and you guys know the rest of the story. She was as tall as I remember her, though she wore clothing this time around. Granted, it was a loosely fitted black robe that still left very little to the imagination. Unfortunately, it’s hard to be turned on by a skimpy lady when her dark eyes are burning into your soul and her sinister voice echoes in your ears even after she vanishes into her cloud of white mist.
“I do look forward to seeing what you have to offer our humble island, Mr. Boy. Maybe you truly can make it a safer place. If not for yourself, than maybe for those precious children of yours.”
I shivered hard and leaned against the door, watching the desert pass by. “I-It’s all good. You can put your little peashooter away now.” Leroy sighed and put the gun down. “Sorry, Genghis. I just...want to be careful, you know?” My forehead pressed itself against the window. “I ain’t sure how we can possibly be careful so long as we’re trapped in this sizzlin’ abyss.” He chuckled quietly. “Maybe we should just stop sleeping. At least until we make it back into colder climate.”
“I do look forward to seeing what you have to offer our humble island, Mr. Boy.”
“I might just do that,” I murmured as I watched my reflection, taking note of the still human looking eyes and nose.
…
There was about half an hour in-between me waking up and Leroy finally cracking from the long hours spent driving. “So much sand! I can’t take it anymore!” he whined repeatedly for a good ten minutes before actually pulling over to the side of the road. Wimp. That’s what riding snow waves all goddamn day gets you. Sure, you get to look all flashy and cool manipulating the elements to your advantage...but at a serious cost. It makes you soft—weak!
Leroy stepped out and limped over into the sandy field on my side, tugging on his crotch zipper. This left yours truly in charge of checking up on Mercedes—making sure all of her systems were still good enough to get us to Breogán Capital Hall. While I ain’t much of a mechanic, I know a thing or two about cars from the few times I’ve watched my old man work on snooty old people’s Cadillacs. You see, ladies and gentlemen, Dad was a failure in just about every aspect of life. Fixing cars, however, was the one thing he excelled at besides drinking enough alcohol to fuel a jet plane. And through my curious observations, I learned that the first step to giving a thorough vehicular inspection was seeing if any warning lights were lit up on the dashboard.
I climbed over into the driver’s seat, getting the full blast from the strong AC. Upon first glance, I was pleased to see that the incredibly unwelcome “Check Engine” light wasn’t staring me down. There also wasn’t anything indicating a low battery, low tire, faulty brake system, dead lightbulb, or failing power steering. The only thing the car seemed to be bitching about at the moment was me not wearing my seatbelt. Our deceased amigo must’ve had the car serviced before making his ill-fated trip into the desert.
He made one good decision during his lifetime, at least.
My eyes then shifted toward the fuel gauge, which marked itself at one notch over half a tank. This was a good sign, considering that we gassed up at Satan’s Pit last night; our girl efficiently handled her gallons. Plus, it meant that I didn’t have to step foot into another gas station for quite some time. You know, I thought I’d be over this “Gas Stations Enjoy Raping Genghis’ Life” bullshit after leaving the United States. It looks like I was very fucking wrong.
Beside the fuel gauge was the tachometer, which ticked our RPM level as just a little bit over the zero marker due to idling. The speedometer was to the left; we were currently travelling at zero miles per hour. A sigh of relief admittedly escaped from my lips upon this realization. I know, you guys. We were parked, my foot wasn’t tapping the accelerator—I get it.
I’m just...cautious, okay?
Above the speedometer and tachometer was the odometer. For a fourteen year old car, I was surprised to see that our gal only had seventeen-hundred miles under her belt. My guess was that she spent a large chunk of her life sitting inside somebody’s garage. She was probably an old family heirloom and Ol’ Mexican Face-Down decided that he’d take her out for a drive in the desert. Too bad that would be the last time his ass ever sat in this comfortable leather seat.
All-in-all, everything seemed to be working just fine.
That is, until I noticed the temperature gauge.
“Shit.” I quickly killed the engine once I noticed that the red ticker was sitting two notches above the halfway mark. I didn’t know if it was the hot desert, the long hours driving, or a combination of all the above. Regardless of the reason, Mercedes’ radiator was hot—too hot. The last thing we needed was the car overheating on us in the middle of the goddamn desert.
So my new plan was to keep the car turned off until Leroy returned and hope that it would be a long enough wait for the radiator to cool down. Surely it would be, right? The guy’s got a bad leg, for crying out loud! It was gonna be a challenge for him to successfully hobble away from the car, empty his bladder, and then hobble back without toppling over face-first into the hot sand. I mean shit; if he couldn’t even get into the car without having to hold on to me for support, I seriously doubted this task would be easy for him to do all by himself!
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
If—for some unforeseen reason—Leroy was able to make this a relatively quick pit-stop, I feared our ETA for Breogán Capital Hall would be greatly delayed on a count of us constantly having to stop and wait. Either that, or we just wait until the sun sets before we drive any further. Obviously, I didn’t like the sound of that option a single bit.
We had a mission to do.
I got a lady waiting for me back in Oeste District; I can’t be wasting time twiddling my thumbs in this fucking desert.
Plus I really, really wanted the AC kept on at all times.
You understand.
“Gotta be a bottle of coolant somewhere in here,” I grumbled to myself as I opened up the glove compartment. No surprise, all it contained was registration papers and empty cigarette boxes. After shutting the small compartment, I turned around and climbed partially into the backseat. When I found nothing but our bags and jackets—plus my hat lying on top of our newly acquired first aid kit on the floorboard, I stepped out of the car. “Gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me…” I opened the trunk on the Mercedes-Benz and searched feverishly.
I found a spare tire.
I found a charging cable for the battery.
Hell, I even found a full gas canister.
But no fucking coolant.
…
This motherfucker took a trip into the desert and didn’t bring any goddamn coolant to use in the case that his car started overheating on him.
“Sonuvabitch!” I slammed the trunk shut and kicked the left rear tire. I’ll tell you one thing; it’s a fucking relief that me and Leroy jacked this car when we did. If we didn’t, Mercedes would’ve ended up just as broken as her stupid ex-owner’s English. In fact, I was willing to bet that this was the entire reason the bastard was looking for a phone at that accursed gas station. He didn’t realize that the desert was hot as balls during the daytime, so he planned on calling somebody who was mechanically-skilled to give him advice. After hours of combing the desert for signs of life, he finally found a ratty gas station out in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, he arrived during that portion of the night when demons and crazy thugs were wide awake and wreaking havoc.
But that didn’t stop him—no sir!
He thought, “Maybe this shack has a phone in it. I’m sure somebody will answer my call at graveyard-shift o’clock!”
Fucking idiot.
“Genghis, what’s the trouble?!” I turned around and saw Leroy slowly limping his way back toward the car. When I say slowly, I mean that a flock of old geezers using walkers could’ve probably bested him in a footrace. My new plan was looking promising, so far. “The desert; that’s the fuckin’ trouble here!” I gestured toward the trunk of the car. “And the damn car’s runnin’ a fuckin’ fever!”
“A fever?! What are you talking about?!” Leroy noticeably stumbled at the word “fever”, but didn’t completely fall on his ass. Impressive. “Her temperature gauge is gettin’ really high, man!” I pointed at the road behind the car. “And that fat fuck from last night didn’t leave us any coolant to use on her!”
Leroy stopped walking, a noticeable look of worry smearing itself on his mug. “W-Will the car make it to the capital?!” I glared at him and shrugged. “The fuck should I know?! I doan even know how much further of a drive we’re lookin’ at!” His gaze switched back and forth between me and Mercedes as he mentally worked out the math in his head. At least that’s what I assumed he was doing, anyway.
After a moment, he shook his head and continued his walk. “We don’t have too much further, friend! In fact, we should start seeing the first couple of signs within the next thirty to fifty miles!” Great. This Mercedes-Benz might not make twenty miles, let alone thirty or fifty! Cool your head, Genghis. You can’t fight the military when you’re too busy panicking. “You better be right, man!” As Leroy got closer, I opened the passenger door for him. “If I’m wrong, then you have permission to shoot my other leg!”
Don’t test me, buddy.
I may just take you up on that bargain.
He grabbed onto my shoulder blade as he eased himself into the car. Once he was inside, I closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. Heavy, deep breaths escaped from my nostrils. We were so close. Once we were done dealing with the bureaucratic pencil-necks over at Breogán Capital Hall, everything else would be smooth-sailing. I closed my door and cranked the engine. The fucking temperature gauge had only gone down one notch.
I sighed loudly.
“Is now too soon to shoot you, Leroy?”
…
Operation Armored Raccoons, phase two.
…
Alright, so Leroy technically wasn’t wrong about the distance. Once we got the motor running again, I’d say we drove about...twenty-five...thirty miles before we saw the road sign advertising the city limits? Yeah, that sounds about right. Either way, his prediction wasn’t exactly wrong; so I didn’t need to put another bullet hole in his body. This being said, I want to make it known that my initial prediction was also spot-on.
You know, the one about us having to stop and start the damn car every five minutes for the remainder of the drive?
Yeah, we still had to fucking do that.
So what should’ve taken us maybe thirty minutes at most from our last pit-stop ended up taking us five and a half hours. I repeat; what should’ve taken us thirty minutes from our last pit-stop ended up taking us five and a half motherfucking hours. By the time we finally reached the city limits of Casa do Diaño’s capital, the Winter sun was already in the process of turning in for the night. That’s right; we made it to the capital city too fucking late in the day for us to speak to the fat-cats over at Breogán Capital Hall.
Boy, was Heidi gonna kick my ass something serious when I finally came back to Oeste.
I predicted I’d be barred from the bed for at least three or four days.
Alas, the transition into the city wasn’t as impressive as I thought it would be. Out of my list of guesses I had regarding the city’s relationship to the desert, it seems like my “Las Vegas” theory was closer to the truth. Despite coming across a shitload of skyscrapers, bright lights, and fancy cars cruising through the evening streets, we were still in the goddamn desert. No fancy barriers, no magical and/or demonic energies altering our perceptions, no sudden encounters with supernatural beings; just a bunch of tall buildings, snobby city-slickers, and air so dry your sweat evaporates as soon as it’s excreted.
After an entire month of snowy desolation and Lovecraftian horrors threatening my life, I considered this a breath of fresh air.
We pulled into the first motel that we could find and got ourselves a room. I’m fairly certain that the frail, Nosferatu-looking creep manning the front desk made some kind of wisecrack about two men sharing a room. However, I couldn’t tell since he—like every other motherfucker on this pigsty of an island—didn’t speak a word of English. But the bedroom eyes he flashed at the two of us after purring a phrase that sounded like “Veel plezier, jullie twee” told me that he might’ve thought we were gay. Not that that mattered to me, really. I just wanted to rest my aching back on a nice, cozy mattress after a long, gruelling trip into the desert.
And that’s precisely what I did the second that I closed the door behind us.
…
…
“I do look forward to seeing what you have to offer our humble island, Mr. Boy.”
…
…
I got out of bed roughly around six o’clock in the morning after an expectedly piss-poor attempt to get some shut-eye. Leroy was still slumped over the other bed, faintly snoring. I figured it was too early to wake him up at this point, so I took advantage of my temporary alone time and enjoyed a long, cool shower. It’s funny when you think about it. Me and Heidi have been complaining about the frigid weather in Oeste District this entire time, but all of that shit suddenly goes forgotten after you spend two nights in the burning desert. Though she probably wouldn’t feel the same way, considering that she complains about hot flashes when it’s below zero outside.
Seven months to go, Genghis.
Just seven months.
After stepping out of the shower, I wrapped a towel around my waist and re-entered the bedroom. One quick look at the clock hanging above the television set told me that I’d been bathing for a little over an hour and a half. “Let’s see,” I thought aloud to myself, scratching the stubble on my jaw, “what time did these fruity government offices open back home?” That was a good question, ladies and gentlemen. The closest I’d ever been to visiting any kind of elected official was whenever I stepped inside the King’s County Criminal Courthouse back home. I couldn’t remember exactly what time that place opened, but I did remember that it was relatively early in the morning when I stood trial for the murders of Benny Murray and Jason Frisk; I wanna say about nine-thirtyish.
The time was currently seven forty-two.
That gave us a little over two hours to wake up, shower and get dressed, check out of the motel, grab a bite to eat, and find the capital hall.
…
Yeah, I’d say Leroy’s nap time was officially over.
“Rise and shine, Lucky Charms!” I kicked his bedpost, which emitted a rattling noise loud enough to scare him awake. “What?!” He nearly rolled off the bed in the midst of his panic, which admittedly made me laugh. “You heard me! Go grab a shower so I can get changed in peace, alright?” After a few quick breaths, Leroy looked at the clock and then back at me, glaring. “It’s not even eight, Genghis. Go back to bed.” I crossed my arms, still grinning widely. “Nah, I ain’t tired. Besides, I wanna stir up shit over in Leste District at some point in the near future.” He sighed loudly and laid back down. “We will stir shit up in Leste District; I promise. For now, just relax and go back to sleep.”
Mmm, I didn’t like that answer very much.
“Forget it, dude. I ain’t good at sleepin’. Never have been; my brain’s always tellin’ me all this shit that I already know and it doan really know how or when to shut up.” Leroy grabbed one of his pillows and chucked it at my chest. “Count sheep, then.” I scoffed loudly and picked the pillow back up. “Fuck you I’m gonna count sheep! That never worked for me as a kid and it sure as shit ain’t gonna work now!” I stepped toward the lazy bastard and raised the pillow over my head. My grip tightened as I began pounding him with it.
“Now get the fuck up! We got alotta work to do today! Stop loafin’ ‘round and get on your feet!” Leroy growled loudly and kicked me away from him. “Alright, alright! I’m awake!” He pounded his fist against the mattress and climbed out of bed. “Heidi has the patience of a saint...” Through his grumbles, he dragged his feet into the bathroom and pulled the door closed behind him.
Satisfied with my victory, I snickered as I let my towel fall to the ground surrounding my feet.
…
…
Leroy was our driver once we left the motel behind. Since Nosferatu never sauntered by to inform us of any complimentary breakfast, we made a quick stop at a nice little diner just two blocks from where we were staying. Yeah, you heard that right; a nice building...in Casa do Diaño. The lavender exterior was just as pristine as the sunset-orange interior, freshly watered flowers sat on each table, the bar was so clean that you could see your reflection on the countertop, and it was one of the few places that had an English name; Bella’s Eatery. I didn’t know Miss Bella personally nor did I know what she even looked like, but I decided that she was gonna be one of my favorite people in Casa do Diaño. The pancakes alone were some of the best I’d ever eaten; blueberries and blackberries baked into them, freshly batched maple syrup, batter so fluffy that it melts on your tongue--mmph! Cast me away to your savory heaven, Baking Gods!
…don’t judge me, you culinarily ignorant boneheads.
Once we paid our bill, we made our way to Hand-Rubber’s Haven—also known as Breogán Capital Hall. After we pulled out of the parking lot, I accidently let it slip that I was worried about the car overheating for the three hundredth time since we’d jacked it. I mean, I figured we’d be okay for at least the first hour or two since the car hadn’t done a whole lot of heavy driving since the night before. But shit man, you never know in a place like this!
Unfortunately for me, this mistake led to Leroy attempting to calm me down by telling me the incredibly boring history behind the capital city. “Many English speakers just refer to this place as “The Capital of Casa do Diaño”. But there is an actual name for it, you know. Its official name is “Martelo do Carpinteiro”. That roughly translates to “carpenter’s hammer”; a nod to the great hero Breogán, himself.” I watched the rugged skyscrapers and finely-dressed people fade off into the streets behind us, which admittedly made me feel a little homesick. New York City, Martelo do Carpinteiro was not. Granted, I wasn’t entirely convinced that that was a bad thing.
“Breogán, you see, is often credited for being the founder of Casa do Diaño. His people claimed he was the son of Brath—kind of like how Christians say Jesus Christ was the son of their God. And like Jesus leading his people out of Egypt during times of oppressive turmoil, Breogán was said to have founded multiple lands in order to relocate both the Gaels and the early Spaniards. As you probably guessed, Casa do Diaño was one of them.”
Christ, there’s more demon infested islands hidden off in the world?
One was bad enough, goddammit.
“Now some people say that Breogán built the capital hall, as well; hence why it’s named after him. But I disagree! I personally think that he was a man of humble nature and would never gloat about his creations. After all, there aren’t any islands bluntly named “Breogán Island”, now are there? No, I think someone else built the capital hall and simply named it after him as a tribute. A sign of deep-seated respect, if you will!”
I rolled my eyes behind my aviator shades.
Before you ask, no; I didn’t ask him to explain this shit to me.
“And why wouldn’t anybody idolize him? Breogán led his people to new lands! He defied the very gods that forsake the Great Mother, herself! He said “No! I will not give in to you fiends! I will fight until the very end—preserving the future of my sons as well as their sons!” And that’s precisely what he did, Genghis—he preserved their future. And you know what else he preserved?”
I sighed, now rubbing the temples in my forehead.
What I wouldn’t have given for a fucking cigarette.
“No, Leroy. What else did he preserve?” He let out a really girlish giggle while happily tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Oh yeah, this was definitely gonna be his revenge for making him wake up before eight. “He preserved the future of our children! Of your children! I may not think highly of this island sometimes, but we wouldn’t be here today in this land of second chances if it weren’t for Breogán’s unmatched bravery. I think if more people were like him, the world would be a more stable place. I mean, look at how harmonious and inclusive everybody in this city is! It’s as if a little piece of Breogán’s soul has implanted itself in everyone living here.”
Pfft, right.
How about the rest of the monster infested island?
Hell, what about the open desert just a couple miles west?
Is Breogán watching over any of that, or is he playing favorites?
Before my thoughts could materialize into words, Leroy made a sudden left down Brath Avenue. There before us was an enormous building made of chiseled basalt. It looked kinda like a castle, but it didn’t have enough towers for that look to be fully achieved. The roof had an interesting design; one that I could only really describe as having what appeared to be a Chinese pagoda split in half, a large copper clock hanging in the empty space between. Resting at the entrance was twin lightning bolt flags.
Leroy didn’t need to tell me that we’d made it to Breogán Capital Hall, but he did anyway.
“Here we are, Genghis! What do you think?” My honest opinion? It was the second oddest looking building in Casa do Diaño. However, this was the good type of odd. It was unique, but still aesthetically pleasing to the eye. I couldn’t say the same for the number one spot, which belonged to the Hotel de Diamantes.
But I didn’t bluntly say that, of course. Instead, I whistled loudly. “You ain’t gonna find shit like this in the United States, that’s for sure.” Leroy chuckled in response as he parked the car. “I’m gonna take that as the “Genghis Signature of Approval”. Now, put your jacket on and take off the sunglasses.”
My eyes widened as my head snapped toward him.
“Excuse me?” I grilled him hardcore as I removed my aviators and pinned them to my shirt. “You feel this weather, man? You think I’m gonna wear a jacket when its a hundred fuckin’ degrees outside?!” Leroy unclicked his seatbelt and reached into the backseat, tossing me my green bomber jacket a moment later. “Yes, I do.” He then grabbed his jacket and slid his arms into it. “We have to look somewhat decent when talking to these clerks.”
I cocked an eyebrow and gestured at my outfit, which was a pair of black slacks and a Sex Pistols t-shirt. “The fuck’s wrong with the way I’m dressed? I’m goin’ in there as a customer, not an employee!” Leroy examined my clothes and shook his head before opening his door. “You look like you’re ready to spray-paint the building, not negotiate terms for entering a heavily guarded military base.” He slowly eased himself out of the car and closed the door. “Put a jacket on and let’s go!”
I sneered at the pompous bastard for good minute, but eventually did as I was told.
Once we were inside the building, we were met with a colossal hall with hundreds of desks off to the sides. The clack of people’s shoes echoed against the black-tiled floor. The walls, oddly enough, appeared to be made of alabaster despite the exterior being basalt. Gotta add decorative variation, I guess. Smack dab in the middle of the floor was a blood red rug leading to large double doors at the end of the hall.
Bloody textures leading to the next level of a government facility.
I’m sure the irony wasn’t intentional, but it was definitely strong here.
“Genghis,” Leroy whispered, nudging my shoulder, “stop staring; it may draw attention to ourselves.” I looked at him and whispered back. “Oh yeah, I’m so sure two schmoes are more distractin’ than the clusterfuck of desks!” He rolled his eyes and creeped forward, motioning for me to follow him closely so he wouldn’t fall over. It was only when we started walking that I noticed numbers and letters etched on the front of each desk. From what I could tell, the desks on the left were labeled with letter codes while the right side had numbers; examples being like “CBBF” and “3226”, respectively.
I could only imagine what it was like working here.
“Congratulations, you’re hired! Now report to Desk “ASSS”. Good luck finding it, rookie.”
We made it halfway down the hall before we turned right, stopping by the “5555” desk. Occupying it was some chubby white guy with a bowl haircut, typing something more than likely irrelevant on his computer. His plaid suit jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a baby blue undershirt. He looked like shit...yet I’m the poorly dressed scoundrel? I slapped Leroy’s arm and pointed at the guy’s outfit, glaring holes through my partner in crime. “Shut up, Genghis,” he mouthed before clearing his throat.
Tubby McTubster turned away from his computer and looked up at Leroy. “Huh? Oh. Welcome to Breogán Capital Hall. What do you want?” My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. “Holy shit, you speak English?!” Leroy punched my shoulder, pushing me over a bit. “Agh! Sawrry! It’s just...rare!” Well, it was. Aside from Leroy and a handful of Louis Couture’s men, the only other people I’ve met on this island that spoke English was Alexander, Doctor Okafor, and that one Boston douche that I shot in a hotel somewhere in Oeste District.
Leroy rolled his eyes and looked back at the clerk. “My apologies for my friend. He’s heavily sleep-deprived.” Porkins snorted and scratched the back of his neck. As he leaned back, I got a look at the crooked nametag clipped over his left man-breast. His name was Franklin. “Whatever. What do you two stooges want?” Leroy scoffed, clearly sick of this guy’s attitude already. However, he didn’t act out his frustrations. Instead, he just shook his head quickly.
“We have business to attend to over in Leste District; a meeting with Commander Adkins of the Defensores da Illa. We’re just here to get the prior approval needed before we can enter the base.” Franklin’s face didn’t change as he slowly—very fucking slowly—reached down to open one of the drawers in his desk. He sluggishly shuffled through files for a good minute or two before finally pulling out two thick packets.
“Fill out the non-gray areas—only the non-gray areas; the inspector will fill the rest out. You’ll also need three witness signatures as well as a signature from a licensed notary. The final signature will be provided by the inspector if you’re approved. If you lose this packet before making it to the military base, another one will not be provided to you. Do you understand the conditions I have presented to you?”
We both looked at each other. “You say you know a notary around here, Leroy?” He nodded. “Reverend Ziegler over at the Holy Trinity Sanctuary is licensed. He can review our case and sign if he likes what he sees.” I grinned, easily able to read between the lines. After all, Leroy wouldn’t stupidly announce our plans to people uninvolved. He was a massive idiot at times, but not that massive. “Then we understand the conditions, Frankie-Boy.” The clerk handed us our packets and we headed back to the car.
“So...time to go to church?”
Leroy snickered as he casually grabbed onto my shoulder for support.
“Never thought I’d hear you say that, but yes. Time to go to church.”