"Where do we even start?" Dion asked.

"Do you think I’ve just been jerking off this whole time?" Apollo said. "I've been reading tax reports,"

"Taxes? You don’t even get paid," Dion asked.

"No, you idiot. I've been reading theirs, the Wolfe's." He said. “Aenea has some resources at her disposable, family ties that allow her special privileges,”

"How's that going to help us?" Dion asked.

"He c-c-can check what they put their money i-i-in," Thaddeus said. “And w-w-who puts it,”

"That’s right, I want to know what Turnus owned, maybe we can get an address or even better, someone who knows him personally,”

"H-h-how are you going to find anything that can help us? I’d imagine rich people spend a lot,"

"That’s right. That’s why I’ve been looking at big purchases. Like, million dollar big,” Apollo said. "A bar, that was purchased by a Mr. Plissken. Plissken, Harold,"

"I never heard of him," Dion said. "Are we going to fight him next?"

They both looked at Dion, almost impressed.

"Every other purchase is under the name of a Wolfe. Most of them didn't even hide what they had, they carried it around like a medal," Apollo said. "Except for Turnus who himself must have had a large allowance. He bought little, if anything. So we have a weird situation where the Wolfes buy whatever they want, except for one, which happens to be most flamboyant of them all. How does that happen?"

“How?”

“By changing his name and buying stuff with another identity. He’s been covering his tracks for years, but I think we have him. He has to be Plissken, and he has to have bought this bar,”

"So lets go then," Thaddeus said. "But you know I'm just d-d-d-dropping you off, right?"

"Don't worry, I wouldn't expect anything else," Apollo said.

They arrived at the bar. 'Snake's Den,' the sign read. They both stepped out of the van (which was a blessing), the suspension rose three feet after they left. And behind Apollo, he could hear the driving roar of a burping engine, wandering into the highway.

"You know the drill, right?" Apollo asked.

"You talk, and I stop you from killing someone?" Dion asked.

"Yeah,” Apollo said. “Try not to stop me this time around though,"

Dion followed Apollo. Apollo opened the door with a sensible kick, between the front door and the main hall door was a set of body guards. They patted both of them down (oh, if only they knew where they kept their guns) and okay'd their entrance. Though something was strange about them, like their faces turned and accented some kind of annoyance when they saw the Vicars. It was a surprise they were even let it.

And when they stepped in, Apollo could swear he heard one of them mumbling into a small radio set, 'is that them?’

It's not like he wasn't surprised. He was almost flattered. Dion on the other hand, was dismally unaware, his head wandered around.

“It looks a lot classier in doors than out doors,” Dion said.

“Yeah, I hate it already,” Apollo went straight to the bar, past the round tables and guests with funny looking masks that at the time seemed contrived, and stupid looking.

“What can I get you?” The Bartender asked.

“Whiskey on the rocks, none of your fancy shit either. Give me the one that burns the most,”

"Absolutely, Sir," The Bartender said with that kind of voice that only the annoyed and the aggravated could make. The kind of voice that drags and begs itself not to come out. The hard, frustrated voice. He grabbed a bottle and slammed it in front of Apollo. A glass too, which at close inspection, appeared stained and smelled of something off.

Dion sat next to Apollo, he looked nervously around the room. The business suit and tie looking fellows were all staring, the bartenders and workers all stopped for a moment to look at the two. Even the girls fawning (or faking their fawn) couldn’t help but ogle.

The tables had small lights on them in the appearance of candles. They were gentle, yellow. Incense and nicotine filled the air, some hookah. The tables were small, roundish, made of glass too. A very modern design. Almost Japanese inspired with the intricate dragon carvings shining through. Dividers were set every few columns, and behind them, the shadows of bodies intertwined played out. The other bar tenders were taking care of their customers, emphasis on the taking care. Speedy, reliable and very showy that come with all the theatrics of pouring a drink. Apollo saw smoke come out of someone's cocktail, he swore it was magic.

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"What brings you here, sir?" The Bartender said, again, with effortful speech. He sounded French, fake-french. An American pretending to be classy.

"Something in particular," Apollo grabbed the drink. It had just finished pouring, and he sipped it. At the very least he could say it was done to specifications: burning all the way down his throat. "It wasn't your drinks I came for. Or the mood of your drinking house,"

The bartender stared at him. The others were looking too. They all seemed off, the air was filled with that nervous quality. It was as if everyone dropped their drinks at once and set down their glasses because the chatter died, the flirting and sleazy talk, all ceased. Like the incense candles, it was all burned out. And Apollo was beginning to notice, after Dion tapped him on the shoulders, the peculiarities of the bar.

It wasn't the design. Or the business casual look, or the sleazy men. It was the eerie nature, the men in corners of the rooms with masks hiding their faces (masks reminiscent of that ball party they had had suffered earlier, where Thomas Jr. had died with his head caved in).

Apollo turned around. Some men, giants, in all black, set their posts at each exit. They were wobbling left and right. And Apollo turned to face the bartender. He had moved closer to them, his hands underneath the counter.

“I wondered why you even asked,” Apollo said. "Something tells me you already know what we want,"

"I was trained on how to deal with people like you," And it seemed like his accent died. "It is my recommendation that you leave, sir. I think you've had too many already,"

Dion put his hands in his jacket. Apollo reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass.

"I'm here to find the owner of this establishment," Apollo said.

"They're not here, sir," The Bartender said.

"An address would be even better. I'm sure you have records on that, no?"

And he looked to his sides, to the body guards who carried that distinct hostility. The slow movements of their heads just to say no, the timid wobbling back and forth. The Bartender read this and looked back to Apollo.

"Sir, again. I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said.

Dion's hands moved underneath his coat. Everyone flinched.

Apollo looked to the corners of the room.

“No cameras?" He asked. The Bartender said nothing.

"Sir, please leave," The Bartender said. "It's for your own good,"

"Man, are we really going to do this?" Dion asked.

And the bodyguards, as if to respond the only way they knew, went to the doors and began locking them one by one. The Bartender backed away, he hit the shelves of alcohol.

"I warned you, man," All cordial, fake-french went out the window. He back away a few steps and then started running to the end of the counter. All the bartenders did. The guests were lead outside, some of them at least. Most were kept inside. Amongst those, (at least the smart ones) retreated to the restrooms.

Apollo took a sip and dropped it on the counter.

"How many do you see?" He asked.

"Eighteen," Dion said.

"Do you still feel sore from your fight?"

"A little," Dion said.

"Alright, this one on me then,"

"Just..." Dion began. "I know this is hypocritical. But please don't kill anyone,"

"That's up to them, not me,"

He downed it, like fire down his throat. The ice ball inside his glass rolled around, slipping and running down the edge of the bar. Someone fast approached Apollo and put his hand on his shoulder.

Apollo turned his face and smiled, which Apollo realized, must have appeared nasty. Because the person who grabbed him, whom saw him smile, conformed their face to some kind of disgusted growl.

And judging by the way the man cocked his fist, and the other cocked the hammers on their guns or pulled levers from their automatic weapons, Apollo guessed that they were pretty miffed by his ugly face.

So they settled it.

"Jesus," Dion said from the counter, his face seemed disgusted.

Apollo finished kicking someone across the chin, his boot marks stamped on the man's face. He stretched his back and felt four different knives moved in between his bones. Two on his shoulder, one on each side of his abdomen. So he stretched them out wards, as if flapping imaginary wings. They fell to the ground.

"I told you not to kill any of them," Dion said.

"And none of them are dead, right?"

Apollo looked around. The guests were underneath tables, some cried in the restrooms. There were men half launched into windows, some collapsed with the dividers and tables on the floor, unconscious bodies stacked on top of each other.

"Not bad for one armed jack, right?" Apollo said.

"Don't make jokes," Dion stood. "You're creepy when you make jokes,"

The Bartender, that fake french, was working the door to escape. Apollo walked over two different unconscious bodies (they were bleeding from their mouths, and their teeth looked like small germinated seeds against the dark brown hard floor).

"Where do you think you're going?" Apollo asked.

"Oh, god," His fingers dropped the keys. He shuffled to pick them up. His hands were shaking, his legs looked like jello with how agitated they moved.

"I think I asked you something before, didn't I?" Apollo lifted him, he dragged him back to the counter. The man clawed at his arm. He tried kicking Apollo’s other arm, before realizing there wasn't another arm to kick.

Then he was dropped onto the bar counter. His body hit small shot glasses, and they must have stabbed him because his pain was so severe as to cause him to moan.

Apollo let go of his arm. It’s not like the Bartender was moving by this point.

"So I asked for an address, and you gave me nothing, now did you just forget at the moment or..." He broke a bottle of vodka against the corner of bartop. "Do you just not want to tell me?"

Dion came up and put an arm on Apollo.

"I can't keep my buddy from killing you for too long," Dion hovered over the man. "So if you can't give him anything, then I don't know what's going to happen,"

"I don't know," The Bartender cried. "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know!"

"You better know someone who knows," He said.

"They’re..." The Bartender's face strained. "They're going to kill me,"

"God damn, can’t anyone say anything fucking smart. They're going to kill you?" He flashed the bottle in front of his face. "What's more frightening, the possibility of death or this fucking shank in my hands right now?"

He slammed it down next to the man's face. The glass broke and slid everywhere on the table. Apollo grabbed another rolling bottle over the counter. Dion stopped him from slamming it into a weapon again.

"You need to help us," Dion said. "I’ve seen my friend do worse. A lot worse. Stuff that would make you wish you were dead,"

The Bartender’s face strained. It seemed in the middle of tears and pain. His hand shifted over the counter, to where the beer faucets were. Apollo flexed, just in case.

He drew down the beer faucets, in a specific order. Three, one, two, four.

And they both heard a door open, somewhere down the hall behind the bartender.

Apollo looked down at the man.

"Thanks," He said. And slammed the second bottle down next to the Bartender. The vodka spilled over his face like an exploded faucet.

Dion followed loosely behind, looking back.

"Sorry," He said, the bartender wiped his face off, crying. "He's just...always angry, really,"