ELSEWHERE

Razor and the other goons hurried down an alley, ducking under awnings whenever possible to avoid the falling rain even as it began to pool up to their ankles.

Razor cursed under his breath. He had twice been made a fool by that ugly noob. And now that old vagrant had interfered. But nothing could be done about the rain. Bad timing. The Cycles weren’t exactly predictable, after all.

“I’m heading back to the penthouse to waits out the storm. Buzzcut, Glitch, Roadkill, you coming with?”

“The penthouse? Are you sure?” Glitch said nervously. “Is… is HE there?”

“Nah, he’s still on his journey. It’ll just be us. We’s can party.”

Razor wanted to get Glitch alone ever since their recruitment. See exactly what was inside their pants. And he had a special powder to slip into their drink that just might help erase any objections.

“That place gives me the creeps,” Glitch answered. “I’m going to hole up in a Rez den. And I know Roadie’s down for that.”

Roadkill gave a thumbs up. She would love nothing more than to numb out from a strong hit of Rez right about now.

“Rez? That stuff will scramble your mozg,” Buzzcut complained.

“That’s the bloody point, innit?”

“I’ll come with you,” Buzzcut said to Razor. “There’s some top shelf liquor in the penthouse, and you can’t beat the viddy.”

Razor nodded, and the group split. Sending one last longing look after Glitch, he and Buzzcut hurried down to the lower stretch of The Commons where one tower stood a bit taller than the surrounding buildings. It had the look of a newer construction, and the letters NADIR were stenciled on the top.

Wading through the floodwaters, the duo entered the lobby, slicking off the wetness, and entered the waiting freight elevator on the far end of the marble floors. With a mischievous look, Razor produced a golden key from inside his vest and inserted it into a panel on the elevator. The doors closed, and the elevator rose.

They stepped out into a dark penthouse, spanning the entire top floor of Nadir Tower. Generous windows looked out in every direction over the shimmering lights of The Commons, increasingly swallowed by the torrential pink rain.

The fossilized skeleton of some ancient beast was mounted on display, along with other relics and artifacts decorating the expansive space.

Ignoring these, Razor and Buzzcut hurried to a large open kitchen, rummaging in the cupboards until they found a bottle of whisky with a red wax seal. Stripping off the wax, they took turns sipping straight from the bottle, giggling.

Ohmmmmmmmm.

They tensed. Buzzcut, wide-eyed, turned to Razor.

Ohmmmmmmmm.

A deep vibrato, humming in the darkness.

Razor mouthed, ‘He’s here.’

Setting the bottle down on the counter with a gentle clink, Razor shuffled deeper into the penthouse. Buzzcut, trembling ever so slightly, followed close behind.

In the center of the penthouse, an enormous man sat in the lotus position in the middle of a painted circle. He was fair-skinned and completely hairless, clad only in a fundoshi loincloth. His eyes were shut, and he was meditating in front of an ancient slab of stone emblazoned with hieroglyphs of winged serpents.

Razor began to speak but the man raised a large finger to his lips, commanding silence. He returned to his meditation.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Ohmmmmmmmmm.

As he meditated, two large snakes - tattoos on his back - began to writhe and move, twisting and slithering across the canvas of his flesh. Impossibly alive.

Ohmmmmmmmmm.

Ohmmmmmmmmm.

After several minutes, the chanting ceased. The snake tattoos coiled together, reformed, each swallowing the other’s tail in a round ouroboros design.

The man rose to his feet, reaching for a silk kimono that he wrapped around his huge frame. He clapped his hands twice, and low lights filled the room. Then, and only then, did he turn to acknowledge the two men.

“Herr Schlächter! I… I didn’t know you were back,” Razor began.

“Der Schlächter, not Herr.”

“Y-yes. I’m sorry, Schlächter. I keep forgetting. How was your trip? Did you find what you was viddying for out there?”

“A piece.”

His voice was deep and melodious.

“That's horrorshow! That's really horrorshow!” Buzzcut added in eagerly. Too eagerly.

Der Schlächter narrowed his eyes and looked down at the men who came no higher than his chest. It felt as if he were gazing into their very souls.

“It is fortunate that you came here tonight, Razor. A rumor has come to my ears that is most disturbing.”

“Oh?”

“I heard that you embarrassed us at the Armory. You and some of the new members were harassing a Volunteer and they humiliated you in public.”

If Razor could Shiva in his pants, he would have.

“Where… did you slooshy that?”

“Let’s just say a little bird told me.”

“You don’t knows the whole story! This Volunteer… they was cheating! I don’t knows what happened, but there was something strange going on. I swear I’ll get even–”

A single movement of his hand silenced Razor.

“The Volunteer is nothing. A nobody, from what I’ve been told, with no reputation to speak of. Our reputation, on the other hand, was injured by your impetuous actions. We are not some street gang of impudent hoodlums. We are a family. And without upholding that most sacred of things–reputation–how is our family to grow?”

Razor broke out in a cold sweat.

“Y-yes, sir. I mean… Herr… I mean, it won’t happen again…”

“Nevertheless, a price must be paid for your transgression.”

“Well, it was actually his fault!” Razor pivoted, thrusting an accusatory finger at Buzzcut. A look of absolute betrayal crossed the other man’s pale face. “We’s challenged that uppity noob to a shooting contest, and-and-and… Buzzcut lost! He’s the odin that brought shame on us!”

Der Schlächter turned his steady gaze on Buzzcut.

“Is this true?”

Buzzcut gulped.

“T-technically, yes.”

Der Schlächter sighed and placed his huge hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“You are young, and we are family. Forgiveness is possible, even desirable. But a price must be paid. Do you understand this?”

Buzzcut was nearly petrified. The silver grill on his teeth clattered as he trembled. But, he managed to nod that he did understand.

“Come with me.”

Der Schlächter walked to the kitchen, moving gracefully for a man of his size. Razor and Buzzcut obediently followed. Ignoring the open bottle of whisky, der Schlächter reached below the wide countertop in the middle of the kitchen and removed a black bundle. He set it down and slowly rolled it open like a parchment scroll, revealing all manner of knives, blades, and butchery tools.

“Choose.”

Buzzcut met the man’s eyes for an instant, then looked away. The gaze was too intense.

“This is an act of grace. That you may choose.”

Buzzcut looked down at the various implements. Stealing himself for the inevitable, he pointed to a small paring knife.

The enormous man shook his head from side to side, pursing his lips in gentle reproval. He selected a meat cleaver.

“No, my dear child. I did not mean that you should choose the blade. I meant that you should choose what part of your flesh the blade should be used upon.”

Later, as Buzzcut lay stretched out naked on the butcher’s block, a rag stuffed in his mouth to stop his screams, der Schlächter quietly recited the following verse:

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door.