Rats In Suits
Chapter 1. The Infestation Of The Hightower
Last Harmony, Waterside Borough, November 6, 347 AW
In the narrow, grimy streets of the Lower East Side, where monstrous steel titans rise from the ground, nearly reaching the kingdom of god, dwells the rats. The rats would do anything to survive, tearing the flesh of their own kind for a breadcrumb dropped by a passerby or even consuming their own offspring when necessity dictated. Most despise them for their selfishness, but perhaps it is by disgust of ourselves.
At the intersection of Carver Ave and Herdwinz Road, two rats engage in a fierce fight. One is white with long claws and piercing red eyes, while the other, slightly larger, has a coat of black and gray shades, adorn with deep scars that bore witness to a life filled with hardships and struggles. They’re fighting over the remains of a rotten fish lying on the sidewalk, right at the base of the Menzer Tower.
In the heart of the Lower East Side of Waterside, the Menzer Tower looms, a symbol of architectural marvel and opulent living. This Gothic masterpiece, crafted from steel, soars high into the sky, defying the very heavens and casting its shadow over the bustling streets below. Its façade, an intricate symphony of ornate detailing and imposing spires, seems to narrate a tale of a bygone era when excess knew no bounds.
Yet, don't be mistaken. Although life within the Menzer Tower might differ from the filthy streets where these rodents thrive, this edifice is equally infested with rats.
At the highest level of the building, a gigantic and lavish office resides, so big that it takes up easily three quarters of the floor, in it two men both dressed in all black sit across from each other separated by a massive wooden desk. The name 'J.Hanover.' are clearly engraved on the front of the desk. The room, wrapped in opulence, is a sanctuary of extravagance. Deep mahogany paneling encircles the room, bathed in the warm, golden glow of a crystal chandelier. Ornate exotic rugs sprawl underfoot, their intricate patterns concealing the tower's secrets. Heavy, dark velvet curtains cling to tall windows, allowing only a hint of the world outside. The very air breathes wealth and sophistication, as the two men smoke cigars. The room is shrouded in a bluish-gray mist. The smell of the burning tobacco hangs in the air, a heady blend of smoky warmth and earthy richness, a scent that envelops the whole space.
The shorter of the two men sat behind the desk, comfortably seated in a fine leather chair that was easily twice his size. Dressed in an all black suit, black jacket, black shirt, black tie, black pants and black shoes. He sports a slight smile, a thick grayish mustache, a round nose, dark brown eyes and chubby cheeks. Short, round and stoops in stature, the man seems confident and at ease, puffing on a large black cigar.
The other man, sitting in front of the desk in a much less imposing chair, is much taller, with darker skin and an angular build. He's dressed up in a black suit decorated with gray stripes, his borsalino lying on the wooden monolith. Sitting stiffly in his chair, legs crossed and cigar in mouth, he holds a large notepad in one hand and plays erratically with a pen in the other. His round glasses, perched on his hawk nose, sit in front of his fierce and piercing black eyes. Eyes with which he stares at the person sitting in front of him without saying a word. His attitude seems aggressive, cocky and pressing, he resembles a bird of prey lurking over a rodent.
The shortest of the two men, J. Hanover, leans back in his plush leather chair, clears his throat, and casts a well-practiced smile that could soothe even the most troubled souls. Finally, he decides to break the silence that had already stretched on for a few seconds.
"Anvello... Well, it's been quite a while since we last sat together like this."
"Tirenzano, Mr. Tirenzano. I won't call you James, so I won't tolerate being called like that, Mr. Hanover," Anvello Tirenzano responds, his fingers abruptly halting their dance with the pen. He whisks the cigar from his lips in a swift, decisive motion as he leans forward, the cold gleam of his glasses reflects the dim office lighting.
A weighty silence hangs in the room.
"I'm sorry if I offended you, Mr. Tirenzano. Would you mind a glass of whiskey, or perhaps you would prefer som–"
"Shut it, would you! Do you know why I am here?" Tirenzano says, cutting Hanover off mid-sentence.
Hanover pauses, meticulously selecting his words as he's scratching his bald head. A suave smile graced his countenance once more, and his voice took on a velvety cadence.
"It's about the young Junior LeoSalvore, isn't it?"
"Indeed, you might understand that the big guy is quite concerned about his son's future. You see Mr. Hanover, this matter is causing a pretty big stir in our community."
Hanover nods solemnly, clasping his hands together.
“ I understand your concerns, what do you want me to do?”
In response, Tirenzano's eyebrows arch as he ashes his cigar.
“What do I want you to do..? What I want you to fucking do is get Junior fucking LeoSalvore the fuck out of jail. That’s precisely what.
"You are aware that our esteemed friend, Miss the mayor, is… well… is a staunch advocate of the principles of law, honor, and order. He firmly believes… he truly believes that no man should ever be considered exempt from the reach of justice."
"Well, perhaps our dear friend the mayor should remember who his friends are and who helped him secure his golden office downtown. And you shouldn't forget who got your seat on the city council on that very occasion."
"Well, huh (fumbling his word), the mayor is—"
"Do you know what I think is that y'all are too much of some of women to recognize that yall fucked up." Tirenzano interrupts as he scribbles something on his notepad. "How did y'all let Santeo LeoSalvore's son get arrested in the first place. Tell me Mr. Hanover. TELL ME!"
"Mr Tirenzano all due respect, you must understand that the Mayor Sparks did–"
"Enough! I dont want to fucking hear it. Don't want it."
Outside the office, where the commotion from the interior is gradually getting heard. Two sentinels stand at the bureau entrance. The figure standing to the left of the door leans against the weathered wall, engages in the struggle to ignite a cigarette. His task is made arduous by a capricious golden lighter, bearing the engraved insignia "B.A.". He is dressed in a sharp ivory suit with a blood-red pocket square that matches his tie. His ice-blue eyes pierce through the dark corridor, illuminated only by a white chandelier a few meters away. He possesses sun-kissed, blond hair and a cleanly shaved face.
To his right stands a column, tall and imposing. He wears a thrifted gray suit that drapes over him like a shroud. He also wears a loosely tied neckerchief that encircles his throat. The left side of his face is disfigured by a scar going from the bottom of his cheek up to his forehead. His eyes, deep-set and unyielding, reveal the weight of the world they've seen. He holds a profound, almost unsettling stillness—no reflection, no discernible emotion. Unshaven stubble covers a jawline that hasn't seen the tender caress of a razor in days.
The cigarette end, of the man on the left, is getting moist as it lingers between his lips, causing it’s form to gradually deteriorate. He’s visibly annoyed but nonetheless determined. A flame, red as blood, finally sparks out of the golden lighter, burning nothing but the man's fingers before disappearing as quickly as they came. Filled with frustration, the man hurls the lighter into the shadowy corridor, the gleaming golden casing vanishing into the dark mysterious depths of the tower. He then takes out his cigarette from his mouth and tucks it behind his ear, all the while the other figure standing at his left observes with a sidelong glance. The gaze of the two men meet.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Why did you throw away such a nice lighter, you just could’ve gave me it” The man on the right says with his raspy voice”
“Should have asked before, but believe me you wouldn’t want that son of a bitch” The man on the left answered, harboring an amused smile.
“Where did you buy it?” The column of the right side says.
“ What, you wanna buy it? (Sneers) Sorry to disappoint you. I didn't buy it, I took it from somebody.” The blondie replied.
A heavy silence lingers as the man on the right scrutinizes his interlocutor, examining him from head to toe. He meticulously observes with a perplexed look the way the man stands and bounces off the wall, as well as the habitual manner in which he fiddles with his hair.
“What’s your name kid, I don’t recall seeing you around.” he asks
“Volto Vizzia” The man on the left says, handing out his hand.
“John Lafayette” The other man responds, while putting his hands into his pockets and only giving a nod.
“I don’t recall seeing you around.” John adds
“Yea, yea, I’m new, originally I’m a boxer. Few days ago Mr. Tirenzano offered me a job, so here I am”
“Huh what, you trying to tell me that your lil ass is knocking shit out.” John says with a slight grin.
“Yea, twenty to fourteen with seven KO’s that's my record. I made a lot of people earn a lot and I never complained, always did the right thing and listened to the right people.” Volto Vizzia says enthusiastically, agitating his hands.
“Another way of saying that you were getting checks for taking real bad beating”
“That’s a way of putting it, I guess, but ain't that what we all do?”
“Certainly not what I'm doing, I simply take what I want” John asserts, his voice resonating with a deep, gravelly tone that comes straight from the depths of his guts.
“If you say so.” Volto responds, still harboring a slight grin.
John Lafayette reclines against the wall. He takes out a cigarette from his pocket and places it between his lips as he lights a match.
"You had that in your fuckin pockets the whole time, and you didnt thought about handing me one or sum." Volto exclaims, clearly irritated and vexed.
"You didn–" John is abruptly cut by the turmoil happening in the bureau.
"Damn, they must be going at it, back there. What you think they’re talking about'' Volto asks.
"None of my business neither of yours"
"Come on, you gon tell me you never got curious''
"No I never it's useless, It’s something you will quickly learn if you are serious about this life'' John responds.
"But–''
"Would you shut up in exchange for a match?'' John offers.
“Guess that could work,” Volto agrees, a smile gracing his features.
A silence descends upon the hallway, allowing only the hubbub from the bureau to be heard.
"I said no more fucking excuses!" Tirenzano demands, his voice laced with frustration, back inside the office.
"What you want me to say, the kid crashed out in public." Hanover responds, leaning forward in his gigantic leather chair, causing it to creak loudly, resembling a strained ship's hull in a storm.
"NO! No he didn't, he fucking didn’t and I dont want to hear it again. The word Santeo LeoSalvore holds more weight than the one of God himself in this damn city!" Tirenzano retorts, his eyes fixed on his notepad, still sketching something.
"If he says that a hawk passing by is white, then the fucking hawk is white. If he says that nobody saw what happened that day, then nobody did. If he decides that his son is innocent, then he fucking is! You hear me!" He adds. An exasperated scowl and a look of discontent etched across his face.
"And It’s y’all fucking job to execute that man will" Tirenzano continues.
"I know, I know, I will do what I can."
"No, you still don't get it. Doing what you can isn’t enough." Tirenzano responds.
"It's been three weeks. Three fucking weeks that I try to get a meeting with that cunt of a mayor, Sparks. And look, this is the only thing that I got. This isn't right." Tirenzano snaps.
"I know, it isn't, what you me to say" Hanover agrees, casually toying with his thick mustache.
"So we agree, it isn’t fucking right." Tirenzano responds, shifting his gaze from his notepad to lock eyes with his interlocutor's.
"Of course I do, I mean what you want me to say, it really isn't"
Tirenzano rises from his seat, relishing a final puff from his cigar before delicately placing it in the ashtray. He then sets his notepad, now closed, on the bureau. As he stands up he slips his hands into his pockets as he casts a look around the surroundings. His attention is captivated by a painting of Alenei The Conqueror, proudly positioned above the window to his left. Alenei unified the eastern Siarurian isles in 2100 BW, he is depicted magnificently. He holds his iconic burning spear in his right hand and a clay jar full of water in his left, astride his infamous dragon, Grecor, soaring over a blazing battlefield. The artwork, a true masterpiece, adheres to the minimalistic style typical of the era, yet the meticulous detail is evident in the rich array of colors and the visible brushstrokes.
His gaze then shifts to the right, where four full suits of armor harken back to the Carobian dynasty of the Frankoli kingdom. Adjacent to the armors is a resplendent fur, a tapestry of yellow and orange adorned with brown spots. Hanging from the bottom of this coat is a majestic mane, beneath which lies a regal muzzle with sharp teeth. It's a taxidermied sun lion.
Tirenzano takes a few steps towards it. When he arrives in front, he retrieves his hands from his pockets to adjust his glasses. Delicately, he runs his fingers over the fur, appreciating its texture. Leaning in, he closely observes the intricate patterns and vibrant colors adorning the coat.
"What a beast, truly magnificent, did you hunt it yourself?" Tirenzano says, turning towards Hanover.
"Huh, no, no, it came with the place"
"I see, you know my grandfather used to take all his son’s to go hunt in the southern archipelago of Bacuza. You know what I’m talking" Tirenzano explains.
"Of course I do. I used to take my wife a lot over there. Great beaches and nice people. And It’s crazy that you say that becau–"
"Every year, when they come back, they will go to my grandfather's house and show off their trophies. I remember (giggles) my mother used to be disgusted by it all. One year my uncle Joey, may he rest in peace, came back with a sun lion head. Never saw him so proud of something. That night he spent at least one hour explaining to me every fucking details, how he smelled it, how he saw it and shot it." Tirenzano recounts.
"Sun lions were initially brought to Bacuza from the east to serve as vermin exterminators. They ended up conquering the whole place, in other words they became the vermin. A bounty was placed on each of their heads by the same people that brought them in the first place. In only a matter of a few years the whole archipelago was free from them. Do you fucking understand what I mean, Mr. Hanover" Tirenzano states.
"I think I do." Hanover responds.
"Good, make sure that our friend the mayor does too." Tirenzano, seizing his hat from the desk, firmly plants it on his head. Simultaneously, he retrieves his notepad, flipping through its pages one by one, all under the perplexed scrutiny of Hanover. Coming to a halt on a particular page, he tears it out and places it on the bureau. Hanover grabs it and observes it without saying a word.
With a deliberate stride, Tirenzano exits the office, his notepad tucked beneath his arm like a confidential dossier. The colossal, ornate doors, adorned with intricate carvings, yield to his commanding push, swinging open with a weighty creak that reverberates through the corridor. The dim light from within casts a momentary glow on his silhouette before the doors close behind him with a muffled thud.
As he steps into the corridor, Tirenzano surveys the surroundings with a discerning eye, the polished marble floors reflecting the faint glimmer of the chandelier overhead. He approaches Volto, a subtle nod as he gives him his notepad. The exchange is silent, yet laden with unspoken significance.
"John, a cig and some fire" Tirenzano demands, and swiftly, John Lafayette hands one over with a match, they hurry toward the elevator.
Once in the elevator, Tirenzano loosens his tie. The carpet is yellow, the air is blurry due to the three man smoke. The acrid scent of ammonia-laden notes lingered in the air, assaulting the senses with an unmistakable sharpness.
"It smells like fucking piss. That tower must have cost millions, only to reek like the damn streets below." Tirenzano state.
The elevator doors slide open, unveiling a warmly lit, rustic hall. The blend of rich wood and enduring stone lends an air of timeless elegance to the space. Massive wooden statues, artfully depicting ancient gods, capture immediate attention as they stand proudly on the left. Their commanding figures exude both reverence and antiquity, casting intricate shadows that dance across the textured walls. The interplay of light and shadow effortlessly highlights the hall's detailed craftsmanship, creating an atmosphere that evokes awe and a deep sense of history.
They rush through the hall, oblivious to its intricate details. Vineo Gialini is waiting, wearing an unbuttoned gray suit, next to a black Kaizer 316, a marvel of automotive craftsmanship. The front grille, a bold statement of opulence, boasts a chrome-plated emblem with the distinctive Kaizer insignia. The windows are tinted and the interior is made of leather. Twin headlights, encased in elegant, rounded casings, illuminate the road with a luminosity that cuts through the night.
"Hey you took your time, Anvello!" Vineo says, laughing.
"Don’t got time vinny, we heading to 185th, got to see Slim Ant" Tirenzano retorts
"Got it boss" Vineo agrees as he's getting into the driver seat.
"No Vinny, you and Johnny in the back seats, new guy drive" Tirenzano demands, pointing at Volto.
As he’s getting in the driver seat, his attention is attracted by the body of a black and gray rat, laying in his own blood next to his guts.
"You’re getting in or not," Vineo exclaims.
Tirenzano offers no reply; instead, he takes a seat in the leather chair and shuts the door, still watching the lifeless rat.
Back in the office, James Hanover remains fixated on the torn page, the creased edges bearing witness to the tension in the room. As the smoke curls upward, he contemplates the torn document, with an annoyed and heavy look on his face. After another deliberate draw on his cigar, Hanover's gaze shifts to the ornate landline phone resting on the edge of his desk.