Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth like an infant. He also slept like one. After all, who wouldn’t in a double king-sized bed with vintage, one-thousand thread count sheets imported from Earth? To be honest, it was the best sleep he’d had in years.
Until the door was kicked open.
“Fearless! Wake up! Wake up, you absolute fucking moron!” Vicious shouted. He was a ball of pure, uncut anxiety. Fearless shielded his eyes from the morning sun that flowed from the floor-to-ceiling windows and softly fell across the bed.
Fearless yawned, “What is the matter with you? I was finally having a good dream. I was on the beach of Callisto, swinging in a hammock with a dark and stormy in my hand. There was also this giant crab running around, but that’s besides the point—”
Vicious whipped Fearless’s clothes from the night before at him; they hit him in the chest with a resounding whack.
“Get dressed. We overslept. We’re supposed to be outside Dodd’s place in ten minutes.”
Fearless considered the clothes from the night before. Then looked to Vicious.
“Where’s the girls?”
“Not here. They must have snuck out early this morning.”
Fearless’s eyes narrowed. He grinned. “How much sleep did you get?”
“Too much.”
Fearless sighed. “You went emo, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t go emo. We had a lovely, intellectual conversation about furniture.” Vicious remembered the night before, the drunken fog beginning to lift. “… and also about my father. Shit. I did go emo. I went way emo.”
Fearless shook his head as he buttoned-up his wrinkled, champagne-stained shirt. “Can’t imagine why she didn’t want to sleep with you. After all, it’s every girl’s dream to be taken back to an immaculate penthouse only to have the guy that lives there go all Jungian on her ass.”
“Freud.”
“What was?”
“The Oedipus Complex. It was Freud.”
Fearless scoffed. “Whatever, dude, I don’t care if it was fuckin’ Socrates. You need to get laid. You’re starting to crack.”
“Would you… Would you just put on your pants, please? We needed to leave ten minutes ago. Dodd is going to demote our ass if we’re late. If that’s even possible at this point.”
Fearless shimmied his black suit pants up his legs. And then he froze. He furiously patted his back pockets, but he already knew it was gone.
“Son of a—bitch.” Fearless looked to Vicious. “She stole my wallet!”
“Miss Jupiter.” He growled, “Who do you think?”
The edges of Vicious’s lips begin to curl. He tried to fight it, in a futile attempt at showing some compassion for his friend, his entire life pilfered away in an instant by a one night stand, but before long, Vicious couldn’t resist and doubled over.
And he wasn’t just laughing. He was positively cackling. Wheezing, struggling to breathe in between fits. Fearless remained stone-faced. Waiting for Vicious to finish. Part of him knew he deserved this, as the irony was not lost on him. But still he was annoyed.
Vicious stood up straight, finally coming to. “Christ. I needed that. I really did.”
Fearless’s eyes narrowed. “I’m glad that the violation of my personal belongings was able to aid in your momentary catharsis.” He threw his suit jacket over his shoulder as he made for the bedroom door. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”
Vicious followed, emitting a tiny cackle in his wake.
Fearless snapped back over his shoulder.
“I heard that.”
* * *
The air conditioner had been broken for weeks. The temperature on Tharsis City was usually regulated to a perfect 72 degrees Fahrenheit. It was one of the benefits of living downtown. But a meteor had passed by Mars earlier that day and the atmosphere generators weren’t particularly adept at dealing with screaming blazes of space radiation. Vicious and Fearless sat in a town car, parked outside of a luxury high-rise. Fearless grumbled as he pounded the bottom of his fist on the passenger-side vent.
“I thought he was going to get this piece of shit fixed.”
Seated behind the wheel, Vicious shrugged. “Dodd likes the interior warm. Why would he bother fixing it? He doesn’t care if you and I sweat.”
The town car was an older Earth model and it showed its age. The leather seats wore deep wrinkles and the passenger air bag had been hastily stuffed back inside after the previous driver had fallen asleep one night and clipped a streetlight. The Red Dragon had offered Dodd a new car. Multiple times. But he preferred this one. Neither of them knew why.
Fearless sneered. “Doesn’t mean we should have to watch him soak through his clothes.”
Outside, Dodd emerges from the front door of the luxury apartment building. He was old school, like a small-time gangster out of a movie. His hair slicked back with Vaseline and a gold chain that dangled from his neck. His mistress lived on the fifth floor and it was their job to drive him to and from his daily tryst.
Dodd slipped the doorman a few hundred woos as he left in order to keep their arrangement secret from the mistress’s husband who worked the night shift at the synthetic beef factory on the other side of town. Fearless marveled at the transaction.
“In the Red Dragon, even the doormen are on the payroll.”
“You’re late,” Dodd gruffed, as he climbed into the backseat. “When I say I want you outside fifteen minutes early, I want you outside fifteen minutes early. Got it?”
Vicious put the car in gear. He looked to the rearview mirror; Dodd was already starting to sweat through his white linen shirt.
“How’s the temperature for ya, boss?”
Dodd didn’t look up, he just muttered something that sounded like fine.
Vicious looked to Fearless, as if to say, told you so. Fearless mouthed back to him, Fuck you.
Today, like most days, they drove in silence. They had heard that the other capos liked talking to their drivers, bragging about their trysts and regaling them with tales of the bygone era of the Red Dragon, “when gangsters ruled the galaxy.” It was how relationships were formed. And eventually, how jobs were given once their trust was earned.
But not Dodd. He didn’t offer them a goddamned thing. Except the stink of sweat and cigarettes on a Tuesday morning.
The town car came to a stop in front of an old, dilapidated warehouse. A small, unremarkable sign hung next to the main door that read THE THARSIS CONCRETE COMPANY. But, Fearless and Vicious knew it as the headquarters of the Red Dragon—the business was a cover. No concrete was ever poured, unless they needed to conceal a body or two of course. Dodd shimmied to unstick himself from the worn leather seat and grumbled as he slowly reached for the door handle. Vicious glanced into the rearview mirror:
“See you tomorrow morning, boss. Fifteen minutes early.”
Dodd stopped, as if remembering something. He smirked.
“Hey, Vicious. What’s this I hear you live in Buckingham-fucking-Palace?”
Vicious’s eyelids flared. In an instant, his ears went from white to blood red. The darkness had awoken. And if they weren’t parked in front of the concrete company with half the Red Dragon inside, he’d have climbed into the backseat and choked Dodd out with his own gold chain.
The comment caught Fearless off guard. For two fucking months, the guy hadn’t said more than three words to them and now he’s throwing real estate jabs? He side-eyed Vicious. And gave him a subtle shake of the head.
Vicious cleared his throat. “Not quite, sir.”
“What building?”
He tried to buy himself some time to make up an excuse.
“Say again, sir?”
“Are you hard-of-fucking-hearing? I said what building?”
Vicious took a beat, and against his better judgement, told the truth.
“615 Park.”
Dodd had a dead-eyed look in his eyes, as if he had had a stroke. For a minute there they thought he might have. And then, after a brief moment of paralysis, he uttered, at an almost imperceptible volume:
“Then what in the world are you doing here?”
Vicious began to explain, “Well, I’m very driven and I don’t think my upbringing is a reflection on my work eth—”
But Dodd didn’t even let him finish. He slowly shook his head. His mood oddly dark. He looked out the window, and then, he said:
“Every couple years… one of you shows up. The story’s always the same. You have a complex about the way you were brought up. You’re ashamed of it. And you need to prove to yourself—and, most likely, someone else—that you’re not just some white-sneakered rich kid from Tharsis. So what do you do? You climb down from your ivory tower and you join the Red Dragon. And you let some low-class, former East Tharsis prick like me shit on you, day after day because it makes you feel better. It gives bruises to your apple that you can show to that special someone, to prove that you’re different now. But guess what, buttercup—you’re not any different. You’re still that white-sneakered kid from Tharsis. And you always will be.”
Dodd popped the door handle. And just before he slid out of the back, he made eye contact with Vicious in the rearview mirror. Then said:
“Next time get a fucking therapist.”
The door slammed shut. As Fearless tried to think of something—anything.
But Vicious didn’t want to talk about it. Dodd’s words had seared through and cut him in half.
He just wanted to drive.
* * *
Big Jae’s Noodle Bar was the worst ramen joint in town. The restaurant was understaffed. The noodles were chewy. The chopsticks left little splinters in your mouth. But the chef always saved a seat for Fearless at the bar. It was the only place in town that felt like home. Maybe that’s why he kept coming back.
“These noodles taste like cardboard,” Vicious muttered. He was in a dark mood. Dodd had done a number on him. Over the years, Fearless had learned it was better to not try and cheer him up when he was like this. He just had to wait for the storm to pass and hope that his boat didn’t capsize in the darkness’ wake.
Fearless slurped his noodles. “That’s why I like this place. The noodles always taste like cardboard. It keeps your expectations low. So when the day comes that the noodles are actually good? Well, now that will be a good day.”
Vicious fumed. “What kind of business model is that?”
“A bad one.” Fearless shrugged. “But Big Jae saves me a seat at the bar.”
“See, this is the problem with having low expectations. People feed you dog shit and you just eat it. After a while, you don’t need to even know it’s dog shit anymore.”
When, a few stools down, a glass shattered loudly on the bar. Fearless and Vicious turned toward the sound to find a pair of heavily tattooed men in their mid-twenties sitting a few stools down. They were both properly shit-faced, shouting obscenities at the waitstaff and spilling beer all over the counter.
Vicious shook his head. “And look at these two. Not only is the food dog shit, but the customers are dog shit, too.”
Fearless shrugged and turned back to his bowl of noodles. “Looks like they’re having a good time if you ask me.”
“Fuck this place,” Vicious growled. He stood up from his seat at the counter.
Fearless turned to him. His eyes narrowed. Concerned. “Where you going?”
“Bathroom.”
Vicious marched off toward the back of the restaurant. Fearless called after him as he motioned to his bowl of noodles. “You gonna finish that?”
But Vicious just kept on walking. Fearless gleefully slid Vicious’s bowl of ramen over. He stuffed the noodles in his mouth. Gave them a slurp. And shrugged. “This dog shit tastes pretty good to me.”
Fearless heard a surprising sound come from the far side of the restaurant. Laughter. It wasn’t that no one ever laughed at Big Jae’s, it was just no one ever seemed to enjoy themselves there. His eyes ticked to the sound. There were four of them. They were having a conversation. He couldn’t hear them, nor could he tell what it was about. But they all wore the same expression on their face. Fearless had never felt it. Whatever it was. It transcended happiness. It was warm. And it was eternal.
They were a family.
And it… was love.
Two parents. Two children. A boy. A girl. He marveled at the way they all listened to each other, the way they took turns speaking, even when they didn’t. The way how the dad softly rubbed the mom’s back every so often, not even realizing he was doing it.
True love is muscle memory. An emotion that is repeated, over and over, but never goes away, even after they’re gone. It remains. Hovering in the ether. Forever.
Fearless’s lips slowly began to curl. Not to a grin. But something else. For a brief moment, he did something that even surprised him.
He smiled.
* * *
In the bathroom, Vicious shook and zipped his pants back up. He walked over to the sink. The once white porcelain was now stained a ghastly yellow. The rusted-over faucet squeaked and sputtered as he turned the water on. He rinsed his hands and pumped the soap dispenser—but it only gave off a stale pump of air. Empty. Vicious grumbled. He turned to the paper towel holder and turned the wheel. Nothing. It too was empty.
Then, without warning, Vicious struck the paper towel dispenser with his fist. The plastic orb that normally encased the paper towels shattered. The shards clinked along the surface of the cracked linoleum floor. Vicious exited the bathroom. He didn’t bother to look at himself in the mirror. He didn’t need to. He knew what was coming.
Vicious stepped into the dimly lit hallway that connected the bathroom to the restaurant. At that moment, one of the drunken men from the counter stumbled into the hallway. He was skinny and boyish, his neck tattooed with an alpha and omega, the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet. He wobbled with his eyes half open as he approached Vicious, who was standing in front of the bathroom door.
“Fuck outta my way, man,” the drunk croaked.
But Vicious didn’t move. He just stared down the man with a condescending glare for a moment, then responded, “Maybe you should learn some manners.”
Without hesitation, the drunk unzipped his pants, pulled out his member, and began pissing on Vicious’s foot. Vicious looked to his boot. The glistening yellow liquid slowly absorbed into the custom-cut leather. His eyes ticked to the door that led back to the restaurant. For a moment, he wondered if a waiter, or, worse yet, the other tattooed drunk would walk through the door and see what he was about to do. But he didn’t care. The darkness had already made up its mind.
The drunk gave his member a shake. Then looked Vicious dead in the eye. “Fuck you.”
CRACK!
Vicious palmed the drunk’s head and slammed it into the wall! The drunk screamed as he stumbled about the hallway. Vicious grabbed him by the back of the shirt, then proceeded to throw him through a nearby door that led to the alley behind the restaurant.
The drunk stumbled in the dark alley that was enclosed by nine-foot fencing on both sides. There was nowhere to run. The drunk’s lip quivered. He slowly backed away from Vicious.
“Look, I’m sorry, man! I drank too much, alright. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Vicious grinned. “Too late.”
CRACK!
Vicious kicked the drunk in the chest with his dripping boot, splintering his sternum. The force of the blow momentarily lifted him into the air, until he came to an abrupt stop as his head struck the heavy steel dumpster. He slumped against it. Blood began to trickle down the back of his neck.
Vicious stepped into the light. He stood over the drunk.
The drunk gurgled. He locked eyes with Vicious. “Who the hell are you?”
Vicious knelt down next to him. “I am Vicious.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“A name that, unfortunately, you will not remember after I’m done with you.”
Something caught his eye. A tattoo on the drunk’s forearm. On it was an intricate tattoo of a Grecian woman in a flowing white toga riding a bull. The artistry was high-end. It looked expensive. Vicious considered it for a moment. Then looked him in the eye. Curious.
“What is that tattoo?”
The drunk struggled to stay conscious. His eyes fluttered. But managed to say, “Europa. The Queen of Crete.”
“It’s beautiful.” Vicious slowly nodded as he took it in.
“Mister…” the drunk begged in a whisper. “Please…”
Vicious leaned in close to the drunk. He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. And then, he whispered back.
“No.”
Crack!
Vicious wound up and struck the drunk across the face so hard the man’s orbital bone caved in. And then, he struck him again. And again. And again. There was no one to pull Vicious off. No Fearless to tell him the drunk had had enough. He was alone with the darkness. And they both planned to leave the boy unrecognizable.
Crack.
* * *
Inside the noodle bar, Fearless was still sitting at the counter. Both bowls of ramen sat in front of him, now empty. Vicious approached and stood next to him. He didn’t say a word. Fearless scrunched his eyebrows at the sight of him.
“What took you so long?”
Vicious motioned to the bathroom. “There was a line.”
Fearless looked him up and down with a suspicious glare. “You feel OK? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Vicious replied with an unusual urgency.
“We still have to pay.”
Fearless dug into his pocket for some cash. He slowly counted the bills out in his hand as he glanced at the bill that sat on the counter. Vicious glanced at the other drunk who was still seated at the counter. It wouldn’t be long before he went looking for his friend. And so, Vicious pulled a credit card from his pocket. He quickly ran it through the magnetic reader that was built in the counter.
Fearless clocked the credit card, surprised. “Damn, thanks man. I owe you one.”
“Let’s go,” Vicious said as he headed for the door.
Beep! The credit card reader’s digital display prompted him to tip 10%, 15% or 25%. Fearless motioned toward it, but Vicious kept walking.
“I said, let’s go.”
“No tip?” Fearless cringed. “Damn. You are a psychopath.”
* * *
The next morning they were parked outside the mistress’s luxury apartment building thirty minutes early. Vicious hadn’t slept much the night before. But it wasn’t the drunk that had kept him awake. It was Dodd. He was determined to prove him wrong. So much so that Vicious made a list of things that they would improve upon. Starting with showing up early.
Fearless yawned. “This better be worth it. That extra fifteen minutes ruined my morning.”
Vicious sipped his coffee. “That extra fifteen minutes is going to make us made men. You’ll see.”
“I’m not gonna lie, after what Dodd said to you yesterday, I thought I was going to wake up to find out that you went on a five-planet killing spree.” Fearless thinks about this for a moment. Then. “You didn’t kill anybody, right?”
Vicious’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He wasn’t expecting the question. And was desperate to change the subject.
“Of course not.”
Vicious’s eyes ticked to the car’s digital clock. It had been thirty-three minutes. His eyes narrowed. Huh.
Vicious rolled down the window and shouted to the doorman. “He get in late last night?”
The doorman shrugged. “Never showed up.”
Vicious turned ghost white. Shit.
Fearless slowly turned to him. Concerned. “OK. I’m gonna ask you again. And I need you to be honest with me here. Did you kill anyone last night?”
Vicious brushed him off. “No, I didn’t kill anyone last night.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure I didn’t kill Dodd. Where the hell is he?”
Fearless shrugged. “Who cares. Let’s go get some breakfast. I’m starving.”
Vicious began to spiral. “Who cares? I care! We’re here to prove Dodd wrong! And if he didn’t come sleep here last night, then we should be wherever he’s waking up, OK? We need to be anticipating his needs.”
“I’m sorry—did you just say I need to be anticipating Dodd’s needs? I’m not the woman who lives on the fifth floor of that building, OK? I don’t need to anticipate shit.”
Vicious snapped back. “You know what? Maybe that’s why we’ve been stuck at the fucking bottom of the ladder for almost two years now. You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Because you don’t want to put in the extra effort to take us to the next level. You just want to fuck around, do the bare minimum, then fuck off to the next bar!”
Fearless snapped back. Harder. “Because I like having fun! I’m sorry I don’t want to be a sad bastard with you all the time! You… sad bastard!
Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz.
They traded a nervous glance. Where was that buzzing coming from?
Vicious reached into his pocket. Pulled out his phone. The caller ID read “HOME”.
When you start off in the Red Dragon, you’re required to keep three specific identifiers in your cell phone’s contact list. “CLEAN UP” was a call coming from an assassin in need of a janitor. “PICK UP” was a call coming from your capo when they needed a ride. And “HOME” was a direct call from Red Dragon headquarters.
You never wanted a call from Home.
He gulped. “It’s them.”
Fearless gulped, too. “Answer it.”
Vicious’s thumb hovered over the Accept icon for a moment, then pressed it.
“Yeah.”
The voice on the other end sounded oddly official. Like they worked as small-time salesmen and the call was coming from corporate.
“We need you to come in. Now.”
Click. The voice on the other end hung up.
Fearless and Vicious traded a look. Shit.
* * *
You never wanted to be invited to the Tharsis City Concrete Company before sundown. It could only mean one of two things: Either they were going to kill you, or you were in so much trouble that they might kill you anyway. Fearless and Vicious knew that in either scenario, they were completely screwed.
As they approached the door to the concrete company, Fearless grabbed Vicious by the arm.
“We can still run.”
Vicious shook his head. “No, we can’t. They’ll find us. We both know that.”
Fearless sighed. “I can’t believe that we’re finally going to make it inside headquarters and then I’m probably going to die.”
In the daylight, the interior of the infamous Red Dragon’s headquarters wasn’t the evil super villain lair that they had built it up to be in their minds. It was a dark, dusty cavernous shell of a warehouse with a few scattered offices and skeletons of hulking concrete mixing machinery that were too heavy to dispose of. Not only did the concrete company make for a convincing cover for their enemies, but the Elders wanted to make sure their underlings didn’t get too comfortable.
Fearless shook his head. Then whispered to Vicious. “This place is a dump.”
A whistle came from a corner office. Dodd was standing in the doorway. He waved them over.
Fearless and Vicious approached the office. Vicious cleared his throat, nervous. Then said: “Listen, Dodd. Mr. Dodd. I just want to say, I, we, rather, are determined to—”
“Shut up. Sit,” Dodd said, cutting him off. He motioned to a pair of folding chairs on the opposite side of a glass desk that was smudged with finger prints and streaked with dry condiments. Fearless and Vicious traded a glance. Then followed orders.
Dodd reached under the desk and pulled out a titanium briefcase. He placed it on the table in front of them.
“Do you know what this is?”
Fearless slowly side-eyed Vicious. It was obviously a fucking briefcase. But neither of them wanted to say it. But what else were they supposed to say? So neither of them said anything. They just let Dodd talk. And it worked. Thank God.
“It’s an opportunity.”
Vicious perked up. This was the last thing that either of them expected. “Sorry a… what?”
“A project. An assignment. An errand. A fucking job. Do you need me to get a thesaurus or do you two special kind of dicks understand now?”
They turned to each other, a slight grin between them. Then back to Dodd. They nodded.
“The briefcase is to be delivered tonight to the financial district. There’s a small Italian restaurant called Angeli. It is owned by a woman named Slade. She is also in charge of the most expansive and important drug distribution network in the solar system. I think it goes without saying that she is an extremely important asset to the Red Dragon. Without her, our drug business falls apart. When you arrive, do not make small talk. Do not sit down. Do not stay for a drink, even if she offers you one. Do not do anything but give her that briefcase and leave. Got it?”
Fearless and Vicious nodded. Dodd dismissed them, as they tried to contain their excitement. They headed for the door, briefcase in hand—when:
“And fellas,” Dodd called after them. They turned back around.