Coup

One: On the Brink

Prelude

Gang HQ

The Five Comrades stood in a small, windowless room, chanting before their shrine. Black candles gave subdued illumination, and smoke fouled the air. Many times over the previous weeks, they’d performed this summoning ritual; always without success.

Today was different. Their ardor and unwavering faith broke through all obstacles. The chamber slowly disappeared, and they found themselves wandering a dim passage leading to impenetrable darkness.

Fuckin’ A! We made it through, one cried.

Shut up, moron, the leader snarled. Show respect.

Y-yes, sir.

The comrades—five young men with shaved heads and tattoo-covered bodies—huddled together and continued their progress down the corridor, peering ahead for any token of acceptance.

Over there, the leader whispered. See it?

The others nodded. A crimson skeletal face hovered in the distance, leering at them out of glowing, starburst eyes. It began moving toward them. Trembling with fear and anticipation, they bowed their heads in humble reverence.

Hey! a shrill female voice intruded. What are you guys up to?

An overhead light flicked on. The five spun around to discover they were back in the squalid little room. A slim girl with long blonde hair stood by the open door, hands on hips.

Get out, bitch! the leader shrieked.

He turned back toward the shrine, but the gate to the corridor was barred. Devastation crushed his spirit.

Ohhh… He gripped a comrade for support.

Well, screw you, boys, the girl said. This is your big ‘shrine,’ eh? Looks tacky to me. Stinks, too.

The comrades glowered at the trespasser, hatred twisting their ugly faces.

Forget this crap, the girl said. Let’s party.

They closed in on her. She screamed.

1. Danger Street

In the slum

I don’t notice the thugs until they are almost upon me.

Hey, Professor! a harsh voice calls. Where d’ya think you’re going?

I look up from my notebook to see a half dozen gang members blocking the narrow street. Their heads are shaved; demonic tattoos cover their faces and arms. Knives glint in their hands. I stumble back, nearly falling over. The thugs laugh.

Smooth move, dickhead, one of them sneers.

I glance behind me—nobody there, but retreat would be futile. I’m no track star, and they can easily run me down in their stomper boots.

My brain goes blank. Then thoughts barge in.

The first one: Idiot!

How could I have let myself be caught off guard? I’d been walking this mean street with its low, closely packed slum apartments, unmindful of the danger lurking about. I was jotting in my notebook as if the world might change should I ignore it enough.

The next thought: Don’t they know who I am?

"I-I’m Tomasio Hagridoon, from the Clarion newspaper."

Fuckin’ so what? the leader replies.

He’s the big, ugly one standing in front. Jagged words and symbols obscure his face, and devil-horn tattoos decorate his forehead. To his right stands a shorter, powerfully built goon—the lieutenant. He looks strong enough to snap my arm like a candy cane. The others are only slightly less terrifying.

A vicious grin twists the leader’s countenance beneath its layers of ink. A shark would look like that if it could smile. His ‘heroic’ comrades ape this expression as they advance in a semi-circle. A cold wave of evil precedes them, chilling me with horror. One might say the time for action has come.

Whoo! I toss my notebook into the air.

The thing comes apart, fluttering its sheets like crazed moths. My enemies pause, startled. I use the time to pop open my holster and withdraw the Mauser automatic.

I chamber a round, a reassuringly harsh noise, and inhale the intoxicating scent of gun oil. The wooden holster tumbles to the ground. I’d been backing my notebook with it, concealing it from view.

Fun’s over, boys.

I hold the big pistol two-handed, gazing down its barrel at the leader’s head. His arrogance vanishes. An alarmed hole in his face dislodges the shark grin, and his eyes bulge.

What’s the matter? I ask. Don’t like the welcoming committee?

No answer.

Drop the knives… dickheads.

Instant obedience. I grin as six blades clatter to the ground, enjoying the show. The thugs display less cheerful attitudes. The gun feels righteous in my hands, a powerful extension of my resolve. It will inflict lethal retribution at the slightest hint of defiance.

Do it!

My finger embraces the trigger. The world turns red, and roaring fills my ears.

Yes, I can drop two or three of these bastards before the others run off. Nobody would care, least of all the cops—after the usual bribe. The crime boss who employs these cruds will simply write them off as a business expense rather than deal with any bad publicity.

The leader’s aspect changes. The fear leaves his eyes, and resignation takes over. He expects to die, seems to welcome it. The death images tattooed on his body prepare to take him home. This attitude shift has a certain dignity, and I hate it more than his earlier insolence. I lower the gun toward his crotch, and his eyes widen. My grip on the weapon remains rock steady.

Shoot his nuts off!

Barely overcoming the temptation, I aim the gun at his left foot and pull the trigger.

Blam!

A deafening roar echoes off the buildings. It strikes my head with a physical blow. The leader crashes down, clutching his foot and howling with pain. The rest gape at him like the idiots they are.

Your friend is having a bad day, I taunt. Anybody else want some?

The coolness of my voice surprises me. I sound like a movie hero; the lines have a cinematic ring. Maybe I’m in the wrong business.

Five bald, tattooed heads shake in unison. They resemble big, decorated eggs waiting to get their shells cracked. It sure would be fun to explode those eggs, watch the blood and brains splatter. I decide against it, though. Reveling in violence seems too dangerous a path to take for long.

Pick up the garbage and get out, I say.

All the fight is out of the brutes. They help up their stricken leader and carry him away, blood trailing from his wounded foot. The lieutenant glances back at me with an odd, questioning expression on his tattooed face.

You be a good boy, now, I say.

Keeping my Schnellfeuer aimed at their backs, I stoop to pick up my holster and the best of the knives—a long, vicious blade with a red handle once carried by the leader. I boot the others into the stinking drainage ditch. Disturbed night creatures inside shift about.

People observe from windows, wariness and admiration etched on their faces. Small children stand in the potholed street, watching me from a distance.

"Be sure to read the Clarion! I call out. Best sports coverage in the city."

I step over some notebook sheets and continue on my way. Reconstructing the notes will be a hassle. The extra work will remind me not to be so foolish again.

2. A Dog’s Life

People usually call me T.H. or T, and work is my refuge. I’m a rather bookish type, a sports journalist who never played any game but can write about them in words people enjoy reading.

It was the gun that turned me into a joyous destructor that day. I would not have initiated such a confrontation, but since I was already there, I must admit it was rather fun. The Clarion newspaper obtained the pistol for me to deal with occupational hazards like stadium riots and getting jumped on the street between games.

Pro sports are one of the few things our people can hang onto these days. I’m only mid-20s but can recall better times before the drug scourge and the rise of cartels killed off decent society. Our government is hand-in-glove with the criminals.

Ordinarily, just the crime bosses and high officials (though I repeat myself) have guns. Also, the military and police. The military might still have some integrity, but our police are controlled by the aforementioned corrupt officials. The street gangs are considered too volatile to be trusted with firearms. They might get ideas that the bosses commissioning their services would dislike.

Those of us holding the rare gun permits make do with vintage weapons like my Mauser Schnellfeuer, which dates back to an earlier century. Mine is in mint condition, though—accurate and hard-hitting. Its wooden holster doubles as a shoulder stock you can attach when shooting full automatic. I tried that once. Pretty freaky.

I used to avoid flaunting the weapon. Why push it? Even gang bangers enjoy my sports accounts. Until now, my semi-celebrity status afforded some protection. Things are getting worse as our society unravels. Nobody is safe.

* * *

Is it all worth it? I wonder as I trudge along one late afternoon a week after my encounter with the gang.

Sure, the money’s good and getting better. The Clarion is desperate to keep me on the payroll because few others will accept such risks to keep our people entertained. Still…

My eyes rove the area, taking in every detail.

This is a typical depressed neighborhood. Potholed streets flanked by drainage ditches emitting foul odors; low, poorly maintained wood buildings; small shops and food stands already closing for the day. Shabby, dispirited people look on with suspicion.

Doubts assail me as I observe my standard safety procedures: Keep in the open on the main street, don’t get near obstructions where an ambusher might be lurking, and maintain a constant scan. Above all, keep the Mauser ready for instant use. Public transportation has largely broken down, and hired drivers won’t enter the rough neighborhoods I must cross to reach the sports venues.

I’ve turned myself into a walking fortress. The Mauser is always in my right hand now, connected to my wrist by a tether of woven steel. A 20-round magazine protrudes from the weapon. Extra ammo clips are stored in the holster and in my vest pockets.

An umbrella is tucked under my left arm, its sharp point facing backward. It’s really a weapon disguised as an umbrella, though it comes in handy during rains. I’ve taken to wearing sunglasses with internal mirrors so I can detect an assailant sneaking up behind.

My new vest has an inner layer of steel mesh to turn aside knife strikes. And don’t forget the trophy blade with its ruby-red handle protruding from my boot. All in all, I make quite a fashion statement.

It’s later than I prefer because I’d been delayed at the sports stadium. There’d been a brawl on the field, and numerous players had been ejected. A major riot seemed on the verge of breaking out, but the guards put a lid on it.

I remained to interview some injured players.

Now it’s getting late. Long shadows stab along the ground. A freak storm occurred two days ago, and piles of dirty snow edge the street. Soon they will melt, and the latest murder victims will emerge. Two gang members follow me a half block behind. I don’t know if they’re providing safe passage through their neighborhood or waiting for a chance to attack.

I have to maintain a quick pace to get home before dark. In the unlit streets, even the Mauser cannot guarantee safety. So, it’s with considerable trepidation that I behold a large dog blocking the way. The animal guards the inert form of another dog—a meal, a dead mate? Growls and bared teeth ward off any approach.

An array of unsavory choices confronts me. I can try to sneak around the animal, which means getting close to doorways where an attacker might be hiding. I can retreat to the corner, but I’d be closing with the gang members. Or I could slip down a narrow side lane already cloaked in shadow.

Is this a setup?

Go away!

The dog barks and advances, the hair rising on its back. I hold out the umbrella to fend off a change. The animal halts—barely. If I take another step, the dog will attack, and no umbrella will deter him. The noise and confusion closes in; my vision blurs… I raise the Mauser.

Blam!

The dog tumbles over, then struggles to rise—screeching the most piteous, blood-curdling howl, like a demon accusing me from hell. I can’t stand to witness such suffering.

I fire a second shot, a third… the animal becomes blessedly silent. The whole street is dead. Frightened eyes observe from the windows as I hurry past the slaughter and return home.

3. Time of Decision

Damn! All night the terrible cries of that dog play through my memory, denying me sleep. Every abused animal throughout history wails in my mind.

What else could I have done, though? I might have been walking into a trap.

When the dog accusations temporarily subside, the hate-filled faces of the gang members leer at me from the darkness over my bed. As always these days, the Mauser is at hand, and I must restrain myself from blasting the ceiling.

My little studio apartment seems like a coffin. The drab walls close in whenever I shut my eyes. I can scarcely breathe, and a faucet drip I’d never noticed before thunders in the darkness. This state of affairs continues until dawn when the ‘machine gun bird’ starts rattling out its tune near my window. I don’t know what kind of bird it is, but its rat-tat croaking assaults my ears every morning.

One might ask: If I’m making so much money, why am I living in this place?

Truth is, I don’t spend much of my income. Almost my entire salary gets wired to overseas accounts. I’ve saved quite a bit. Someday, I will follow my money and leave this tormented land, go to another country where I’m not in danger of being snuffed out at somebody’s whim. A place that offers its citizens more than despair, drugs, and fear.

As I lie amid the sweat of my torture cot, a blazing insight comes to me. Someday has finally arrived. I’m getting out!

The realization brings me some comfort, and I snatch a few hours’ sleep.

4. Meeting with the Boss

The afternoon finds me standing before my editor’s desk. He looks at me warily over the top of his glasses, as if he knows what’s coming.

What brings you in today, T?

Well, Boss –

Before I forget, he interrupts, "that was a