Gangsta: Death of Anosmic Stray Dogs Chapter 2

We’re continuing. And a big thank you still goes to the awesome for providing the original Japanese text to me, thus making this translation possible.

Gangsta: Death of Anosmic Stray Dogs by Kawabata Junichi

Chapter 2 (pages 62-tbd)

For the story to make sense, first the events that took place 2 days after the aforementioned night out need to be retold.

At dusk, Worick and Nicolas were attacked by a group in black suits. Although the Benriya had already had a similar experience just the other day, it had to be said that in this city, the specialization of men in black wasn’t business but violence. Which certainly was not something to be surprised about. The two beat their attackers at their own game. Even if the Benriya didn’t wear ties, their forte, too, was violence nonetheless. And if anything, Worick liked to think of it as them being cooler because they went about said violence smarter.

The men were armed with guns. They knew full well what it meant to brandish a gun, and there were no doubts or hesitation when they pulled the trigger. That’s why the Handymen had no choice but to kill them. Nothing to it. Except it did raise a problem. Leaving several bodies lying around, even in a place as crappy as an ever stinking back alley, was not an option. He may have not looked it, but Worick considered himself a sympathizer of those fighting for beautification of the city, and what’s more, in this city there lived an old dog with a nose highly sensitive to the smell of gunpowder and blood.

About 5 minutes after the Benriya came under attack and a little over 2 minutes after they were finished killing their attackers, an old police officer with graying hair popped up at the scene in an old-fashioned sedan. Half-hanging out his car’s window, he went into a shouting fit, “You again, goddamn Benriya brats! I’ve told you countless times to not make messes without permission! How many more time do I have to be a goddamn broken record for you to get it through your thick skulls at last?!”

Worick and Nicolas knew Chad Atkins, an inspector with the First Division of the Central Police HQ’s Criminal investigations Department, since back when they had first come to Ergastulum. He was over 50 by now and had been in active service for at least 20 years that they could vouch for, likely more. An exemplary dirty cop who knew all the ways to survive in this city, and who, to the two, also was their senior in life, unchangingly nagging and meddlesome ever since they were kids.

Chad stopped the car in front of Worick and Nicolas and spared a glance to the blood-stained suits and the bodies wrapped in them.

“And you just had to kill some really troublesome schmucks, huh. The police ain’t the city’s garbage cleaning crew, you know!”

Nicolas twisted his features into a fed up grimace where Chad couldn’t see it and complained in sign language with listless motions of his hands.

‘The garbage cleaning crew actually does a better job than him.’

Chad span around to him and applied an unforgiving fist.

“Shuddup, damn brat!”

“I don’t need to see it to know what a shitty brat is thinking! Dammit, if you tangle up with the mafia, contact me before you take them out at least!”

Chad stuck a Hope cigarette between his teeth. Worick struck his Zippo lighter, thrusting both hands through the window and lighting the cigarette’s tip.

“We were sure these guys were just high-pressure bullet salesmen, you see. Killing them was a bad call, you say?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”“They’re the remnants of the Lombardi Family.”

Worick searched his memory.

—The Lombardi Family.

“They’re more like a street gang of young hoodlums looked up to on the streets than a mafia though? They don’t look like an especially troublesome enemy.”

“Oh, so they’re arms dealers.”

Chad bit the filter of his cigarette with his front teeth.

“They sold dying Tags with particularly hideous cases of poisoning in a set with Celebrer of abnormal concentration - only uppers, at that. The way to use that package is simple: you overdose a Tag on the drug and send that suicide present to the enemy. That’s the 'dynamite’.”“Oh. That’s nasty alright, I’m feeling sick to my stomach.”

There were 2 types of Celebrer, intended for use as a set. One was a stimulant called upper, and the other a depressant, called downer. The upper temporary enhanced Twilights’ physical ability and charged them with power and vitality, but on the other hand, it produced a lot of side effects. To reduce those side effects and prolong the duration of the effects the downer was needed. So with Twilights’ life sustenance in mind, it was advisable to take both those kinds of Celebrer together simultaneously.

What would happen to a Twilight who already had one foot in the grave if they were forced to overdose on the upper?

It wasn’t hard to guess. Their physical ability would temporary skyrocket and in the extreme frenzy of it, they would go psycho, rampaging uncontrollably, but when the drug wore off, they would pretty much drop dead. A one-shot weapon of mass destruction… indeed, the aftermath of using it would certainly resemble that of explosives.

“They weren’t a union like the Paulklee Guild that employs Tags. They only carried disposable goods, so no management and administration costs to speak of, making that business profitable. And there’s no small number of people out there who’d sell their Tags that became useless for a bargain price.”

Worick put a hand to his chin. Gaze steady, “Oh,” he repeated in a murmur again. “And what did you mean by 'remnants’?”

“A management fuckup with one of their goods leading to self-destruction? They sound like such smart guys, eh.”

“So to sum it up, those guys were just way too good at making people hate them, right?”

“Any suspects?”“Yeah, a couple. You two.”

Chad reached his hand out the car’s window and pointed with the end of his cigarette to Worick. The long part of the stick that had already turned to ash fell off, landing on the tip of Worick’s shoe and getting it dirty.

“Wow. How come?”

Worick leaned on the sedan’s roof and, balancing on one leg, shook off the ash from the shoe on the other. Chad swept off the hand above that was leaning on the roof of his car.

“The raid was done by a small group. Of only one or two people, most likely. The Lombardi guys, in contrast, had 15 or 16 on their side…”

“Except that flock was wholesale slaughtered. It wasn’t like the bodies were ridden with bullets from a small arms either. A feat like that is only possible to a Tag. And based on that, we can narrow down the list of suspects greatly.”

“I’m not finished yet. The Lombardi Family crossed someone with no prejudice against Tags - that is, someone like you. And the clincher here is the wounds from a bladed weapon left on the bodies. With all that evidence, it’s a simple association game even our greenass rookies can win with no problem.”“We’re really outta luck here, huh.”

Worick chewed on his Pall Mall, fisting a hand in his own hair. Chad took another glance at the dead bodies in the alley.

“Suppose I buy that those survivors simply believed the rumors and came to get revenge on you. That said, the fact that you’ve just turned the members of the Lombardi family into bad-smelling corpses still stands.”

“Yeah. And I can only hope that the gossip mill won’t forget it.”

It wasn’t like Chad seriously suspected them - at least Worick didn’t think so. That said, this incident provided enough material for the gossip mill to start turning.

Worick lit up the Pall Mall stuck between his lips, took a drag, breathing in the smoke deeply, and only then asked, “So what can we do to prove our innocence?”

“Come on, Chad-san. We know each other long enough to forego the probing part. So, your conditions, your wishes requiring our cooperation as exemplary citizens, whatever else you’re after, just tell us your request already.”

“That man?”“Daniel Monroe. He wants to see your mugs. So wag your tail at him the best you can, brats.”

At the surprisingly big name that came up all of a sudden, Worick almost let the cigarette fall out of his mouth.

Daniel Monroe. The boss of the Monroe Family and a person of utmost importance to Ergastulum. Even among the 4 Godfathers, as they were called, who held the supreme power, he was incredibly influential. No one among those living in the city was allowed to defy him. In addition, Worick and Nicolas belonged to his mafia Family in the past.

“Why though? He’s usually nice to Tags.”

That man wasn’t someone who would want to complain over something like getting the city rid of a bunch or two dealing in merch as revolting as that 'dynamite’ or whatever it was called.

“The problem is, the scale isn’t limited to just the Lombardi family.”

“'Cause that info still has the top secret seal affixed on it for now. But if you ask me, it’ll be on the news tomorrow’s evening. In any case, until it’s public, that’s all I can say to you. Now good luck playing the fox.”

Chad waved a hand like he was swatting a fly or something. The old-fashioned sedan hummed to life and took off.

Worick, too, waved his hand carefree, grimacing inwardly all the while.

The 4 Godfathers was not a name to be taken in vain. They were the base of this city’s governing system, safeguarded by the rules. A city like Ergastulum was so unstable that it was like it walked a tightrope every day. And the 4 pillars that stretched said rope for it were the 4 Godfathers. Thanks to them exercising potent power, Ergastulum was able exist in some semblance of maintained balance.

But a problem - something huge enough to affect the city’s foundations, at that - had occurred. It was extremely bothersome to get involved in that, but it looked like the Benriya had no option to stay out of it.

Chad’s prediction was on the money, and the next day’s 7 p.m. news reported what he talked about.

Only, Worick and Nicolas didn’t watch them.

The first reason amounted to the fact that they didn’t have a TV in their office.

And the second one was because at that exact time they were busy responding to a dinner invitation Daniel Monroe had extended to them.

The place chosen for the friendly chat was a luxurious Italian restaurant that he himself owned. Pleasant lightning of orange shades whetted the appetite, enhancing the already delicious cuisine - or so the premise was supposed to be, but only a complete madman could lust after the food under the circumstances where they had been summoned here by Monroe personally. To Worick and Nicolas he was a former master and someone with whom they had supposedly built a stable relationship of mutual trust, so they were better off than most, but even they could not get rid of nervousness completely. Even Nicolas, for all of his mad dog tendencies, seemingly remembered his place as he sat across from Worick. The napkin on his neck looked totally out of place and resembled an animal collar.

Monroe folded slightly inwards a slice of pizza with one hand and bit off a mouthful, chasing the drooping mozzarella with his lips like a kid, speaking in between lightly like he was making a small talk.

“They’re talking about it on TV right about now. Last weekend, 4 people died.”

The mafia killings by the unidentified. Person or persons responsible had the same modus operandi as in the case with the annihilation of the Lombardi Family, also taking out the Capo Regime of other famous mafia families.

Worick, touching a drop of rose champagne, asked, “Did your group have any connection with the Lombardi family, too?”

“Did you take that Twilight back?”

“I see. For the record, there’s nothing between us and them, no emotions, no nothing. No antagonism either.”

“Apart from the general indiscriminate love for this city’s naughty kids.”

Monroe wiped his stained lips on a napkin.

“A team of kids who loved to play with fire getting crushed isn’t where the problem lies. It’s in the fact that the incidents of indiscriminate attacks on the mafia that had started with them didn’t stop there.”

Worick was tempted to ask how much of a problem that was but held his tongue. He didn’t fancy to get caught asking Monroe stupid questions if he could help it. When before this man, he could relate a little to the feelings of a child seeking to earn good boy points with his parent. That’s probably what it was to be utterly outclassed.

If whoever was behind the killings made an attempt on the members of the Monroe family, then laughing off that mafia hunting was not an option. The 4 Godfathers were this city’s foundation, and trying to get a drop on them was a taboo.

Monroe looked innocent but breathed out a genteel sigh.

“Youths these days are smart. They read Nietzsche in a bar. And when they get so smart, you can’t tell if they’re a fool underneath. Isn’t that right?”

“Attacking us won’t lead to anything good. But if they came assaulting us anyway, then there must be some benefits, 'something good’ of another kind they stand to gain from it that makes it worthy the trouble.”“Oh my, what a dreadful story. Not something I could ever hope to replicate regardless of whether that 'something good’ was money or power.”

Monroe smiled.

“You seem to be suspected though?”

“Indeed. I’m well aware of your neutrality. You don’t side with anyone. It’s just that neither Nietzsche nor Heidegger explain anything about you two’s nature. Moreover, no matter how much one refines one’s mind, what stands meaningful at the end of the day is hard facts you can touch with your hand.”

One of Worick’s cheeks twitched as he cracked a smile.

“Should we take that as a job request?”“Did it sound that way to you?”

Monroe smiled, and his eyes, in a straight stare focused on Worick, were cloudless as a child’s. It was beyond Worick’s comprehension how a man who killed as easily as he breathed and was nearly killed as he slept at night could have such clear eyes. It was easy for Worick to believe that there was no malice towards him and his partner in the depth of those eyes, but the reason for that was because to Monroe the two were his cute ex-subordinates and useful pawns. He didn’t want to give Monroe an answer that would lose them his trust.

Worick grabbed some pickles with clumsy fingers and sent them into his mouth. He feared to guess their price, but at the very least it had a few more zeroes in it than the stuff he munched on in the bar with Dario. It was truly unfortunate that the circumstances didn’t allow him to enjoy their taste properly.

“We’re much obliged to you. It goes without saying that we will try to live up to your expectations to the best of our ability.”

Now, the question was what exactly those expectations were. Would it be enough to give Monroe those mafia slayers’ heads with a ribbon on them and a bouquet as a present? Or should they set up a table to sit the perps down with none of their limbs missing so that a talk with them was possible?

While Worick tried to imagine which would make Monroe happier, Nicolas, who was slowly carrying pasta to his mouth a few feet away from Worick, set the fork aside.

“YoUr coNdiTIonS?” he asked - not with the sign language, he actually voiced the question.

Nicolas didn’t use signs when communicating with Monroe. He, too, had certain rules set for himself. Since he could not properly regulate the volume of his voice and adjust how it sounded, his intonations were weird to the ear, but that’s precisely why you could tell he was sincere.

Monroe smiled a gentle, kind smile as if to a dog that came to snuggle up to him. He put the slice of pizza he had only taken a single bite out of on the napkin and stood up.

“Cheap meat will taste bad no matter how you cook it.”

After the meeting with Daniel Monroe, it felt like the expensive food and wine the Benriya were served had vanished of its own accord, seemingly without entering Worick’s stomach because the blond handyman’s belly felt positively empty when he returned to the office and made a single call.

The person he called to was Dario. When they drank the night away a couple of days earlier, Dario forced Worick to take a box of matches of the hotel the short man was staying at. Worick had already thrown it away, but for better or for worse, he never forgot anything he once had laid his eyes on.

Having told the front desk clerk Dario’s name, he set the receiver aside and smoked one of his Pall Malls. A couple of minutes later, he heard Dario’s obnoxiously loud voice on the other end and picked up the receiver again, inviting him for a meal.

Dario immediately accepted. Naming a cheap Spanish bar as the meeting place, Worick hung up. He doubted Dario was too familiar with the city, but whatever, he’d figure something out.

Then Worick changed suits. From his best looking one to one that he didn’t care if it got dirty a little - with blood and stuff. Waving a hand to Nicolas who had started his routine masochistic workout, Worick left the office.

When he arrived to the venue, the familiar vivid violet monstrosity had already been parked in front of it. That car looked out of place absolutely everywhere, he thought and smiled to himself lopsidedly.

Dario occupied the seats at the very back of the bar. At the sight of Worick, he raised a hand, grinning happily like he was reunited with an old friend.

When Worick first heard of the mafia killings, the first face that came up floating in his mind’s eye was this innocent in its simple-mindedness mug. He had no basis. It just was that he couldn’t put it past this guy who didn’t even know Nietzsche’s nationality to hold even the Monroe Family at gunpoint in the heat of the moment. Also, the fact that this man was an outsider who came to town only recently was suspicious. Generally, Twilights couldn’t survive anywhere except Ergastulum, but there were known precedents of strays managing to survive in the gate cities for a while.

There existed rules obligatory for Twilights to uphold. They were known as the 3 rules.

The first one demanded that Twilights not cause intentional harm to humans. Also, they were not to harm humans by turning a blind eye to danger and destroying the balance.

The second one stated Twilights must obey humans’ orders no matter what. An exception was to be made if the order given contradicted the first rule.

And the third rule allowed Twilights to defend themselves as long as the action did not go against rules 1 and 2.

Among those, the most important demand was the clause about balance. And talking about balance was the same as talking about Daniel Monroe, one of the 4 Godfathers.

Twilights may have far outclassed Normals in physical prowess, but they were weak creatures who could not survive without Celebrer given to them by Normals. The higher a Twilight’s rank was, the more they were aware of this gap in the standings. That’s why the three principals were upheld by them. The circulation of Celebrer and ruling over Twilights through it was a major business to the mafia, and for that reason mafia killings by Twilights was the epitome of foolishness. Getting caught was only a matter of time, as well as obviously getting killed.

Chances of people who lived in this city long enough to run this kind of gig were very low. Common sense was something that was etched into one on the level of instincts over time. But Dario was a newcomer. It would not be strange for him to lack the brand of common sense this city required.

Hiding these suspicions behind a light and easy smile, Worick crossed to Dario. Dario gulped down whatever was left in his bottle of Corona and spread his arms like he expected a hug.

“This time you invited me! I’m honored.”

“Nope. I don’t have much to do all year round, and I usually just stroll around aimlessly during the day. You guys, on the other hand, seem like busy people.”

For someone who allegedly only strolled around aimlessly, he had a bit of bags under his eyes. Worick ended up imagining the worst that could have stood behind that small lie. Except, in this guy’s case, there was a whole lot of other possibilities. And actually, Dario pinched the skin between his eyes and said seriously and without a shadow of shame. “I watched too much porn.” Acting out a mysterious persona would be out of character for a guy like that.

Worick took a seat and ordered double Old Parr along with Dario. For food, Worick just threw in whatever seemed okayish: gherkins and onion pickles, liver pate with oranges, lightly grilled marinaded mackerel - each of the aforementioned was fairly decent in this bar.

After a toast, Dario, steering the ice cubes in his glass with his finger ill-mannered as ever, cocked his head to the side and asked, “Come to think of it, where’s the other half of your duo?”“Nic may not look it, but he’s a hardworker, so working.”

No harm would have been done if Worick had just replied honestly about Nicolas working out back in their rooms. Mixing in that little lie, he gauged Dario’s reaction, except he didn’t get to see anything he might have wanted to see. Dario didn’t try to steal any suspicious glances at him in secret, nor did he try to look around in hopes of catching the sight of the Tag. It looked like he took Worick’s words at face value. He was someone with whom tricks and tactics were a waste of time, basically.

“Did Johann-chan get better?”

“Then you should’ve brought him with you.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Hey, hey, the last time it got out of control was because of you though.”“Really? Oh well, whatever, the fact still stands,” he said and swished his Old Parr.

Worick started with pickles. This place’s pickles were yummy, even though they were too sweet, if you thought about it.

“Tell him to take better care of himself for me. As two bros with high-maintenance partners, having an in-depth discussion about burdens of nurturing them doesn’t sound too bad for today.”

Dario had already downed about a half of his double Old Parr. Letting out a moist breath, he laughed.

“Johann never caused me any trouble though.”

“What, being picked on by some hoodlums counts as causing trouble? In that case, I’m causing him a lot more trouble than vice-versa.”

“I don’t remember very well. Just new scars popping up on my body here and there before I know it.”

“I remember that you saved Johann. And I remember my Fiat, the best car in the world. A posh babe complimented it.”

“Yup. How did ya know?”“'Cause I heard all about it the other day.”

They talked about it when he drank with Dario a few days ago. Although due to Dario being dead drunk at the time, his sentences were more like a string of disjointed words, but Worick still remembered.

“That so. Anyways, she was one fine woman. With a good taste, too. She pointed at it and said that face was cute.”

“Moron, the Fiat’s of course! And then on a sunny Sunday we drew the picture of the dog that broke its chains on the hood together.”

Dario hoisted the now empty glass and hollered, “Hit me with another!”

Then he stuck a Garam between his lips and patted his pockets.

“I forgot the matches. Lend me yours.”

“That’s what’s so good about me.”“Hey, you’re not supposed to say that yourself.”

Worick fished out his Zippo from the pocket, and Dario moved in closer. The bar’s interior was dim, and for a fleeting moment the swaying light illuminated the short man’s face. As he withdrew the lighter, Worick took the opportunity to light his Pall Mall as well.

“To put it simply, only really important things remain in my head. I only forget dull things, trifle things. It’s nice when it’s so simple, no?”

“What d'ya mean, same story?”

“Oh, my Fiat. The best wheels praised by the best girl. I’ll drive it for my whole lifetime. The dog pic is also great.”

“Oh, you’re interested? Shame though, 'cause I don’t remember.”

“The reason was something stupid then, is all. The fact that I drew it together with the best woman is what’s much more important. And on the hood, too. It’s like the important memories run just in front of me, always.”

The Pall Mall in Worick’s mouth bobbed.

“True, that’s great. Was she that great a woman?”

“But she praised that car.”

“I’m sorry then. I got jealous of your fine girlfriend and poked fun at you a little.”

“Wait up, ain’t you going too fast?”“I’m in a good mood right now. I came to a new city, and I made a new friend. Can drinks taste better than on a night like this?”

Friend? That felt off to Worick, but he didn’t protest.

Instead, Worick, too, asked for another glass of Old Parr. He wouldn’t say that Dario’s drinking manners were necessarily good, but he didn’t think them bad either.

“How long have you been in town, remind me?”

“And how do you like Ergastulum? Pretty different from North Gate, no?”

“Uncool stuff, huh. Like what?”

“And the stuff with Tags?”

“Not much, you just seem like a guy who’s free of the prejudice against them.”

“I’m honored. And what did you like about him?”

“True, Nic eats a lot.”

“Vaguely, but yes.”

Indeed, Nicolas was like a hungry beast. And what he was particularly hungry for was blood. A hunger for winning though? No, not so much. His was more pure, a hunger for violence.

Worick lit up another Pall Mall. Seeing it, Dario put a Garam in his mouth, too. Puffing out smoke, he smiled broadly.

“You though, I’m not really sure.”

“Whether you’re hungry or sated already.”“I wonder myself. I feel I’m up for another slice of Margherita after this though.”

Was Dario the mafia slayer?

If he was, he had to be a Twilight then. Except there were no tags on his chest. Did Tags who threw away their tags even exist? No, that was out of question. Tags were bound tight by Celebrer, so doing that was the same as suicide to them. It was an act even more improbable in its eccentricity than an attempt on this city’s balance.

Dario got thoroughly intoxicated in an hour and continued drinking for 2 more.

Worick came along for the ride, bracing himself for the imminent hangover.

When they exited the bar, it was drizzling. Because of the change in humidity and atmospheric pressure, it ached beneath the eyepatch and from that alone Worick was able to guess what kind of weather it was outside even when still being in the rowdy bar where it was impossible to hear the beating of rainfall.

Unable to watch Dario stumble around, having lost his sense of balance, he lent him a shoulder. Worick judged that Dario should sober up soon enough if left to sleep it off on the seat of that vivid violet monstrosity of his.

As Worick was trying to sit Dario down in the car parked in front of the bar, Dario’s foot stepped in some dirt, leaving a muddy line on his trouser cuff.

“Hey, hey, don’t get my suit dirty!” he barked.

“Nah, ain’t happening.”

“Good taste, ain’t it.”

“Even the girl said so, back in the past.”

“Huh? Well yeah, and we’re talking about my Fiat here!”

“Dun give a crap. It’s a little cool, but that’s it. Nothing compared to my Fiat.”

“What? You dissin’ my Fiat man?!”“We’re talking about your suit right now.”

Worick finally managed to deposit Dario, limp and listless like a marionette off its strings, onto the driver’s seat of his car. As he did, a photo slipped out of the short man’s chest pocket.

“Hey, you dropped something.”

Worick picked it up and spared it a momentary glance. On it, he saw a bit younger Johann and a girl of 12-13.

“Yeah, sorry.”

Dario took the photo from Worick very carefully and returned it to his chest pocket.

“Is that the girl who praised your Fiat?”

It didn’t look like it at all. Worick asked the question in jest.

“Kid bro’s l’il sis.”

“I’ve no sisters.”

Dario and Johann seemed like siblings but they weren’t blood related. So why did Dario have the picture of a girl who was his self-styled little brother’s sister? Worick felt curious but he didn’t think he’d be able to pull anything worthwhile on the subject out of the intoxicated Dario.

After a while, Dario put both hands on the steering wheel. Head lowered, he mumbled quietly, “It stinks.”

“Not that. Another smell.”“Some good nose you have, you drunkard.”

From behind, rustling of tyres on wet pavement came. A black sedan appeared - a cheap looking one at that. It passed by the side of the violet monstrosity, swiveled its rear end by 90 degrees and blocked the front.

In the black sedan, 5 people rode. From the driver’s seat and the passenger seat, 2 men came out. From the back seat, 2 women and another man. All in boring uniformed suits. Like their black sedan, they thoroughly lacked individuality.

Combing his hair, wet with the rain, Worick inquired, “I heard nothing of the plans to close this road any time soon?”

The men didn’t answer, just drew their guns.

Worick promptly threw the Fiat’s door open as far as it could go and, with it as the shield, ran backward, putting some distance between the men and himself. They fired. 2 shots put cracks into the glass of the door’s window. Worick didn’t feel any pain blossom anywhere in his body. Looked like they had missed then.

Rolling across the wet ground, he hid behind a dirty concrete-block wall. Having readied his Colt Government, he peeked from behind his cover to check the enemy position.

Ueh, a stupid sounding voice came.

Dario, with steps lacking any hesitation, was coming closer straight to the man who had just fired at his car. He was a perfect practice target, but the man apparently forgot how to pull the trigger, probably from the shock, a dumbfounded expression on his face.

“Hey. Because of you I sobered up, and I don’t like it.”

Indeed, neither Dario’s voice nor gait was faltering anymore. Except doing what he was currently doing could only be attributed to alcohol making him lose all reason.

“What have you done, you bastard?”

Dario indicated with his eyes the cracked glass of the Fiat’s window.

Like it was the time for that! Worick couldn’t help clicking his tongue. Wait, could it be that Dario simply didn’t find this situation dangerous? If he was a Tag, it made some sense. If, say, it was Nicolas in his place, mere 5 Normals trying to charge him head-on would be no match to him, no matter how many handguns they toted around.

At last, one of the suited bandits - the woman standing in the back - took Dario at gunpoint, probably finally remembering her mission. But, before she could pull the trigger, Worick fired. A few seconds after the gunshot resounded, the woman’s body collapsed. She thought she fired the gun in her hand, yet found blood dying her own right shoulder. Worick wasn’t any good at sniping, probably due to missing the left eye.

In any case, Dario was still fine, but the situation deteriorated from bad to worse. Now two suited thugs, having regained their fighting spirit, pointed their guns at Dario. The remaining two apparently didn’t bring guns. They instead had batons which didn’t go well with their suits. Seeing that, Dario, too, tried to take out the Cold Woodsman from where it was tacked at his belt, but by all accounts, he had no chance to make it in time.

Worick was about to make his escape while he had the chance, but before he could, a voice in his head - maybe that of reason or of curiosity - whispered, 'Don’t you want to find out how Dario plans to get out of this sticky spot?’

Would it turn into some bizarre shootout contest of speed drawing? Or would he dodge the bullets with his superhuman physical ability? Both possibilities were plenty feasible in case he was a Twilight.

When Worick thought of that, his feet stopped dead in their tracks. He simply couldn’t imagine that Dario had nothing up his sleeve. His actions completely lacked the self-preservation instinct, after all.

4 gunshots immediately followed.

Each of the two suited thugs fired 2 shots. Dario didn’t fire even one. He didn’t move from his spot either. 3 out of 4 shots missed, but the last bullet sunk into his thigh.

—He’s seriously got nothing?! You gotta be shitting me, dammit all!

Dario dropped his Cold Woodsman and collapsed to his knees where he stood. The two muzzles followed the movement, sliding down. Worick just pulled the trigger. He didn’t really try to aim, but luckily for him one shot hit something. Before checking what, he leaped out of the wall’s protection and, continuing preventive barrage, ran to Dario, wrapping an arm around the man’s waist when he reached him.

It helped a lot that Dario’s body was small. Rolling with the momentum, Worick pulled the body into a narrow alley. Simultaneously, a barrage of bullets was unleashed on the two of them, as if a dam got broken. One of the bullets grazed Worick’s shoulder. The wound wasn’t deep, but it did send a wave of pain like high fever crawling across his skin. Gritting his teeth, he endured it and, getting up, straightened his stance. Peeping from behind the wall, he fired another shot to intimidate the enemy. The heat of pain ran rampant across his shoulder.

“My leg hurts,” Dario complained mumblingly.“Hell if I care.”

He lay collapsed on the wet ground, and Worick grabbed him by the nape of his neck and pulled.

“C'mon, sober up, man, seriously. Please, Dario.”

“Listen up, you Psycho Stripes.” Worick pushed the gun against Dario’s chest. “This ain’t baccarat, and I’ve no intention of leaving my life in your hands along with the money. If you don’t wanna bite it, take this seriously.”“I’m serious like never before, I’m telling ya. When did I ever horse around?”

Dario shrugged, not giving the gun at his chest even a passing thought, like always.

—Was this really his serious mode?

Worick couldn’t tell. But for putting on an act, his body was too tense. The stripes of his suit were dark where the bullet hit him in the thigh.

Worick, pissed off at Dario’s uselessness or maybe at his own untimely curiosity, clicked his tongue.

“Is the marble grip this year’s trend?”“I’ve no hobby of discussing fashion fads.”

Dario was unfazed as always, but his Colt Woodsman lay on the ground right in the middle of the under fire area, not looking like it could be of use to them anytime soon. They were outnumbered and outgunned. At this rate, their situation would only get worse and worse. Worick wanted to take to his heels already, but running around with this limping marble grip fan wasn’t something he particularly wanted to try out. So what should he do then.

Just as he was busy recalling the map of their surroundings, he heard suspicious sounds coming from behind them, joining the booming of the gunfire.

Dario was the first to hear them, calling Worick’s name. Worick span around, pointing his gun in the direction. Drawing closer was one man with a baton. The wound on Worick’s shoulder hurt. He pulled the trigger. The muzzle of the gun shook. The bullet lodged into the concrete wall with a high-pitched swoosh. Worick didn’t get to fire a second shot. Inside the strangely slowed down time, the man’s baton connected with Worick’s forehead.

His world growing hazy, Worick tried to aim his Colt Government again. Only, Worick’s consciousness slipped before he could pull the trigger.

Worick naturally couldn’t accurately determine how long he had been unconscious, but if he had to guess, probably 15 or 20 minutes, something along those numbers.

It was painful to lie with his nose squashed against the concrete floor, so he forced his body to turn.

It looked like he was thrown into some stale garage. It was a spacious place you could park 4 cars in, except there were no cars. In the first place, the space looked mostly empty. There were a few wine bottles on the floor, and a few old wooden crates lined up along the wall. And that was all. The place had one exit, draped with a big but frail-looking shutter door. There were small windows for lighting, but their size was not big enough for a person to fit through.

Worick was surrounded by 3 suited thugs. Out of the 5 of them that got out of that car, 2 got hit by bullets, so the number added up, except among the 3 was the woman that Worick shot in the right shoulder. In which case, one other was sleeping on the bed, and one more was outside, guarding the perimeter.

Worick’s hands and feet were tied, but nothing gagged him, preventing him from speaking. Choosing a random thug out of the 3 currently looking down at him, he used the chance and spoke up, “Is this a no smoking area? I’d like you to take out a cig from my pocket and let me smoke it if it’s not.”

The woman with the bandaged shoulder approached him, her heels tapping against the floor sharply.

“I’ll give you something that’s far more effective than nicotine.”

The sole of her shoe stomped on Worick’s cheekbone.

Swallowing the iron-tasting liquid in his mouth, he considered his situation.

—They didn’t kill him.

The easiest and most obvious reason for that would be them wanting to use him as a hostage against Nicolas. If 4-5 Normals were to take on a Twilight, using a hostage was a viable option. Twilights were like beasts, but due to Celebrer and society’s effects, they allowed themselves to be tamed on a deep-seated instinct. In the extreme case scenario, if Worick said die, Nicolas might just die. That said, it was pretty unthinkable for Nicolas to allow himself to be forced into submitting through something like holding Worick at gunpoint. It didn’t feel much like a dangerous crisis as long as they could think smart. If there was a problem, it was in the fact that having to wait for Nicolas to come and save him like some damsel in distress was very lame.

Chuckling to himself, Worick asked, “What are you gonna do with me now that you have me?”

The one to answer him was the woman with bandaged shoulder again.

“Use you for what you’re worth, then kill you. Otherwise, it won’t pay off.”“Was your suit that I ruined that expensive? In that case, I did very wrong by you, eh.”

The woman grimaced in displeasure and kicked Worick in the stomach. The hit wasn’t all that strong, probably because she was rather light in terms of weight, but his forehead struck by the baton earlier and the shot shoulder throbbed in pain.

“That’s right. It was something a man bought me, and now he can’t buy me anything anymore. The way he laughed was vulgar and got on my nerves, but he had the ability and talent necessary to be appointed as the Capo Regime of a mafia family. He had a future and could make it big.”

Worick shook his head. “We’re not the mafia slayers you’re looking for though.”

This woman and her helpers must have been hit hard. It looked like the rumors about Worick and Nicolas being the ones behind the killings spread a lot wider than Worick had originally thought.

“At the very least, it’s beyond doubt that you hunted down the survivors of the Lombardi Family.”

“Oh really. Who’s backing you? What are you trying to achieve by upsetting this city’s balance?”

“But you keep in touch with a suspicious outsider not from the city.”

She was talking about Dario. If Worick confirmed that yes, Dario was suspicious, would he get a chance to get out of his current predicament in one piece? But Dario was too weak. And Johann was the same, getting totally beat up by puny thugs. There was too little basis to suspect them of being the mafia slayers.

So Worick could only shake his head.

“We just happened to drink together.”

“Nope, that doesn’t sound right. I don’t even know your man, and it goes without saying that I didn’t kill him.”

Was Dario okay? Realizing that he was worried a little about the guy, Worick smiled a bitter smile. It wouldn’t have come to this if it wasn’t for that idiot in the first place.

Worick didn’t think he gave the woman any reason, but she went and kicked him in the abdomen again.

Spitting, the woman said, “Whatever. I disliked you for a long time anyway. Getting all cocky and setting up the Benriya business, playing house with a Tag, such a hypocrite. What, did you think that Tags would become normal human beings if you just patted their head kindly?”Worick had to laugh at that, “What is a normal human being, exactly?”

No matter what he said, they wouldn’t kill him right away, he guessed. However street-level they may have been, a mafia was a mafia. Worick had no doubt they knew all the ways how to make use of a captive.

“Is someone who buys into a misunderstanding, fires her gun left and right on said wrong assumption, scrunches up her face like some ugly salted Bacalada [*] and throws a tantrum because of a stain on some suit a normal human being?”

The woman glared death down at Worick, not bothering to hide her rage. She pulled her gun out with her left hand clumsily.

“I’m right-handed, but my right arm is unusable for the time being, your courtesy, so I’ll have to make do with what I have. I’ll fire 6 shots. If any happen to hit you, well, sorry.”

So that was how she was going to play. Maybe this woman wasn’t as composed as Worick had hoped. And that was why dealing with a hysterical woman was never a walk in the park.

If worst came to worst, he would die here, Worick realized. Oddly enough he wasn’t too terrified of the prospect, although he did find such a death quite silly.

The woman disengaged the safety.

Directly after, a deafening booming much like an explosion came, and the shutter door got smashed to pieces.

The person to appear was… not Nicolas.

The first thing that came in sight was the clumsily painted dog with its wide inappropriate grin, followed by the rest of the vivid violet monstrosity.

In the blink of an eye, the dented front of that tasteless car crashed into the man who stood near the shutter and sent him flying. The hood got warped, and the dog’s sneer got even wider. That mad dog went straight to where Worick was, hitting another man on the way. The wheels on the right side flipped up the wooden crates by the wall. The woman, features twisting, managed to jump out of the way anyhow. Behind the broken windshield Worick’s eyes met those of Dario on a smiling face that was very much like that of the dog on his car. Bound, Worick couldn’t move. The car skidded, sparks flaring up where the sunk hood scrapped against the concrete. The sparks stopped right before Worick’s nose.

The wooden crates came falling down, crashing with jingly sounds. The skidding tyres left black marks and a burnt smell in their wake. Dario briskly threw the door open. The resulting puff of air tousled up Worick’s bangs.

“Yo, my friend. Alive there?”

Dario was bleeding from the forehead. Probably from the cuts the windshield inflicted upon breaking or something. He got out of the car - more like clumsily slid off the seat, actually - and, producing a knife with some difficulty, cut the ropes binding Worick.

Worick cracked a smile. “Why are you here?”

“So you remembered that, huh.”

“It’s your fault that I got caught though.”“Is it?”

Gunfire resounded. It was probably the woman who fired, but sadly for her, the bullet’s trajectory curved and it went through the hood, right between the dog’s eyes. Dario took out his Colt Woodsman. But evidently, he had pushed himself too much, having no strength to grip it properly, and it ended up slipping out of his hands.

Worick snatched the Colt Woodsman off the ground and fired.

He didn’t really aim properly, but blood stained the woman’s chest. Worick decided to take it as his design succeeding and leave it at that.

Spinning the Cold Woodsman about the index finger thrust in the trigger hole, he held it out to Dario, and Dario put it back into the holster on his waist, his energy apparently sapped dry as he threw himself down, sprawling on the hard concrete.

“I’m hurting all over. This is a serious wound, y'know? Hurry up and take me to hospital already.”“Wait up a sec. I’m totally beat myself.”

Worick took out a Pall Mall. Dario did the same, still sprawling on the ground as he stuck a Garam into his mouth. Worick lit up both cigarettes.

Like the cigarettes, the vivid violet dog-faced monstrosity spat out puffs of black smoke. Its engine was done for, it seemed.

“A pity about your Fiat.”

“It was your prized possession.”“Yeah…”

Dario glanced at it, his eyes meeting those of the intrepid dog.

“I already forgot all about it.”

Worick closed his eyes for a while, offering a silent prayer to the vivid violet monstrosity and the picture of the dog on it. Finished, his fingers closed on the cigarette, taking it from between his lips and ashing it.

“Have you ever read Nietzsche?”

“That’s right. A very arousing one that has all the youths captivated.”

The mafia slayers. The outlaws violating Ergastulum’s rules. If you thought about it seriously and rationally, they were vicious criminals with unknown connections and backers.

But looking at the facts from a fool’s viewpoint, it could almost appear like they were just a bunch of people getting around and killing those they didn’t like.

“For pinups, the bigger the ass the better, for me,” Dario muttered.“Sorry, dunno the size of Nietzsche’s behind,” Worick returned.

Ash from the cigarette fell on Dario’s face as he made no attempt to change his sprawling position, and he frowned grumpily.

T/N: Bacalada = stockfish