The Trouble Boys, in: Holy Hell

[zombie_dog]

(New Washington's most lovable hitmen are back! This post has edited versions of the first three Trouble Boys stories. The last cut, "The Mookles Job," is the newest part of the story and continues the boys' adventures. Comments and edits are welcome; obviously so are expressions of enthusiasm.

The Trouble Boys series is dark humor. It contains violence, cussing, and pushy waitresses.)


"So no shit, Grot, there we were," the short man in the long black coat said to his companion. "There's got to be like nine yuzies ringin' us. I know that if one of us pulls and starts shooting, it's gonna be our asses, but this ain't exactly handicap zero, right? So I'm shiftin' around tryin' to see who's gonna rush me first, right?"

Right, Boz." Grot, a tall, muscular half-orc with a bomber-style jacket, hard facial features and black hair peppered with white, kept his gait short to allow the human next to him to keep up.

"So I turn to look at what Lude's doing, and the motherfucker still has his hands in his pockets."

The half-orc let out a noise between a snort and a laugh. "That's Lude,"

"I'm all, the fuck you doin', Lude?" Boz continued, raising his thick black eyebrows in recalled surprise. "But I don't say nothin' aloud, because, fuckin' Lude, ping?"

"Fuckin' pong," the half-orc replied, scratching his nose with his thumb.

"I guess he looked stupid enough for the yuzies, though, cuz one of them comes at him while I'm still lookin'."

"Whud he do?" Grot drawled.

"Didn't even see his arm come up," Boz said, shaking his head. "But he's got this yuzie kid in some sort of fuckin' MKD arm-lock or somethin'. He just lets out a breath, like, whoosh, right... and there's this nasty CRACK and the kid's arm bends all wrong. It all happens so fast that the yuzies an' me ain't got time to do anything 'cept stare."

"Sheeeeew," the half-orc let out a low whistle.

"And so Ludwig just kinda sets the kid down on the ground, right? Not like throws him, but ... puts him, like gentle, on the ground. And then real methodical like, he just starts breaking the kid's limbs all to hell. He does it like he's cleaning his gun, that casual. Just braces a limb and crack, then moves down to a leg and sits on it, then crack, then--"

"Iyesu," the orcish said, grimacing. "Fuck, I get it. Stop."

"I whack people for a living," his human companion said, "But that shit still gives me nightmares. Kid was screamin' the whole time, of course. Just screamin'. None of the other yuzies even moved. I think they was afraid if they got close Lude'd put them down and make 'em wait to have the same shit done to them. Shit."

"So what happened?"

"We just walked away. Left the yuzies to tend to this kid who had all his limbs broken at least twice. Lude did a coupla his fingers too. A couple heal spells will have the kid on his feet in days, but I can't even think about how bad that pain's gotta be. And setting the bones... shit."

"Shit," Grot agreed.

"We was walking away and I said 'Iyesu, Ludwig, what did you do that for?' You know what he says to me? He looks at me with those fuckin' corpse-like eyes and says, totally straight, 'I was terrified, Boswick. I lost control.'"

The half-orc gave a short, harsh laugh.

"I didn't call him on it," Boz said, shaking his head. "But I am dead fucking cert that motherfucker's pulse never even went up."

"There he is," Grot murmured, looking ahead.

"Fuck," Boz said, hunching his shoulders. "Why'd I have to tell that story NOW?"

"Four oh four, asshole," Grot growled. "I sure didn't need it."

"Boswick," the sharply-dressed human on the sidewalk ahead greeted the two thugs. The stick of a lollipop protruded from one side of his mouth, and he removed the candy as the others approached. "Groton. Good to see you. I was just looking at the movie listings on my shell."

"Hey Ludwig," Boz said. "Zat right?"

"Yes," Ludwig replied. "I was hoping we could see Thirty Nights."

The other two thugs were quiet for a few moments.

"Lude, uh," Boz said, "It's not that you ain't our man. You is. But... why we always got to watch romantic comedies when it's your turn to pick?"

"They're sweet," Ludwig replied. "And funny. You boys could use a dose of culture. Don't you agree?"

There were several more moments of silence. Ludwig put the lollipop back in his mouth and bit down on it, breaking the candy with a sharp crack.

"Sure, Ludwig," Grot replied. "Whatever you say."


-

The next day, Ludwig, Boz and Grot had convened at the After Eight, their favorite bar and grill. While there on business, they had arrived early; it was tradition to have a decent meal before an assignment.

Five minutes after they had been seated, they were approached by the waitress. Mia, a zaftig but attractive rat morph, was one of the only waitresses that the three of them had never managed to scare away. While unassuming, Mia was also completely unflappable; she seemed even more at-ease with Ludwig than Grot and Boz had ever been.

"If it isn't the Trouble Boys," Mia said, smirking as she approached the table.

"The Trouble Boys?" Ludwig said, raising his eyebrows.

"Sure," Mia said. "That's what you are, aren't you? What's it going to be today?"

"The usual," Grot said.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh--" Boz droned, looking over the open menu in front of him.

"I'll get back to you," Mia interrupted. "Ludwig?"

"Well, Ms. Neumann," Ludwig said, placing his hands flat on the table. "I would like to try the cod."

"Can I change your mind?" Mia said. "It's awful."

"Hm," Ludwig said. "All right, I will take your word for it. I did want to try it."

"Would the gentleman like to try the mahi mahi, perhaps?" Mia said.

"He would," Ludwig replied with a smile, looking over his wire-rimmed glasses at her. "Thank you, my lady."

"Boz?" Mia said, tapping her shell.

"Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr--" Boz droned.

"Time!" Mia said. "Cheeseburger it is."

"Aw, but!" Boz said. "I was just trying to--"

"Burger," Mia said with finality, tapping her shell. "Medium rare. You'll love it." With that, she turned and walked away.

"Aw," Boz said, slumping a little. "I had a burger LAST week."

"You liked it," Grot said.

"But I was going to get something ELSE this week," Boz said.

"Well," Grot said. "You didn't."

Boz glared at Grot like a petulant child.

"What!" Grot barked, a challenge.

"At least I don't order the same thing every time I come in," Boz said.

"I'm a regular," Grot said. "I like being a regular."

"Trouble boys," Ludwig murmured, lost in thought.

The other two ceased bickering at once and turned to Ludwig. His random declarations were not to be ignored.

"... huh?" Boz said.

"It's a bit of an uncouth phrase, but it has a rather nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

"I guess," Boz agreed carefully.

A thin, aging man in a tuxedo approached the table. "Gentlemen?"

"Hello, Havisham," Ludwig said courteously. "Is Octavian ready for us?"

"Yes," the thin man said. "He will see you now."

"Aw, but we just ordered!" Boz protested.

"I shall ask Miss Mia to delay the orders," Havisham said calmly. "Mr. Octavian would prefer not to wait at this time."

Ludwig stood. "Boswick, mind your manners," he said, his voice a bit icy. Boz stood quickly, allowing Grot to sidle out of the booth.

Havisham turned and walked toward a back room, and the Trouble Boys followed.


-

Havisham led the three to a small room in the back of the restaurant. In it were three finely-crafted chairs made of real wood and cloth, and a hardwood table. Sitting on the surface of the table was a small, squat device: it was made of black plastic and comprised of two parts. The base looked a bit like a pyramid whose top had been sheared off; on the base's surface was a white dial with round holes around its edge, through which numbers could be read. Sitting atop the base was a handle, whose ends were thick, flat knobs. A curled cable attached the handle to the base.

The boys walked into the room and sat down in the chairs: Boz took the left one, Grot the middle and Ludwig the right. Havisham entered behind them, shut and locked the door, then moved to the other side of the table.

A sharp jangling noise came from the device on the table, then it went silent. No one in the room seemed surprised. The jangling noise began again, but Havisham leaned forward and lifted the handle from the base of the device and set it on the table. Resonator plates in the table came to life, emitting a voice like a filing cabinet being politely dragged down a gravel driveway.

"Good to see you, boys," the voice said.

"Mr. Octavian," Ludwig said, inclining his head to no one in particular. "Always a pleasure."

"Mr. Van Beethoven," the voice rasped. "How are you."

"Quite well, sir, thank you." Ludwig responded with a smile, reaching up and tucking an errant lock of black hair behind his ear, adjusting his appearance for an employer who could not see him.

"Evenin', Mr. Octavian," Grot said.

"Hi boss," Boz chimed in.

"Hello, boys," Octavian's voice replied. "I have been meaning to tell you; thank you for taking the courier job I asked you to do. I realize it is not your department."

"T'be honest, it was kind of a nice change of pace, Mr. Octavian," Boz said. "That lady were real happy to see us."

"Mrs. Barrows urgently needed the flowers that you delivered to her," Octavian said. "Her son is getting married this week."

"Aw," Grot said.

"There's hope for the two of you yet," Ludwig said, cheerful.

"Do not hold your breath for too long, Ludwig," Octavian said. "So. On to business, yes?"

The boys all made noises of assent.

An illusory image appeared on the wall behind the device. It was of a bearded man with a dark New Washingtonian complexion and tight, curly hair. He wore a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a trenchcoat.

"'ey, it's Mookles!" Boz chirped, pointing.

"Quiet," Ludwig snapped.

"You all will recognize Mark Truchles," Octavian said. "Until recently he was my contact concerning assignment staffing. Most of the hires for what you boys refer to as 'mook jobs' went through Mr. Truchles, which is what earned him the nickname that Boswick has pointed out."

The boys nodded.

"Well, I have received a tip that Mr. Truchles has been accepting payments to leak details about my assignment hires to whomever is willing to pay. Some independent research has confirmed this claim."

Octavian stopped talking, and silence hung in the room for a moment. The image on the wall changed to that of a squat, dilapidated-looking building.

"Mr. Truchles has been difficult to reach lately, but I believe he is still working normal hours in his office. I would like him terminated as soon as possible, and I am setting you boys on that job."

Ludwig leaned back in his chair and smiled.

"Ludwig will go in front to deal with the heavy guards," Octavian rumbled. "Boswick and Groton, I would like you boys to take the rear door and see if you can find a way to Mr. Truchles's office. No torture is necessary, but neither is a clean death."

"Got it," Boz said.

"Yes," confirmed Ludwig, grinning widely now.

"Sally will be watching the perimeter in case Mr. Truchles attempts to leave the building. He will not get far. As usual, no one but Ludwig is to visit any route Ludwig has taken once he has been through. My cleaners will take care of the mess."

"Yeah, uh, boss?" Boz asked cautiously. "Can I ask why that is?"

"Yes," Octavian said. "You may. But I am not going to tell you. Is that acceptable?"

"Absolutely," Boz said, holding his hands up. "Not a problem."

"So you are willing to take this job?"

"With pleasure," Ludwig purred.

"Yeah," Grot said.

"You got it, boss," Boz said with a smile.

"Good," Octavian said. "You are all so good to me. Havisham, please pay for the boys' dinner. You may hang up the phone."

"Very good, sir," Havisham said. He walked up to the device's handle, picked it up and placed it gingerly back onto the base.


-

A few hours later, Truchles Staffing was ready for action. They were not ready for Ludwig.

The moment the front door to the building opened, the man walking through it became the focus of all five security guards posted inside. Five automatic rifles were pointed with resolve at the entering figure, held securely by men selected as the top of their class. The intruder stopped just inside the door and held his hands up in an unhostile gesture. He was clearly unarmed.

Four of the rifles remained on their target, but the owner of the fifth lowered his sights as his face registered surprise. “Mr. Van Beethoven?” he said.

“State your business!” the security guard in the front shouted down the barrel of his rifle, advancing on the intruder.

“Mr. Truchles takes his safety seriously,” Ludwig said, sounding faintly impressed. He looked over the top of his glasses at the nearest guard. “I'm here on business for Octavian.”

“No offense, Mr. Van Beethoven,” the guard in the front said, “But we know the kind of business you do for Mr. Octavian.”

“I've been known to deliver flowers,” Ludwig said with a small smile.

“Hands on the wall,” the lead guard said, gesturing to it with his rifle. “We'll see if you have an appointment. If you don't, you really need to leave. Mr. Truchles has the place on lockdown.”

“Sounds like an eventful day,” Ludwig replied, moving to place his hands on the nearest wall. The front guard kept his rifle trained on him while another rushed to search him for weapons or artifacts. A third tapped on the keyboard of a deskshell.

“Mr. Van Beethoven, sir, can I just say that this is … it's an honor to meet you,” the guard who had lowered his gun first said.

“You don't say?” Ludwig said, further raising his arms to allow the guard searching him better access. “It's awfully nice to be inspiring the next generation of villain. What's your name?”

“William,” the guard said.

“Not seeing anything scheduled,” the guard at the deskshell said.

“Well, that's odd,” Ludwig replied to him, affecting a troubled expression. “Won't you give a call to Mr. Truchles? He really should be expecting me.” Ludwig could almost hear the lead guard grind his jaw.

After a few moments, the guard behind the desk frowned. “He's not answering,” he said.

Ludwig's frown was genuine this time. “Now that is odd,” he shrugged as best as he could with his hands still planted on the wall. “Ah well; I really do have business with the man. It was lovely chatting with you, William.”

“You too, Mr. Van Beethoven,” William said blithely. “I'm a real fan.”

Ludwig sighed.

“A real fan,” Ludwig said wistfully. “Isn't that a dear shame.”

“A shame, sir?” William asked.

--

Boz rocked back and forth on his feet, anxious. He stood in an alley across the street from the building's back door, barely out of sight. The boys were dressed for action - while Ludwig had been wearing the same suit as he always wore, the other two Trouble Boys were geared with more preparation. Boz was dressed in an outfit festooned with pockets; a pair of black cargo pants with its multiple compartments stuffed to the gills with spell components, and a black safari-style vest similarly filled. Grot stood further down the alley, leaning against the brick-patterned wall. The half-orc had covered his short salt-and-pepper hair with a black kerchief, and was wearing an armored mock turtleneck. At his side was a short-barreled shotgun, and he wore bandoliers of specialized shells, each one coded in bright color to indicate its use. A very large pistol stood on the opposite hip as a backup sidearm.

“Remind me what we're waiting on?” Boz said.

“The signal,” Grot replied.

“I know that,” Boz said. “What's the signal?”

“Ludwig didn't say,” Grot said.

“So how we gonna know when to go in if Ludwig didn't tell us what the damn signal was?”

Grot fixed Boz with a gaze, then shrugged.

“Are you serious?” Boz demanded.

“Boz,” Grot said.

“This ain't exactly a flower run, y'know?” Boz complained. “We're clippin' one of our own boys. Fuck this up and it's a very sad little show in the name of Mr. Octavian.”

“Boz, it's Lude--” Grot tried to begin.

“And yet we rush on in on a timetable but widdout even settin' up an official signal? It just reeks of --”

Boz cut off abruptly as both he and Grot felt a tremor; some tremendous, singular impact had caused the ground to shake as though a nearby titan had stamped his foot in anger.

“Lude,” Grot said. He pushed himself away from the wall and jogged toward the building.

“Fuck,” Boz cursed, and took off after his partner at a full run.

Grot crossed the alleyway in a few long strides, stopped in front of the door and stopped Boz with a hand before the diminutive mage slammed directly into the door. Both of them leaned forward and listened at its surface, where shouts could be heard, faint through the insulating plastic.

“... care whether the building is falling down. You stick to your post until we hear word from Mr. Truchles that you can go.”

“He's not answering calls, you said!”

“So you stay put.”

Boz pulled back and shot a quizzical look at Grot, who only gave his signature shrug in response. Looking annoyed, Boz pointed at the door, then looked back at Grot, dipped a hand in one pocket and started chanting, weaving a cluster cantrip. Grot nodded and drew his shotgun. The boys both stood back from the door.

Moments later, the security guard just inside was startled to see his direct superior officer being blown off his feet by the heavily-dented back door. Said door turned end-over-end as it sailed another ten meters down the hallway and landed on the floor with a deafening cacophany.

The security guard turned toward the place where the door once lived. What he saw was a shotgun pointed so directly at him that he could spot the bright red shell loaded and ready to unleash death into his face.

“Scuze me,” the shotgun's owner said, “Which way to Mr. Truchles' office?”

The security guard had enough time to say “Don't,” before he was felled by a magic missile from an unseen assailant. He struck the wall hard and slid down it, his assault rifle clattering against the floor.

“We know where the fuckin' office is,” Boz snapped as he jogged past Grot.

“A little manners never killed anybody, Boz,” Grot replied.

“No,” Boz agreed. “Which is why we don't need it. How's your leg?”

“Hurts! Did you cast the spell wrong?” Grot complained as the two rounded the corner. A trio of security guards who had heard the commotion met them with shouts and raised weapons. Boz raised his hands. The guards let loose a volley of automatic gunfire, which glanced off a magical shield projected from Boz's hands. Grot stuck the muzzle of his shotgun through the shield and returned fire, immediately felling the nearest guard.

“Like hell I cast it wrong!” Boz shouted over the sound of gunfire. “You kicked too early!”

“I kicked when you said three!” Grot retorted, ceasing fire to look annoyed at Boz. The latter returned the annoyed look and gestured with his chin back at the guards. Grot sighed and resumed his attack, dropping the second guard. The third retreated around the corner.

“You don't go on three,” Boz said, dropping the shield. The two ran to the wall nearest to the corner.

Boz rattled off a quick cantrip, grabbing a handful of leaves from a cargo pocket and a small root from a jacket pocket. The components burned in the air as the spell took hold. A pair of shimmering portals appeared at the end of the hall, which he adjusted remotely with his hands as Grot fed shells into his weapon.

“Why would you count to three and not go on three?” Grot asked, perplexed.

“Kss!” Boz hissed, and gestured at the portals. Grot raised the shotgun and fired several times; the sabot rounds passed through one portal and exited the other traveling at nearly the opposite direction, peppering the hidden wall and the guard hiding against it with deadly slugs. His body slumped to the floor.

“It doesn't work that way!” Boz snapped. “It's 'one, two, three, go.' We should have this down by now.”

“We always went on three before,” Grot said.

Boz stared at him. “That can't be right,” he replied.

“Attention intruders!” a voice, amplified by resonator plates, echoed down the hallway. “A squadron of highly-trained operatives is closing on your location. This is your last chance to leave the premises.”

After only a brief pause, Boz and Grot sprang into action, bolting down the hall. As they rounded the corner to Mark Truchles' office, the sound of dozens of jackboots beat a chaotic tattoo from the opposite end of the hall. Once the boys were nearly to the door, a dozen men in identical fatigues rounded the corner, each one armed to the teeth. The lead guard bellowed, “Freeze!”

Boz and Grot both put their hands up.

There was a tense moment of silence between the two groups.

“Hey,” Boz said. “How d'ya count to three?”

“Boz,” Grot growled.

“What?” The lead guard asked, bemused.

“D'ya go on three or d'ya go after the three?”

“What are you on about?” The guard asked, his surprise turning to suspicion.

“My colleague hurt his leg because we gots different ideas 'bout whether you're supposed to go on three or after it. Like one two go or one two three go.”

The lead guard set his jaw. Several of his soldiers adjusted the grip on their rifles, nervous.

“We need to know,” Boz drawled. “Tell us that and we out.”

“It's 'one, two, three, go,'” the lead guard said cautiously.

Boz gave Grot a 'told you so' expression.

“So what you're telling me,” Grot said slowly, “is that it goes … one … two … three …”

Grot clapped his hands over his ears and turned his head as he shouted, “GO!” Boz snapped his fingers, and a point of light between the would-be combatants exploded with a deafening report. The security guards reeled; a gun barked a rapid-fire cough as its owner fired blindly, unable even to hear the noise from his own weapon.

Boz and Grot scrambled for the office door amid the stray gunfire. Slightly dazed from the edge effects of the explosion, Grot fumbled for his shell and hurriedly keyed a security override code. Just as the guards were regaining their senses, the boys were inside and behind the door.

“Yesu, that was close!” Boz shouted, standing on his tiptoes in order to touch the high corners of the doorframe. He marked them both with a piece of chalk. “We moved too slow.”

Grot walked forward, facing the rest of the spacious office and Mark Truchles' desk.

“Mookles!” Boz called to the room behind him, still hurriedly preparing the shield spell that would keep the security team out. “Sorry for the surprise visit, but somethin' crazy's come up. D'ya believe that somebody's selling info about the boss?”

“Boz,” Grot murmured.

“An' here's the crazier part,” Boz said, completing the cantrip and reinforcing it. “We hear it's you, bitch! In case you was wonderin' why - wait wait.”

Boz froze in place, a dawning realization growing on his face. “Why does it smell like Cloaking in here?” Boz frowned, then slowly turned to face the other side of the room.

Grot stood with his shotgun at his side, facing the fine faux-mahogany desk on which the lifeless corpse of Mark Truchles was slumped. Protruding from the man's back was a long dagger, its hilt and guard shaped like a crucifix. Painted on the surface of the desk in rapidly clotting blood were the words ABYSSUS ABYSSUM INVOCAT.

“Vigilante,” Grot growled.

“Fuck me,” Boz breathed.