A little help from his friends
This is NOT a Christmas story. But you might enjoy it just the same.
THE LOST BOYS
The pond seemed almost stagnant beneath the heavy covering of duckweed and water hyacinth. Tiny bubbles of air bursting between the floating leaves were the only indications of life or activity below the murky depths. A heron called hoarsely as it launched from an oak branch and sailed over the still water before disappearing over the treeline. Along the banks, gnarled oaks, tall cypress and pond apples were intermingled in the low-lying forest. One of the oaks had been overwhelmed by a rapidly growing strangler fig tree, which had overgrown it and stolen its light. The ancient oak had long since died and crumbled, leaving the fig standing free with a hollow interior, memorial to a glorious life now gone.
A cloud of dark blue smoke issued from within the base of the strangler fig skeleton. There was a brilliant flash of purple flame and Doctor Curare stepped out of the swirling cloud and into the Florida swamp. A few hundred miles to the south, three Aztechnology transport pods were approaching swiftly. But time was short, and he had business to attend to here before they arrived. Doctor Curare walked through the oak-and-palmetto hardwood forest, which was full of memories for him. This forest was not his home, but during his years at the New College of the Invisible he had grown to know it and to love it. The familiar sights, sounds, and smells came rushing back to him and he broke into a run in spite of himself. There were quicker ways to travel, but he wanted to enjoy these few precious moments of peace. He ran onward through the shadows, in the direction of the town of Lovecraft. But his destination was in the woods well outside of town. He did not see the Peregrine falcon circling overhead. The raptor banked once to watch him and veered away over the treeline.
Curare stopped on the outskirts of the quiet development. It appeared like a small stretch of suburbia, but it was nestled within the swampy woods several miles outside of Lovecraft. There were only a handful of families that lived here, and they mostly kept to themselves. Curare was interested in one such family. For several years, Peter and Heather Mahoney had been the heads of the Solomon Kane Society, private investigators of the paranormal. Their specialty was lycanthropes, for reasons that they kept to themselves. But some knew. Curare was one of the few. He stood in the shadow of a tall oak, watching the quiet neighborhood, scanning for activity.
“What can I do for you this lovely afternoon, Doc?” Curare was startled by the voice immediately behind him, a sensation that was rare for him and which he did not relish. Nevertheless, he found himself smiling as he turned to see Peter standing in the shadows.
“I was hoping to find you at home. I had to check that the coast was clear.”
“Of course. Well, come on over. We just put Gwynnie to sleep and Heather was going to do some work in the garden. We have some time if you’d care to visit. It would have been nice to get a phone call, but we’ve never expected that from you, Curare.”
Doctor Curare smiled as Pete led the way across the quiet street and into their yard. They walked around to the back of the house. Heather was pulling up some weeds and turned to greet them with no surprise. The Mahoneys had obviously been warned. And Curare expected no less.
Curare told his story as the Mahoneys quietly ate their lunch and reflected. He ate nothing. He knew it was a great deal to take in, and he was asking even more of them.
“We are not used to this much activity and attention, Doc,” Heather was the first to break the silence. “We had an attack by criminal mysticals from the City just yesterday, and were saved in the nick of time by Quentin Holte and Achlis. Do you remember those two? They seem to see a lot of action.”
“Indeed they do. I have had the honor of their company on occasion. They are good souls, and always useful in a fight.” Curare smiled at his own memories, but his smile quickly faded. “I am indeed sorry that your lives have been endangered in this struggle. And I know I am asking you to engage in something that could threaten you further. Please believe that I would not do such a thing if I had any alternative.”
“You have always been a friend to us,” said Pete. “Even when your allegiances seemed in question and you broke from the College, you never broke your word. We will help you if we can. But… do you really think this goes as high as the Vice President?”
Heather interjected. “That’s huge, Doc. What hope do we have?”
“All I know is what I have heard from Flamenca. She is still recovering, but she has been coherent and says that the Vice President was there. Her memory gets fuzzy, but she is pretty certain that he was primarily interested in Bandito. And now Bandito has gone completely rogue for the Interest, so it is apparent that the VP was at least aware of these actions. He may not be responsible, but it is a starting point. If I can get to him, I’ll find out what I need to know. I can ask hard if I need to.”
“Do you really think we can help?”
“Of course. Your magic and strength will help us to get what we need without unnecessary bloodshed. If we can cut off the head, we can avoid the war. But I make no promises. Now, do you have someone who can take care of baby Gwynne?”
“Gwynnie comes with us, no matter the circumstances. Especially after yesterday. We have to watch after our own now.”
“It is your choice, of course. The transport pods will be arriving shortly, and we can make the arrangements. Pack light, but pack for efficiency and stamina. And before we head north, we are swinging by Mexico City to recruit some others. I would like for you to accompany me for the initial introductions. And in case of any… complications.”
“Are you expecting problems?” Heather asked with a hint of concern in her voice.
“We must plan for every contingency. Be on your guard, but do not pack any conspicuous weapons.”
“No weapons? Are you sure?”
“It would only piss them off. And don’t use your real names. They might get curious.”
An hour later, the Aztechnology transport pods lifted from a small clearing in the swampy forest with Curare and the Mahoney family aboard and slid silently to the west. From the shaded forest floor, a tall figure watched the gleaming vessels vanish into the afternoon air. With a vague gesture, the trunk of a nearby tree seemed to split apart and the figure walked into the opening and vanished. The two halves of the trunk merged back together seamlessly, and there was a long moment of absolute silence before the crickets regained their song.
________________________________________________________
On the outskirts of the great city, beyond the high-rise metro areas and the squalor of the hillside barrios, lay the small town of San Antonio. A single unpaved avenue led past the tiny tiendas, hotels, and restaurants to an open circular plaza. At the far end of the plaza sat a sprawling nightclub of ill repute. The building itself was set into an isolated hill that rose behind it, covered in twisted vegetation. There were some who believed that the hill contained the ruins of an Aztec temple, but the owner of the property had proven rather hostile to the idea of excavation after a few grave robbers tried and disappeared.
Doctor Curare and the Mahoneys walked along the dusty road toward the squatting nightclub. The shadows deepened as the sun dropped below the horizon. The people of San Antonio seemed to melt away, vanishing into their homes and locking up. They had little interest in strangers, particularly at dusk. As Curare approached the plaza, he heard a deep rumbling engine coming up from behind. A man in a black suit with a guitar case strapped to his back rode up alongside him on a sleek black motorcycle.
“We don’t take kindly to strangers, senor,” the man said with a faint smile.
“I am no stranger than you, Carlos. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed, Doctor. Mucho tiempo. I think Toronado misses you.”
“Some day you’ll have to give me a chance to win him back,” Curare said as he glanced down at the motorcycle. “And this time, we’ll duel with something other than guitars.”
“No guitars? Suddenly I don’t like my chances so much.” Carlos laughed, then glanced at the two strangers. Curare gave a slight nod, and Carlos relaxed. “Vamos. I’ll take you to seen the man.”
“You dodged the bullet for now, mariachi.”
Carlos parked the bike and the group entered the nightclub. The place was mostly empty, as the night was young. Several exotic dancers worked their routines on platforms along the ornate walls and on the rear stage. A handful of grizzly characters were seated at the scattered tables, getting a head start on the drinking competition. They barely noticed as the four figures swept past to the back of the large chamber. Nobody will miss them, Curare thought absently as they reached the back wall. They pulled aside a curtain and walked to an elevator tucked in a wall recess. They descended deep below the ground surface and the doors slid open. Carlos led them through a narrow hallway and into a massive chamber with a vaulted ceiling. A group of people was seated at a long meeting table, and there was hushed conversation. The group finally rose, bowed briefly to the silhouetted figure in the massive chair at the head of the table, and filtered out of the chamber. The figure punched a code into the keypad in the arm of the chair and the stone table sank into the floor. Three ornate chairs rose to replace it. Then he spread his arms in greeting.
“Bienvenidos. Enter and make yourselves at home.”
The owner and proprietor of the Titty Twister was a man of many unique qualities, the majority being more notorious than merely owning a stripclub. He was a crimelord of widespread influence throughout Mexico and beyond. He commanded respect wherever he went, and received it in abundance. His shadowy past was the stuff of legend. But few knew just how dark those shadows were. Few truly knew the Pistolero.
“Good evening, T. I have come to discuss business.”
“Por supuesto, Doctor. But first… introductions! Please, take a seat.” The Pistolero grinned as he saw Curare eye the chairs suspiciously. “Ha ha! It is safe, my good friend. I have no reason to wish you ill. And as long as your companions are friends as well…”
“…they are,” Curare interjected quietly.
“…then all is well.” With that, two of the chairs flipped into the floor and were replaced with two others. “We take no chances here.”
Curare turned to the Mahoneys, who were peering into the darkness with apprehension. He could see Heather instinctively tense her wrist muscles, which would send her oak and dragonheartstring wand slipping from the wrist sheath into her waiting hand. Peter’s teeth were clenched as waves of rippling musculature passed over his body. Curare held up his hand and nodded to the waiting seats. Heather looked at him.
“This is an evil place, Curare. Are you certain we can trust these… people?”
“I need their help, so I choose to trust them. You must make up your own minds.” He turned and walked into the open chamber. In the shadows to the side, he saw two brilliant spots of blue fire. They were eyes, glowing in the darkness. The three walked and sat in the tall cushioned chairs, facing the Pistolero. He put a cigar into his mouth and smiled broadly at them.
“I shall open with introductions of myself and my associates. I am the Pistolero, and that is all you two ever need know. You have already met Carlos. He is a good compadre and a born entertainer, with a few tricks up his sleeve.” The pistolero laughed aloud at his own joke. “Although rumor has it he gave a couple of them to you, Curare.”
“It is true. I had them… modified.” The Mahoneys looked at Curare in confusion, but he merely smiled and shook his head dismissively.
“Yes, Carlos and the Doctor have known each other longer than any of us. But I have two associates that he has not yet met. First, allow me to introduce Montoya.”
A figure strode up to them from one side of the room, dressed in silk finery and wearing a long, ornate rapier at his side. He had a long mane of black hair and a bushy mustache. He flashed a quick smile and greeted them.
“Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya.” Pete gave a start at this.
“Are you related to the famed swordsman and pirate of that name? A descendant, perhaps?” The Solomon Kane Society had once been interested in the mysterious disappearance of the historical figure.
“I am indeed related to him. But I am no descendant.” He smiled at the looks of confusion. “Let me explain. No, it is too much. Let me sum up. You see, after many adventures, Montoya became the captain of the pirate ship Revenge, although he used a different name. Roberts, he was called.”
Pete cut in. “Yes, and he grew in fame and power until he vanished in 1642. There is no record of him or his crew, although there were odd rumors about the Revenge for years afterward. Do you know what happened to him?”
Montoya grinned and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a gleaming medallion and flipped it neatly across the top of his fingers.
“There is an interesting story about Aztec gold…”
Minutes later, after Montoya had told his brief tale, Heather Mahoney rose to her feet.
“Impossible. It can’t be true.” Montoya regarded her interest, his eyes roving over her body.
“I assure you it is, my lovely. And who are you?” He took a step forward.
“No one of consequence.” Heather bristled slightly and the runes on her wrist bracelets began to glow faintly.
“I must know,” Montoya insisted with a sly smile, his fingers lightly tapping the sculpted handle of his long blade. Without a sound, Pete was suddenly standing next to his wife, his eyes fiercely gleaming and his voice a guttural growl that echoed throughout the chamber.
“Get used to disappointment.”
At this, Montoya’s smile faded for an instant as he glanced at each of them. Then he grinned widely, shrugged once, and took a step back. The couple sat once more and the Pistolero spoke again.
“My good Doctor, I don’t think you have had the pleasure of meeting my personal bodyguard, Misterio.” There was a blur of movement from the opposite side of the room, and Curare was suddenly confronted with a broadly muscular man, pale blue eyes burning from behind a full head mask. The mask was black and scarlet leather, an ornate cross upon the forehead and eagle heads running down the sides of his face. The man grinned widely, his long fangs gleaming. Curare could feel Pete tense up next to him.
“Buenas noches, Doctor.” Misterio bowed his head slightly in a sign of respect.
“Buenas noches, Luchador.” Curare returned the bow.
“Ah, so you have heard of each other. Fantastic. Misterio was indeed once part of the Mexican lucha libre tradition. They called him the King. El Rey. But his fate rested elsewhere, and now he is truly one of us.”
“I bet you saw to that personally,” muttered Heather under her breath. The Pistolero turned his attention to her.
“Señorita…”
“Señora,” she interrupted. “Señora Hawke.”
“Quite… Señora Hawke, I have tried to keep this meeting polite. Do you not agree that our conversation should be kept… civil?”
“It would be best…” Curare leaned in and whispered to her. She swallowed once and nodded.
“I apologize, señor. These are unfamiliar surroundings and this alliance is new to us.”
“I understand. As you are amigos of the good Doctor, all is forgiven. Now, if you please, we are anxious to hear from you. It is only fair.”
Peter and Heather introduced themselves as Lord and Lady Hawke and described their work for the Solomon Kane Society. They were careful to point out that their efforts centered on lycanthropes, and were not involved with matters of vampirism. The whole time they spoke, the Pistolero and Montoya casually watched them in silence. Misterio’s fiercely glowing stare never wavered. Only Carlos was not intently watching them, quietly playing a mariachi tune on his guitar in the shadows. At last they finished and the Pistolero smiled and nodded.
“Excellent. Now we are no longer strangers and can get down to business. But, before we do, I must ask the good Doctor a question that has been… gnawing away at me since your arrival. Do you mind, Curare?”
“Not at all, Señor. We are your humble guests.”
“Claro,” the Pistolero said with a laugh. “Very good. You have not visited me often since our … collaboration ended, but each and every time you have she has come with you. She joined you of her own accord and we agreed it was the best choice. I granted her leave to do what she wished. She always spoke of you to me with great pride. But she was never ashamed of her roots.” The Pistolero’s voice and gaze hardened as he spoke. “And now you come before me without her. You have not mentioned her. And I cannot ignore this. So tell me, my good Doctor, donde está mi Gata?”
Doctor Curare found that for the first time he could not meet the Pistolero’s harsh gaze. He looked down and spoke softly.
“Ocelot is the reason I come before you this night. There are few others I can turn to. I am here to ask for your help. To plead for your help. To bargain for your help. I need the strength of Los Chicos Perdidos.”
Once again, Curare told the story of his struggles and the tragic death of Ocelot. The Pistolero listened in silence, and the tension was palpable. Behind them, the guitar of Carlos had fallen silent. The news of Ocelot’s death would affect him nearly as much as it would the Pistolero. At last, Curare finished the tale. “She was a good soldier, amigo. She honored me. I could not ask for more.”
The Pistolero did not speak for several moments, his sorrow and rage battling inside of him. When at last he did speak, it was with a level of emotion that Curare had never heard from the fierce soldado.
“She once asked me to change her. Despite her skill, her passion for life, she wanted to join us. But I could not do it, Curare. I could not do it. I may be a bastard, but I’m not a fucking bastard.” At this, he ran his hands through his greasy hair and was silent.
“You made the right choice. Her humanity and passion was what made her the best. She saved a life that day and made the hard choices. Just as you did. You taught her well.”
“But I could have saved her, Curare. She might not have died had she been… like us.” But Curare only shook his head.
“She kept her honor. She went to a place where we all wish to go. I doubt any of us will see what she will see. But we can fight in her memory. But if we are destined for Hell, we might as well fight like it!”
The Pistolero was silent once more. He looked at Curare and at his men. At last he spoke slowly.
“You ask a great deal of us, Curare. In the wake of your news, you want us to risk so much for our grief and rage. I would take such action as you ask, and I expect Carlos would join us, but neither Misterio nor Montoya knew Ocelot. You ask too much of them, and I will not venture forth without them.”
“I realize this, and I am prepared for a negotiation. You are businessmen, and I have an offer for you. For my part, I am willing to sacrifice for Ocelot’s vengeance. You are aware, no doubt, of the death of the Invisible Actionhero?”
“Indeed. He was a hard warrior who dealt righteous death. We had… enough in common.”
“Have you seen his Will?”
“No. Why would I wish to see such a thing?”
“You are mentioned in it, T. And I am hereby adding to what he has bequeathed to you. He had given to you a matched set of nickel-plated .45s…”
“…ah, Los Dragones.”
“Claro. He had directed you to acquire these from his estate just outside of the city. You know of it?” The Pistolero nodded at this question, his eyes rolling.
“Nacho-Flan. It caused me pain to hear that name, just as it caused me trouble to deal with the place taking up space in my territory. But I respect the man and his holdings.”
“Well, your worries are over, amigo. Nacho-Flan is yours, along with the items held therein. These were granted to me, and I am passing them on to you. I was uncertain at first whether you would have uses for the listed items, but your new associates have solved my dilemma. So, let us see…
“For your trusted bodyguard Misterio, there are two separate items that may serve him well. The first is a steady supply of customized luchador masks, which ‘Hero granted to my Anaconda Guardsmen as a bad joke. It seems your man will have the last laugh. And second, there is an item that was promised to my man Kiyagi.”
“Kiyagi will not miss it?”
“He may indeed. But this is my decision, and his position with Aztechnology is currently in question. With luck, this will be the only thing he sacrifices. I assume that Misterio is familiar with the great Island Tournament?”
“Claro que si, Doctor.” Misterio’s eyes widened and he grinned as he nodded.
“Well, you now have reservations for the Tournament in ‘Hero’s suite. And feel free to make use of the large dimensions of the bed.” Curare smiled broadly.
“Now, for the swordsman Montoya, I have two items that were promised to my Jaguar Assassins Flamenca and Mariposa. I know that your preference is for the rapier, but I expect that you are well-versed in other styles as well?”
“My training allows me to adapt to most any style. It is a point of pride with me, to put it bluntly.” Montoya’s eyes twinkled.
“Touche. You shall receive a set of Hanzo-forged dashio, as well as the cutting-edge Liquid Swords.”
“Madre de Dios. I have heard much of these Liquid Swords. And as for Hattori Hanzo… these are substantial gifts, Doctor.”
“I am asking for a substantial favor. These items will be granted to you only after the favor has been completed. These are not my terms, but rather the terms of the Will. Only on the next Day of the Dead will these items be accessible from Nacho-Flan, and it will not be a simple matter. But let us continue…
“The next item is that which was left to Ocelot. ‘Hero had a great deal of respect for her, despite her apparent rivalry with him. He recognized it as a form of Hero worship, and for this he granted her a special privilege. I pass it along to you, with the knowledge that you may use it to various ends. It consists of a ticket to Hong Kong along with a letter of introduction to the Secret Society of Supercops. There are two distinct ways that this could be used, and I leave it to you to decide. If Los Chicos Perdidos wish to establish an Eastern presence, this will allow you to gather all of the Supercops together in one place. There is undeniable temptation for a preemptive strike scenario. But if one were to take the items at face value, it is an incredible opportunity for training. The bearer of the letter, with no limitations stated, will be trained in the Way of the Never Empty Clip. It is a gift that may outweigh the power gained by eliminating the HK Supercops. I would suggest that this be given to Carlos, as his honorable nature and belief in justice would serve him well. But I leave this decision to you.”
“These are mighty gifts that you are willing to part with, Curare. There is nothing in this Will that you wish to keep for yourself?”
“Just two things, T. Hero granted me his private Journals. There is much I would like to glean from these, and I see little appeal in them for others. If you have no objections, I would like to retain these. Secondly, there is no mention of it being in Nacho-Flan, but if for any reason you should encounter an old, worn-out leather bullwhip listed as belonging to one ‘Connecticut’ Smith, I would appreciate it if I could take that as well.”
“I am willing to accept these terms.” The Pistolero glanced at his compatriots, who nodded their heads in turn. Then he glanced back at Curare with a grin. “But… ‘Connecticut’ Smith?”
“It is a story for another time. But now, the qualifications. As I said, the Nacho-Flan territory and its contents will only be made available on the next Day of the Dead. I assume starting at midnight, which should put you in good stead.” Curare flashed a quick smile. “But be forewarned: Actionhero played his games to the end and instructed any and all Invisible alums or current students to attempt to usurp these items. The overall intent to block my success is clear, and I expect that many individuals will have trained in preparation to engage me in combat if they cannot take these items undetected. But they will not be expecting you. I therefore grant you permission to deal with any and all competitors as you see fit. But try to keep the body count within reason, since you will be responsible for that territory in the future.”
El Pistolero laughed aloud at this. “It should be fun, Doctor. Do you think you might join us?”
“I fear not. If our mission is successful, I expect I will be en vacaciones for some time. I have a prime destination.”
“Well, it seems that we are in accord, Curare. An alliance for blood, so to speak.” The Pistolero rose and bowed to Curare and to the Mahoneys. “When do we start?”
“Ahorita. Vamos.”
I’ll try to get crackin’ on a holiday story, but I need a little slack.
THE LOST BOYS
The pond seemed almost stagnant beneath the heavy covering of duckweed and water hyacinth. Tiny bubbles of air bursting between the floating leaves were the only indications of life or activity below the murky depths. A heron called hoarsely as it launched from an oak branch and sailed over the still water before disappearing over the treeline. Along the banks, gnarled oaks, tall cypress and pond apples were intermingled in the low-lying forest. One of the oaks had been overwhelmed by a rapidly growing strangler fig tree, which had overgrown it and stolen its light. The ancient oak had long since died and crumbled, leaving the fig standing free with a hollow interior, memorial to a glorious life now gone.
A cloud of dark blue smoke issued from within the base of the strangler fig skeleton. There was a brilliant flash of purple flame and Doctor Curare stepped out of the swirling cloud and into the Florida swamp. A few hundred miles to the south, three Aztechnology transport pods were approaching swiftly. But time was short, and he had business to attend to here before they arrived. Doctor Curare walked through the oak-and-palmetto hardwood forest, which was full of memories for him. This forest was not his home, but during his years at the New College of the Invisible he had grown to know it and to love it. The familiar sights, sounds, and smells came rushing back to him and he broke into a run in spite of himself. There were quicker ways to travel, but he wanted to enjoy these few precious moments of peace. He ran onward through the shadows, in the direction of the town of Lovecraft. But his destination was in the woods well outside of town. He did not see the Peregrine falcon circling overhead. The raptor banked once to watch him and veered away over the treeline.
Curare stopped on the outskirts of the quiet development. It appeared like a small stretch of suburbia, but it was nestled within the swampy woods several miles outside of Lovecraft. There were only a handful of families that lived here, and they mostly kept to themselves. Curare was interested in one such family. For several years, Peter and Heather Mahoney had been the heads of the Solomon Kane Society, private investigators of the paranormal. Their specialty was lycanthropes, for reasons that they kept to themselves. But some knew. Curare was one of the few. He stood in the shadow of a tall oak, watching the quiet neighborhood, scanning for activity.
“What can I do for you this lovely afternoon, Doc?” Curare was startled by the voice immediately behind him, a sensation that was rare for him and which he did not relish. Nevertheless, he found himself smiling as he turned to see Peter standing in the shadows.
“I was hoping to find you at home. I had to check that the coast was clear.”
“Of course. Well, come on over. We just put Gwynnie to sleep and Heather was going to do some work in the garden. We have some time if you’d care to visit. It would have been nice to get a phone call, but we’ve never expected that from you, Curare.”
Doctor Curare smiled as Pete led the way across the quiet street and into their yard. They walked around to the back of the house. Heather was pulling up some weeds and turned to greet them with no surprise. The Mahoneys had obviously been warned. And Curare expected no less.
Curare told his story as the Mahoneys quietly ate their lunch and reflected. He ate nothing. He knew it was a great deal to take in, and he was asking even more of them.
“We are not used to this much activity and attention, Doc,” Heather was the first to break the silence. “We had an attack by criminal mysticals from the City just yesterday, and were saved in the nick of time by Quentin Holte and Achlis. Do you remember those two? They seem to see a lot of action.”
“Indeed they do. I have had the honor of their company on occasion. They are good souls, and always useful in a fight.” Curare smiled at his own memories, but his smile quickly faded. “I am indeed sorry that your lives have been endangered in this struggle. And I know I am asking you to engage in something that could threaten you further. Please believe that I would not do such a thing if I had any alternative.”
“You have always been a friend to us,” said Pete. “Even when your allegiances seemed in question and you broke from the College, you never broke your word. We will help you if we can. But… do you really think this goes as high as the Vice President?”
Heather interjected. “That’s huge, Doc. What hope do we have?”
“All I know is what I have heard from Flamenca. She is still recovering, but she has been coherent and says that the Vice President was there. Her memory gets fuzzy, but she is pretty certain that he was primarily interested in Bandito. And now Bandito has gone completely rogue for the Interest, so it is apparent that the VP was at least aware of these actions. He may not be responsible, but it is a starting point. If I can get to him, I’ll find out what I need to know. I can ask hard if I need to.”
“Do you really think we can help?”
“Of course. Your magic and strength will help us to get what we need without unnecessary bloodshed. If we can cut off the head, we can avoid the war. But I make no promises. Now, do you have someone who can take care of baby Gwynne?”
“Gwynnie comes with us, no matter the circumstances. Especially after yesterday. We have to watch after our own now.”
“It is your choice, of course. The transport pods will be arriving shortly, and we can make the arrangements. Pack light, but pack for efficiency and stamina. And before we head north, we are swinging by Mexico City to recruit some others. I would like for you to accompany me for the initial introductions. And in case of any… complications.”
“Are you expecting problems?” Heather asked with a hint of concern in her voice.
“We must plan for every contingency. Be on your guard, but do not pack any conspicuous weapons.”
“No weapons? Are you sure?”
“It would only piss them off. And don’t use your real names. They might get curious.”
An hour later, the Aztechnology transport pods lifted from a small clearing in the swampy forest with Curare and the Mahoney family aboard and slid silently to the west. From the shaded forest floor, a tall figure watched the gleaming vessels vanish into the afternoon air. With a vague gesture, the trunk of a nearby tree seemed to split apart and the figure walked into the opening and vanished. The two halves of the trunk merged back together seamlessly, and there was a long moment of absolute silence before the crickets regained their song.
________________________________________________________
On the outskirts of the great city, beyond the high-rise metro areas and the squalor of the hillside barrios, lay the small town of San Antonio. A single unpaved avenue led past the tiny tiendas, hotels, and restaurants to an open circular plaza. At the far end of the plaza sat a sprawling nightclub of ill repute. The building itself was set into an isolated hill that rose behind it, covered in twisted vegetation. There were some who believed that the hill contained the ruins of an Aztec temple, but the owner of the property had proven rather hostile to the idea of excavation after a few grave robbers tried and disappeared.
Doctor Curare and the Mahoneys walked along the dusty road toward the squatting nightclub. The shadows deepened as the sun dropped below the horizon. The people of San Antonio seemed to melt away, vanishing into their homes and locking up. They had little interest in strangers, particularly at dusk. As Curare approached the plaza, he heard a deep rumbling engine coming up from behind. A man in a black suit with a guitar case strapped to his back rode up alongside him on a sleek black motorcycle.
“We don’t take kindly to strangers, senor,” the man said with a faint smile.
“I am no stranger than you, Carlos. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed, Doctor. Mucho tiempo. I think Toronado misses you.”
“Some day you’ll have to give me a chance to win him back,” Curare said as he glanced down at the motorcycle. “And this time, we’ll duel with something other than guitars.”
“No guitars? Suddenly I don’t like my chances so much.” Carlos laughed, then glanced at the two strangers. Curare gave a slight nod, and Carlos relaxed. “Vamos. I’ll take you to seen the man.”
“You dodged the bullet for now, mariachi.”
Carlos parked the bike and the group entered the nightclub. The place was mostly empty, as the night was young. Several exotic dancers worked their routines on platforms along the ornate walls and on the rear stage. A handful of grizzly characters were seated at the scattered tables, getting a head start on the drinking competition. They barely noticed as the four figures swept past to the back of the large chamber. Nobody will miss them, Curare thought absently as they reached the back wall. They pulled aside a curtain and walked to an elevator tucked in a wall recess. They descended deep below the ground surface and the doors slid open. Carlos led them through a narrow hallway and into a massive chamber with a vaulted ceiling. A group of people was seated at a long meeting table, and there was hushed conversation. The group finally rose, bowed briefly to the silhouetted figure in the massive chair at the head of the table, and filtered out of the chamber. The figure punched a code into the keypad in the arm of the chair and the stone table sank into the floor. Three ornate chairs rose to replace it. Then he spread his arms in greeting.
“Bienvenidos. Enter and make yourselves at home.”
The owner and proprietor of the Titty Twister was a man of many unique qualities, the majority being more notorious than merely owning a stripclub. He was a crimelord of widespread influence throughout Mexico and beyond. He commanded respect wherever he went, and received it in abundance. His shadowy past was the stuff of legend. But few knew just how dark those shadows were. Few truly knew the Pistolero.
“Good evening, T. I have come to discuss business.”
“Por supuesto, Doctor. But first… introductions! Please, take a seat.” The Pistolero grinned as he saw Curare eye the chairs suspiciously. “Ha ha! It is safe, my good friend. I have no reason to wish you ill. And as long as your companions are friends as well…”
“…they are,” Curare interjected quietly.
“…then all is well.” With that, two of the chairs flipped into the floor and were replaced with two others. “We take no chances here.”
Curare turned to the Mahoneys, who were peering into the darkness with apprehension. He could see Heather instinctively tense her wrist muscles, which would send her oak and dragonheartstring wand slipping from the wrist sheath into her waiting hand. Peter’s teeth were clenched as waves of rippling musculature passed over his body. Curare held up his hand and nodded to the waiting seats. Heather looked at him.
“This is an evil place, Curare. Are you certain we can trust these… people?”
“I need their help, so I choose to trust them. You must make up your own minds.” He turned and walked into the open chamber. In the shadows to the side, he saw two brilliant spots of blue fire. They were eyes, glowing in the darkness. The three walked and sat in the tall cushioned chairs, facing the Pistolero. He put a cigar into his mouth and smiled broadly at them.
“I shall open with introductions of myself and my associates. I am the Pistolero, and that is all you two ever need know. You have already met Carlos. He is a good compadre and a born entertainer, with a few tricks up his sleeve.” The pistolero laughed aloud at his own joke. “Although rumor has it he gave a couple of them to you, Curare.”
“It is true. I had them… modified.” The Mahoneys looked at Curare in confusion, but he merely smiled and shook his head dismissively.
“Yes, Carlos and the Doctor have known each other longer than any of us. But I have two associates that he has not yet met. First, allow me to introduce Montoya.”
A figure strode up to them from one side of the room, dressed in silk finery and wearing a long, ornate rapier at his side. He had a long mane of black hair and a bushy mustache. He flashed a quick smile and greeted them.
“Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya.” Pete gave a start at this.
“Are you related to the famed swordsman and pirate of that name? A descendant, perhaps?” The Solomon Kane Society had once been interested in the mysterious disappearance of the historical figure.
“I am indeed related to him. But I am no descendant.” He smiled at the looks of confusion. “Let me explain. No, it is too much. Let me sum up. You see, after many adventures, Montoya became the captain of the pirate ship Revenge, although he used a different name. Roberts, he was called.”
Pete cut in. “Yes, and he grew in fame and power until he vanished in 1642. There is no record of him or his crew, although there were odd rumors about the Revenge for years afterward. Do you know what happened to him?”
Montoya grinned and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a gleaming medallion and flipped it neatly across the top of his fingers.
“There is an interesting story about Aztec gold…”
Minutes later, after Montoya had told his brief tale, Heather Mahoney rose to her feet.
“Impossible. It can’t be true.” Montoya regarded her interest, his eyes roving over her body.
“I assure you it is, my lovely. And who are you?” He took a step forward.
“No one of consequence.” Heather bristled slightly and the runes on her wrist bracelets began to glow faintly.
“I must know,” Montoya insisted with a sly smile, his fingers lightly tapping the sculpted handle of his long blade. Without a sound, Pete was suddenly standing next to his wife, his eyes fiercely gleaming and his voice a guttural growl that echoed throughout the chamber.
“Get used to disappointment.”
At this, Montoya’s smile faded for an instant as he glanced at each of them. Then he grinned widely, shrugged once, and took a step back. The couple sat once more and the Pistolero spoke again.
“My good Doctor, I don’t think you have had the pleasure of meeting my personal bodyguard, Misterio.” There was a blur of movement from the opposite side of the room, and Curare was suddenly confronted with a broadly muscular man, pale blue eyes burning from behind a full head mask. The mask was black and scarlet leather, an ornate cross upon the forehead and eagle heads running down the sides of his face. The man grinned widely, his long fangs gleaming. Curare could feel Pete tense up next to him.
“Buenas noches, Doctor.” Misterio bowed his head slightly in a sign of respect.
“Buenas noches, Luchador.” Curare returned the bow.
“Ah, so you have heard of each other. Fantastic. Misterio was indeed once part of the Mexican lucha libre tradition. They called him the King. El Rey. But his fate rested elsewhere, and now he is truly one of us.”
“I bet you saw to that personally,” muttered Heather under her breath. The Pistolero turned his attention to her.
“Señorita…”
“Señora,” she interrupted. “Señora Hawke.”
“Quite… Señora Hawke, I have tried to keep this meeting polite. Do you not agree that our conversation should be kept… civil?”
“It would be best…” Curare leaned in and whispered to her. She swallowed once and nodded.
“I apologize, señor. These are unfamiliar surroundings and this alliance is new to us.”
“I understand. As you are amigos of the good Doctor, all is forgiven. Now, if you please, we are anxious to hear from you. It is only fair.”
Peter and Heather introduced themselves as Lord and Lady Hawke and described their work for the Solomon Kane Society. They were careful to point out that their efforts centered on lycanthropes, and were not involved with matters of vampirism. The whole time they spoke, the Pistolero and Montoya casually watched them in silence. Misterio’s fiercely glowing stare never wavered. Only Carlos was not intently watching them, quietly playing a mariachi tune on his guitar in the shadows. At last they finished and the Pistolero smiled and nodded.
“Excellent. Now we are no longer strangers and can get down to business. But, before we do, I must ask the good Doctor a question that has been… gnawing away at me since your arrival. Do you mind, Curare?”
“Not at all, Señor. We are your humble guests.”
“Claro,” the Pistolero said with a laugh. “Very good. You have not visited me often since our … collaboration ended, but each and every time you have she has come with you. She joined you of her own accord and we agreed it was the best choice. I granted her leave to do what she wished. She always spoke of you to me with great pride. But she was never ashamed of her roots.” The Pistolero’s voice and gaze hardened as he spoke. “And now you come before me without her. You have not mentioned her. And I cannot ignore this. So tell me, my good Doctor, donde está mi Gata?”
Doctor Curare found that for the first time he could not meet the Pistolero’s harsh gaze. He looked down and spoke softly.
“Ocelot is the reason I come before you this night. There are few others I can turn to. I am here to ask for your help. To plead for your help. To bargain for your help. I need the strength of Los Chicos Perdidos.”
Once again, Curare told the story of his struggles and the tragic death of Ocelot. The Pistolero listened in silence, and the tension was palpable. Behind them, the guitar of Carlos had fallen silent. The news of Ocelot’s death would affect him nearly as much as it would the Pistolero. At last, Curare finished the tale. “She was a good soldier, amigo. She honored me. I could not ask for more.”
The Pistolero did not speak for several moments, his sorrow and rage battling inside of him. When at last he did speak, it was with a level of emotion that Curare had never heard from the fierce soldado.
“She once asked me to change her. Despite her skill, her passion for life, she wanted to join us. But I could not do it, Curare. I could not do it. I may be a bastard, but I’m not a fucking bastard.” At this, he ran his hands through his greasy hair and was silent.
“You made the right choice. Her humanity and passion was what made her the best. She saved a life that day and made the hard choices. Just as you did. You taught her well.”
“But I could have saved her, Curare. She might not have died had she been… like us.” But Curare only shook his head.
“She kept her honor. She went to a place where we all wish to go. I doubt any of us will see what she will see. But we can fight in her memory. But if we are destined for Hell, we might as well fight like it!”
The Pistolero was silent once more. He looked at Curare and at his men. At last he spoke slowly.
“You ask a great deal of us, Curare. In the wake of your news, you want us to risk so much for our grief and rage. I would take such action as you ask, and I expect Carlos would join us, but neither Misterio nor Montoya knew Ocelot. You ask too much of them, and I will not venture forth without them.”
“I realize this, and I am prepared for a negotiation. You are businessmen, and I have an offer for you. For my part, I am willing to sacrifice for Ocelot’s vengeance. You are aware, no doubt, of the death of the Invisible Actionhero?”
“Indeed. He was a hard warrior who dealt righteous death. We had… enough in common.”
“Have you seen his Will?”
“No. Why would I wish to see such a thing?”
“You are mentioned in it, T. And I am hereby adding to what he has bequeathed to you. He had given to you a matched set of nickel-plated .45s…”
“…ah, Los Dragones.”
“Claro. He had directed you to acquire these from his estate just outside of the city. You know of it?” The Pistolero nodded at this question, his eyes rolling.
“Nacho-Flan. It caused me pain to hear that name, just as it caused me trouble to deal with the place taking up space in my territory. But I respect the man and his holdings.”
“Well, your worries are over, amigo. Nacho-Flan is yours, along with the items held therein. These were granted to me, and I am passing them on to you. I was uncertain at first whether you would have uses for the listed items, but your new associates have solved my dilemma. So, let us see…
“For your trusted bodyguard Misterio, there are two separate items that may serve him well. The first is a steady supply of customized luchador masks, which ‘Hero granted to my Anaconda Guardsmen as a bad joke. It seems your man will have the last laugh. And second, there is an item that was promised to my man Kiyagi.”
“Kiyagi will not miss it?”
“He may indeed. But this is my decision, and his position with Aztechnology is currently in question. With luck, this will be the only thing he sacrifices. I assume that Misterio is familiar with the great Island Tournament?”
“Claro que si, Doctor.” Misterio’s eyes widened and he grinned as he nodded.
“Well, you now have reservations for the Tournament in ‘Hero’s suite. And feel free to make use of the large dimensions of the bed.” Curare smiled broadly.
“Now, for the swordsman Montoya, I have two items that were promised to my Jaguar Assassins Flamenca and Mariposa. I know that your preference is for the rapier, but I expect that you are well-versed in other styles as well?”
“My training allows me to adapt to most any style. It is a point of pride with me, to put it bluntly.” Montoya’s eyes twinkled.
“Touche. You shall receive a set of Hanzo-forged dashio, as well as the cutting-edge Liquid Swords.”
“Madre de Dios. I have heard much of these Liquid Swords. And as for Hattori Hanzo… these are substantial gifts, Doctor.”
“I am asking for a substantial favor. These items will be granted to you only after the favor has been completed. These are not my terms, but rather the terms of the Will. Only on the next Day of the Dead will these items be accessible from Nacho-Flan, and it will not be a simple matter. But let us continue…
“The next item is that which was left to Ocelot. ‘Hero had a great deal of respect for her, despite her apparent rivalry with him. He recognized it as a form of Hero worship, and for this he granted her a special privilege. I pass it along to you, with the knowledge that you may use it to various ends. It consists of a ticket to Hong Kong along with a letter of introduction to the Secret Society of Supercops. There are two distinct ways that this could be used, and I leave it to you to decide. If Los Chicos Perdidos wish to establish an Eastern presence, this will allow you to gather all of the Supercops together in one place. There is undeniable temptation for a preemptive strike scenario. But if one were to take the items at face value, it is an incredible opportunity for training. The bearer of the letter, with no limitations stated, will be trained in the Way of the Never Empty Clip. It is a gift that may outweigh the power gained by eliminating the HK Supercops. I would suggest that this be given to Carlos, as his honorable nature and belief in justice would serve him well. But I leave this decision to you.”
“These are mighty gifts that you are willing to part with, Curare. There is nothing in this Will that you wish to keep for yourself?”
“Just two things, T. Hero granted me his private Journals. There is much I would like to glean from these, and I see little appeal in them for others. If you have no objections, I would like to retain these. Secondly, there is no mention of it being in Nacho-Flan, but if for any reason you should encounter an old, worn-out leather bullwhip listed as belonging to one ‘Connecticut’ Smith, I would appreciate it if I could take that as well.”
“I am willing to accept these terms.” The Pistolero glanced at his compatriots, who nodded their heads in turn. Then he glanced back at Curare with a grin. “But… ‘Connecticut’ Smith?”
“It is a story for another time. But now, the qualifications. As I said, the Nacho-Flan territory and its contents will only be made available on the next Day of the Dead. I assume starting at midnight, which should put you in good stead.” Curare flashed a quick smile. “But be forewarned: Actionhero played his games to the end and instructed any and all Invisible alums or current students to attempt to usurp these items. The overall intent to block my success is clear, and I expect that many individuals will have trained in preparation to engage me in combat if they cannot take these items undetected. But they will not be expecting you. I therefore grant you permission to deal with any and all competitors as you see fit. But try to keep the body count within reason, since you will be responsible for that territory in the future.”
El Pistolero laughed aloud at this. “It should be fun, Doctor. Do you think you might join us?”
“I fear not. If our mission is successful, I expect I will be en vacaciones for some time. I have a prime destination.”
“Well, it seems that we are in accord, Curare. An alliance for blood, so to speak.” The Pistolero rose and bowed to Curare and to the Mahoneys. “When do we start?”
“Ahorita. Vamos.”
I’ll try to get crackin’ on a holiday story, but I need a little slack.