SIN CITY (IC Thread)

"You gonna be okay rookie?"

Typical. It wasn't like I hadn't been working with the force for the last five years. Sure I'd only made detective in the last two years and was well on my way to making lieutenant if I kept up the pace like current. "You know I'm not a rookie right?" He shrugged at me while bending over the dead body that was called in. Another murder? It wasn't a surprise, at least not anymore. With all the crime that had gone rampant over the years it was bound to happen. Over the course of a year the crimes seemed to spike, like a damn had been let loose over this god forsaken place.

"So you wanna peel her skull off the wall or should I call in the team?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Fine fine... I'll call it in."

Watching him head back to the care, I took my time with this one. Somehow it was the only peace I could afford living so close to the fire. Moments like these just me and an unknown corpse... Ah, nice of her to have a purse, this... Cathy Morgan. Poor girl she didn't deserve this but then again maybe the bitch had it coming. Who knows, who cares. From her skull sliding off the brick wall in the alley, the way her dress was torn and the unmistakable smell of blood, sex and sweat, she was raped. Badly. These guys didn't want her getting out alive one way or another. The matter remained was she raped before or after. "Bastards."

Well it was almost certain they did it before hand, her fingernails were bleeding from the scrapes she must have given them. There was also sign of an altercation. She was a fighter, down to the last. Someone had to have heard her screams. That's when I noticed her scarf. It was half tied around her chin and neck, she must have been gagged with it. Any foot prints? I looked for some but they were hidden by the secrets this city harbored.

Gotta admit I hate this city. If I had a choice I'd burn the damn thing down with everyone in it... oh well the matter at hand.

Whoever did this cleaned their tracks it's going to take more of my time and more reassuring the girls that I'll handle it. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure this was one of the girls from Old Town, I only ever recognized her name for being a regular costumer there. She had this coming, THAT one was an uber bitch. Damn. The girls were definitely going to be out on a rampage again, it was getting harder for me to keep them cool. Some time ago I made an idiotic promise to spearhead the murders going on around town but that was before it became a constant thing. A half a year later and still no leads even the force was uninterested in helping me figure this thing out. I got a few snide remarks, warnings and some I could swear were threats but I'm most certain no one in the force would threaten me... not if they didn't want their fuckin' balls ripped out and sitting in my dogs dinner bowl.

"Rookie..."

"For the love of all things that make my cunt itch, quit calling me that! I'm Detective Vermont.. VEEEERMONT... Whisker Vermont! GOT IT?"

"Yeah... geez. Take it easy, Vermont."

"Shut the fuck up... are the boys in blue coming or what?"

"Yeah said they were a half hour out."

Typical. This wasn't their top priority so they'd waste more time at the bar or at the precinct doing nothing before heading over to scoop the hooker's brains from the wall.

Typical...

Senator Roark

A good politician does two things. 1. Listen. 2. Lie.

It is late tonight, well passed midnight. I look down at the city below, lights twinkling like stars beneath my feet. Everything seems upside down. The sky above is black as tar, pitch swirling above me. Below is the soft twinkle of neighborhood street lights, forming their own galaxies and constellations.

"That's the deal. It's always been the deal, Senator."

Two things.

One is to listen. I've been doing that very well. I've been doing that ever since the police chief sat down in my office, explaining to me the ins and outs of Sin City, the finer details when it came to the whores and old town, the reason why some streets in this town had no law, some police were worse than the criminals, and everyone was trying to take a piece of the pie.

"They give you a cut?"

"Decent enough, for just staying out of their business."

I didn't like that. Calling it their business. It implied ownership. The chief of police sitting in my office and speaking of whores in Old Town the way someone might talk about furniture salesman or a committee chair.

It was an assumption. Yes. The mafia and the police were under some sort of assumption that the whores in this town were business partners. I felt like grabbing the chief of police and bashing his brains into my fine Asian carpet until he understood this simple concept.

They aren't business partners any more than sheep are business partners on a farm. Whores are a commodity. They are a staple to production.

I knew this. I just didn't understand why no one else could see what was right in front of their fucking faces.

"So... how much would it take to break this deal?"

The chief of police, who had been chewing on a rather fine cigar offered from one of my personal selections, blinked twice and then coughed up something foul.

I put my hands behind my back, staring out into the night's abyss, waiting for him to finish.

"Money? I don't know. There ain't no money involved in it. People are happy. There's no war with the mafia and we don't have to spend man hours protecting old town. We're getting paid to not do our jobs..."

"Yes," I said, firm enough so that the chief stopped mid sentence, "You've said that all too well. But let me give you a counter argument, and I want to make this perfectly clear to you so that you understand it. How much would it take for you to actually do your job?"

Light bulbs slowly began to dawn inside the Chief's very slow running mind. Slow but not stupid. His train got to where I was asking it to go, even if it took a while longer to get there.

"You mean... clean up Sin City?"

"Indeed," I grind my teeth. The pain gives me a release and I enjoy it much more than I should.

"I can't even think of a number. It's in the millions. We would have to cut half the force. Everyone's on the take. No one would just lie down and watch the empire they created go up in smoke."

Ahh, and here is where the second part of being a good politician came in.

"I think we just need to remind the police department who we are," I said, subtly, carefully. I speak with the same rhythm and tension I use whenever I move a piece in chess. Obvious and subtle at the same time. Here and gone. Shadow and substance.

"With the mafia gone, there's no drug trade and no protection. With the deal broken the whores have nowhere to go and nothing to do. This will leave a huge gap within Sin City. Now, who do you think is gonna replace that gap? Who can come in and take over when things are down?"

The chief finally began seeing pictures, "Us?"

I nod, as if we had both discovered this idea together.

"Why settle for a cut in the whore's profits when we can own old town. Why take a percentage of the drug trade when it can be our drug trade? Why hire hitmen when we have a police force that can legally get rid of any troubling person we want?"

Money. Women. Fame. Possibility.

It is a sight to see the Chief's light up like that. I wonder if having ideas for this man hurts him.

"You want to turn Sin City upside down and take over everything?"

I am nodding, "Tear it down and build it back up again... with ourselves on top running everything."

Ambition and insanity. The run hand in hand in my family.

At least, they used to.

"Like I said, how much do you need?"

The Chief thought about it for a minute.

"8 million dollars."

A drop in the bucket. Small up price up front to pay. I pull out my checkbook.

He's gone again. Like always. Every once in a while, he breezes through. Checking on the girls. Checking on us. Never really checking on me. I am used to it. I am easily discarded, a prisoner to my own needs as well as to his. I am the one who keeps thngs ticking, now that Wendy has left Old Town, and our business, behind.

I can hear the yells, the whispers, the screech of car tires, the opening and closing of car doors. It's just business as usual and I am here to make sure it runs, like clockwork, just like usual. Silence, a monentary thing and then the knock that signals important news. I open the door and wait, 6 feet of hard bodied sin, holding a mini uzi, smoking my cigerette.

Monica comes slinking in. She used to work the clergy before Goldie and the others were brought low. Now she only plays with the rich and famous, some girls, some boys. She doesn't have a preference as long as they don't wear a collar. She steps to my desk and stands there, waiting for me to resume my place behind it. I sit. What else can I do?

"Cathy has gone missing, Gail. I expected her back from that party uptown 2 hours ago. You know we worked out codes for emergencies, codes for if we were not going to be returning to the nest. She isn't here and that means something is wrong. This will be the third disappearance this month. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?"

I looked at her. I can feel my eyes narrowing, my finger applying pressure to the trigger of the gun cradled in my lap. What am I gonna do about it? She has the nerve to ask me this like I haven't tried talking to the cops, like I haven't tried making the girls understand that leaving Old Town leaves them unprotected. What am I gonna do about it?

My voice is low, cold, diamond hard. Monica obviously hasn't gotten the 411 on who runs things just now.

"Am I supposed to baby sit grown women who won't do as they are told? EVERYONE knows they aren't to leave Old Town. If they choose to do so, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?

I stand up, walk away, moving to stand framed in the huge picture window of my office. I can see the main drag, the girls taking care of business~Miho and her trainee enforcers moving into and out of the shadows with deadly ease. What did Dwight always call her? Oh yes. Deadly little Miho. I shake my head, clear those thoughts of him away. I can't think of him, not right now.

I light another cigerette from my dwindling supply and inhale sharply, my brain racing with thoughts. How am I going to fix this? Who the hell can I call? I know a few good cops, ones who aren't on the take but dragging them into this? I don't want to do it. So who am I going to call? Fuck, everybody knows who I want to call. Him. I won't. Not until it gets a little bit worse. I turn then, striding back to my desk, stubbing my cigerette out.

"The fact of the matter is, Monica, that unless you girls are willing to curtail your work habits, there ain't shit I can do. Not yet. So get the word out. Either we stay home or you take your chances out in the big bad world, alone. I can't protect the idiots who won't listen."

I raise my hand, forestalling her questions.

"Just do as I say. Don't make me ask you again. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. Don't fuck with me. Now, get out."

I turn my back on her then. She will spread the word. There is nothing else I can do. Not right now. And, quite frankly, I am sick of being the go to girl when shit hits the fan. Let them do what I ask or pay the consequences. I have bigger worries. There is a feeling, a war, an ending. And I don't know where I can turn or where to run.

I step off of the train and even before my foot hits the platform I wrinkle up my nose in disgust. My eyes close and a disappointed sigh slips out. This rat's nest of a city smells like it was built atop a landfill. I dig for my lighter and pull the last cigarette from the hidden pocket in my vest. A second or two later and the sweet smokey aroma covers up the stench of Basin City. The clarity of a deep smoke-filled inhale brings me back to the matter at hand. I have a job to do.

A taxi brings me to the address I was given. A fancy looking hotel that probably harbored it's own share of foul smelling cretins. No matter how you dressed them up, a mobster always smelled greasy like hot oil. A few guards at the door, suits with uzi's under their jackets. More in the lobby, one specifically watching the elevators. I noticed the cameras too. Hidden well enough if you weren't looking for them. As someone who had been doing this sort of job for as long as I had, it was simple habit to be overly observant. Mark the exits, tally the goons, gauge good cover spots. It didn't hurt to have a good memory either.

A nod to the man by the elevator (with the almost hidden shotgun) and my escorts and I were riding up to meet the boss. Several stories and awkward elevator music later had brought me face to face with the man who ran one of the larger criminal organizations in the city. The Kraut was bigger than I had thought. A beast of a man, about as wide as he was tall. He had his back to me, hands clasped behind him as he stared out of his ridiculously large windows. The office looked like something you'd find in the IRS building. Saying it was simply decorated would be an understatement. A coffee table with a large couch on either side in the middle of the room and on the far side a large black desk. A painting on the wall and a few pictures but that was it. Even the papers on the desk were neatly arranged. There was something oddly intimidating about someone so... tidy.

The Kraut never spoke once. He gestured for one of his goons to hand me a file from the desk. I read it, and was asked to hand it back. When I did, the suit took it from me hastily and put the papers through a shredder. It occurred to me that no one in the room knew what was on those papers aside from myself and Wallenquist. When I accepted the terms of the now shredded agreement, the Kraut motioned again for his gopher. The man asked for my banking information and assured me that half of the money would be deposited by the end of the day and that the rest would be wired when I had closed the contract. The usual business.

I turn to leave after the deal had been finalized. The doors to the elevator open to reveal a man in a suit, but not like the other monkeys. This man had class. His hair was slicked back and he had a betraying smile. There was something dark behind those eerily calm eyes. I had heard somewhere that monsters always recognized each other. Maybe that's why he seemed so oddly familiar. We nodded and passed one another politely and just as I was thinking of where to start looking for my “client”, he spoke up. Perhaps my expression gave way to my thoughts. I stepped into the elevator and turned to face him. He was staring right at me, his voice somehow soft yet unnerving.

“Turn the right corner in Sin City, and you can find anything...”

My eyes widen as the doors begin to close and just as there is only a sliver of him visible, he smirks and the monster peeks out.

“... anything.”

"Busy night," Annie noted softly as she wiped down her face, smiling gently to the woman beside her. "Saw a few familiar faces..."

"Your first regulars, Annie. Got admirers." Nancy returned the smile, checking her own reflection in the mirror for a moment before angling to turn her back toward the younger girl. "Can you give me a hand? This thing can be hell to get off myself."

"Oh, sure!" Annie had a gentle hand. Delicate, cautious. Nancy just closed her eyes. Those marks. Annie was afraid of them, wasn't she?

"They don't hurt anymore, Annie. It's okay." Another smile over her shoulder. Forced. Faked. No physical pain anyway. The reddened scars from Junior's lashings stayed on her skin, the burning memories stayed on her mind. Not the pain. Not the pain of his whip.

The pain that came after that.

Sometimes the guys looked, when she danced. The curiosity. Some of those twisted shits that got off on that kind of stuff, the looks in their eyes. She said nothing. Sometimes the money was big, nights she wore things that revealed those marks.

Lust?
Pity?
Whatever.

"You want a ride home, Nance? I got Tony's car. I can give you a ride."

Nancy shook her head, taking the straps held over her shoulders from Annie. "Thanks, but no. I've got a few plans of my own tonight." She paused, pulling the top up over her head, looking at herself in the mirror once again. "A.... Date. Someone special."

"Sounds like a nice night." Annie smirked, leaning over to kiss her cheek before patting her shoulder. "Tell Mr Dreamy I said hi."


The little brown bag was clutched tightly in her fingers, gloved in brown leather. Conservative clothes, a long overcoat, sunglasses, a scarf wrapped about her head; the opposite of her job's appearance. "I thought I'd bring you an early birthday present...," she whispered softly, setting the bag on the small cement plaque.

John Hartigan

Her fingers traced the dates carved below. Next weekend. His birthday was next Sunday. He would have been-
Well. He would have been.

"It's just a little something for now. I'm saving up for something bigger. You deserve better than this, John. Something... Nicer. More fitting of you. Not this placemarker, piece of sidewalk... It's going to have an angel on it. But a manly one, don't you worry. I owe you that, at least." She closed her eyes behind the dark frames, a tear leaking down beneath them. "I also owe you a kick in the ass. I don't know how I can get that to you. This isn't better. This isn't better at all. You left me for heaven, and made me stay in hell."

She laughed in her tears, shaking her head. "I'm arguing with a rock. I bet you're laughing at me too- Oh, damn it, John. I waited forever for you... And they took you away from me." Nancy reached into the bag, pulling out the small bottle of scotch. "I'm old enough. Don't you be yelling at me up there," she warned as she opened it, taking a sip. Then another. And another.

"If you really thought that would keep me safe, you were wrong, John. You're gone. Junior's gone. But what about Daddy? This is all... If it weren't for him, I'd have you still."

She sniffled softly, pouring the tiny bottle's remainder into the grass, the bottle being placed atop the stone. "I gotta go, baby. I miss you. I got some plans to go through. Some calls to make..."

Conversations

"You ain't got no beer left." He says.

I hadn't heard him come in. I used to always hear him come in. I hadn't even heard him sit down but there he is, across from me, staring at me with those hollowed eyes and making me look him right square in that ugly mug of his. He's smiling now, an ugly and sad thing given the look of him, but I'm so glad to see him that I start smiling too.

"You look like shit." I say to my old friend. My only friend.

"I liked your old mug better. You off the sauce again?"

I nod. He nods back.

And then I watch as he spreads his hands on the table, scarred up fingers flexing on the vinyl surface and his chair creaking as he settles his weight forward and stares at me. It's not concern in his horrible face, but accusation.

"You gettin' confused lately?" He asks me.

I nod again. It's no mystery that I'm out of my mind. Infact, his arrival only proves it. My hands find the grip of the pistol infront of me and lift it, feel the familiar weight and cool plastic of its grip in my fingers, and I begin to brush the top of the receiver. The rest of it lays in pieces infront of us, strewn across the table where I'd dropped them after stripping it down to its basics. It'd needed a cleaning badly.

As usual, this conversation is one-sided. He always did do most of the talking.

"This Pet Dick shit is no good for you, Dwight. It's never been any good for you. Gives you too much time to think about things. It gets your brain in a jumble. It keeps you up late and around the wrong people. You know if you don't sleep enough you're going to keep getting confused like I used to, right?" He says. The concern in his voice is genuine, but veiled, like it always was.

"I'm out of my fucking mind. Sleep isn't going to help that." I reply.

He sits back suddenly, shrugging, and I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he produces a smoke from somewhere in his coat and lights it up. I wrinkle my nose against the smell, peer at him through the smoke, and watch as he shrugs again. It's like two mountains moving with every shift of his shoulders. He certainly hasn't gotten smaller.

"Ain't going to help the dames on Old Town, either, with you cracking up, pal. Now, I know that I'm not the smartest bird in the cage but some of them dames have gone missing lately..."

"She hasn't called me." I say.

"What's that matter?" He asks.

And I don't know what it matters, or if it matters, I only know that she hasn't called me. I start thinking that he's got a point, though. That maybe I should be shaking things up and seeing what I can find out, seeing if I can give her a hand.

"I was stupid last time. I've got to think this through." I say.

"Thinking was never something either of us did well." He's laughing and I don't blame him. I suddenly feel like laughing to.

"Go shake things up and see what falls out?" I ask, glancing up into that ruin of a face.

"That's what I'd do. Kill your way to the truth. She is your girl, isn't she?" It isn't a question. I watch as he looks at me, deadly serious even with his eyes empty holes of black, and suddenly feel the fire coming on. It's a twisting, smoldering heat in my belly.

"Yes."

"I really hate when a man gets rough with a dame. Don't you?"

"Yes." I agree. "I really hate when a man gets rough with a dame."

The pistol comes together and I know this weight, too. Loaded. Ready for killing. Outside the sky swirls black, stars veiled in inky clouds that lay like a foreboding blanket over the city. The snow will come soon, maybe tonight, and briefly wash this cess pool of a city in pure white. By morning it'll be stained grey. Grey and red. I look into the mangled face of my friend one last time.

"I think I'll start at Kadie's. Should I say hi to Nancy for you?"

"She'll think you're fucking crazy." He says. "But sure. She was sweet to me."

"Did it hurt, Marv, the way they did you?" I ask. Unable to help myself.

"Nah," He shakes his head, blackened flesh tight across that face of his. It reminds me of a brick that's been burned for a bit, pebbled, cracked and still hard. "They had to hit me twice. Don't fuck this up, Dwight. Them girls are counting on you."

"I won't let them down, Marv." I say and realize that I mean it.

I mean it to the bone. Because in the end, without Marv, there ain't much left in this world that's any kind of good except the girls in Old Town. Someone put the screws to Marv, got him to sign a confession that I know was bullshit. And someone was waiting for my girl to make a mistake, circling like a buzzard while she tried to hold the place together.

I didn't know who.

But I'd find out.

And I'd make them pay.

My eyes open. I am not in Old Town. The Guide has released me. The night sky tells me it has been several hours. Though that also assumes it is still the same day. Not always the case.

I find myself perched on the railing of her balcony, rather higher than I like to wake up. This is a joke The Guide plays on me.

The Guide is quite the commedian.

I, however, am a failure.

She left Old Town to live elsewhere. That makes her no less my charge, no less my loss.

Through the glass I can see how she fought, how they brutalized her, how she screamed and cursed and begged.

I would die inside, if I were capable of it.

Cathy was kind to me. Not like some of the other girls. Not out of fear, or even respect. She was kind to me simply because.

I blink and find myself inside. This is...unpleasant...being thrown around so, but The Guide does little without reason.

I walk through the room, following the fight. I should not use that word. She fought back, yes, but this was a beating, a brutal assault. Calling it a fight seems wrong.

It also wasn’t an accident.

They stalked her.

They hunted her.

They brought her home and beat her and raped her and exploded her skull.

This wasn’t even a murder.

It was a threat.

A promise of more to come.

My hand found the hilt of my katana.

I smiled.

There are many things I do not know.

I do not know how I came to Sin City.
I do not know the first person to call me Miho.
I do not know what The Guide is.

But I know how to kill.
I know how to prevent a war.
And I also know how to fight a war.

These are things my enemy does not know.
If they did, I would be dead.

I find myself perched on the balcony again. I throw myself into the night sky and let it carry me into the blood red tomorrows to come.

I am sorry, Cathy.

Senator Roark

Tonight is the big gala event. I put on my best suit. It is an ash gray. Apolcalypse gunmetal with a power tie. I look in the mirror and the person staring back at me has a power that I admire.

I like it.

The limo drops me off in front of the hotel ballroom. Already the press are here. It is not quite a celebrity event, but nevertheless with enough powerful people in Sin City gathered together, the press will be there.

I step out of the limousine. The air hits me cool and crisp. I touch the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth and making a clicking sound.

There is a large banner wavering in the wind that reads: JUNIOR FOUNDATION.

My pet project.

Reporters ask questions. I do my best to answer. Yes I'm running for re-election. Yes I have been talking with the mayor and chief of police. Yes I am making a big announcement. No, you can't know what it is until my speech.

Tonight's big speech.

I swim through the gala event. There are sharks in the water, but they're easily passed with a handshake or a kiss to the cheek. I make light conversation. I keep moving myself forward. There is no need to actually talk with these people. I simply need to talk to them.

Once the dinner begins I go up to the front podium, gathering the room's attention.

"I'm glad you could all be here tonight. I hope you brought your checkbooks."

A spittering of laughter. It is fueled mostly by nicety and alcohol.

"Tonight's event is about my new foundation, called the Junior Foundation. As you all may know, my son loved this city and he did everything he could to help it. Unfortunately he fell prey to the criminal element running rampant in Basin City, the underbelly of greed and weakness that now surrounds us. A corrupt pedophile cop tortured and killed my only son."

There was a sting of hatred in that last sentence. A nerve of pain that came from saying those words out loud. I was denied my revenge. The death of my son I could tolerate, but the thought of never making someone pay for killing my son?

It brought rage to my lips. Hot white rage.

"But because of his bravery and harrowing sacrifice, I feel the best way to remember my son is to create the Junior Foundation. It's sole purpose will be to clean up Basin City, to make sure what happened to my son is never allowed to happen to anyone else again."

And I sing my song. I tap all of the right notes, I show remorse when I should, I even pause for a moment when I talk about a fond memory playing ball with my own son, my living flesh and blood. They buy it, they eat out of my hand.

"Your donations tonight will help to fuel my son's legacy. It will bring about dramatic reform in Basin City. We are going to hammer down hard on the criminals of this town. Prostitution, drug running, corruption, murder and rape will be be a thing of the past. We're going to double the police force. We're going to change Old Town into a thriving merchant community that people will want to bring their families to. This city will once more hold the light and glow that it used to.

"That is why I need your help tonight."

They clap. They cheer. They forgot about the rumors surrounding Junior's death and that damned cop. Instead, tonight they were focused on me, as well they should. I am pulling them forward.

I am listening and lying. I am a perfect politician.

Shellie

You damn fool...

Those were the last words I had said about Dwight... and it was true, he was a fool for going after Jackie Boy. That was the last time I'd seen either of them that night...

Not that I missed Jackie Boy, but I sure missed...miss...Dwight.

I've always hoped Dwight would show up again one day...for all I know, he probably did, maybe with a new face? Nah, he would've told me, let me know somehow... Why does Dwight hold such an impression? He was nice to me.

No one was ever as good to me as Dwight was...is... Well, except maybe Marv, he was always good to me too when he came in for drinks.

Things have sure changed in Sin City, that was for sure. The same could be said about the crowd here at Kadie's. They seemed to get seedier and down right nasty. But the tips were great. I hadn't had a bloodied lip for awhile now and I had a few regulars.

Nancy just finished up a set so now the crowd was restless. It was a crowded night. Good thing for the bar...good thing for me...

I had watched Nancy dance, but for some reason, she hadn't seemed herself today. Her performance was off, of course the drunken crowd didn't notice, but the rest of the girls here did.

She was nice too, decent to me. Always had a smile but lately it was a smile with no happiness...

Not that I blamed her, there was nothing happy about working a rough crowd. My ass was getting sore from being slapped and pinched. But a job was a job. Perhaps tonight, I'd take someone home with me...

Maybe I could find me another one as nice to me as Dwight was.

I don't know this town.

I know people though... and this city has plenty of them. All kinds.

There's not many who won't give me what I want, not for what I offer. The money isn't important. It's not why I do what I do. It's the hunger. It's that pain you get when you haven't eaten for a long while. The twist and turn of your stomach. It's the itch. It's that annoying tingling that no amount of scratching will cure. I have to do this... in a way, it keeps me sane.

The money isn't important. Besides, paying them off is easier than getting my hands dirty and it draws much less attention. I find some dark little hole of an alley and start asking questions. Nothing that will give away what I'm looking for, but enough to get a little bit closer. I have to be careful though, waving around too much cash in a place like this will get you the wrong kind of noticed. I have to take that chance. Like I said..

I don't know this town.

So a couple founding fathers later and I've got the name of a bar. Kadie's. Sounds like a day care center. I hand the bum his money and thank him. No reason to be rude, he probably won't remember me anyway. Not after all the whiskey those bills will get him. Who wouldn't drink in a place like this? I think about a nice cold one as I head out of the alley, but a big tall shadow steps in my way. A big bull of a man. Huge black guy with arms as big as my waist. The footsteps behind me signal two more scum bags just as big as the first. As I relax my fingers I think about trying to pay my way out of this. One look at the bruiser in front of me says they can't be bought. They'll think I'm hiding something else, something better. The wire falls out of my sleeve, unraveling between my fingers. The cord glistens in the lamp light,

One of the punks behind me steps forward to swing. I narrow my eyes. He puts all of his weight into the punch, thinking it's all he needs. I can't blame him. I'd underestimate me too. I probably look like I should be auditing them. I duck under the swing, my wire wraps around his wrist and I whip my hands out as far as I can. The cord bites into his flesh. He's a big boy. I give it one more tug and he loses the hand. The scream echoes off of the brick walls and he stumbles back into his friend, clutching the stump still spewing with red.

I relax my fingers and the hand falls. My wire is stained with crimson. It's easier to see now.

The first guy comes at me while the other two try to figure out what just happened. He doesn't make the same mistake as the first one. He's a bit more careful, but it won't matter any. He's already dead. Another step forward and he can feel it now. The cord wrapped around his neck. None of them saw me string it around the fire escape rails on each side of the alley. Dumb fool walked right into it and with one pull of my middle finger it wound it's way around his thick neck. He stops and his eyes widen. My finger tenses up with the pressure. He glances past me to his friends. I wait until he looks back at me. I let him see my smirk. This is my favorite part.

Just one, little, tug.

I clean myself up as best as I can when I'm done with them and hail a cab. Back at my hotel room I take a long shower to wash out all the blood. A new outfit is already laid out on the bed. My wire is soaking in a tub of bleach. I don't work with dirty instruments. I wipe a clear streak across the fogged up mirror and wink at my reflection. Handsome devil that one.

Another hour later and I'm outside hailing a cab again. It takes me a couple blocks down from the club. I'll walk the rest of the way. I get inside after losing another hundred to the big brute of a bouncer. Typical club, girls in skimpy outfits, drunk assholes, lots of alcohol. But then there's that smell. The thick scent of smoke in the air. I breathe it in through my nose and close my eyes for a moment. I love that smell. I take a seat at the bar, an empty stool no one seemed to want. A few choice words, a charming smile, and some small talk to get me started. I need information and like I said before...

I don't know this town.

But I will.

Sally Sinclair

Sometimes, it´s all about the stage.

I liked the cemetery since I was a little girl. It probably had something to do with the fact that it was here where my father was buried. Most people would look at a cemetery, and not like it because that is where they can see themselves going to, or because they have bad memories about it. Maybe they really liked the person buried there.

He was that bad a father.

The graveyard was on top of a hill, grass and tombstones all around, the odd crypt or mauseloum here and there, and trees and benches so as to not make it seem such a dreary place. They failed, of course, particularly in a cloudy evening like this, and that was exactly the reason I chose it as the meeting place. I lit up a smoke and looked up at the sky. It seemed rain was coming.

Even better.

I stood right in the middle of the path in my suit, matching longcoat and gloves, waiting for them as I smoked and not caring about the incoming rain. It defied common sense, and I was not some kind of superhuman tough chick that never got a cold. But I always liked the rain, and visuals were important. In my line of work, posturing was as important as actually being what you said you were. Sure, there were people who did not need dressing fancy. Little Tim, Burly Bonn and Marv had never dressed in any special way, like I did, and they could beat the shit out of anyone in their way. Marv stood out because he was a giant, but the others you could meet in a diner and never realize they could bend an iron bar without even using their knee and use it to strangle you. But that was it: they had no particular style. If you wanted someone killed or roughed up and no signs left to read by anyone but the victim, you hired them. If you wanted everyone and their mother to know someone had fucked you, and paid high for it, well... an unrecognizable thug could hardly do that.

And that was why they did not get hired by the kind of people I did.

I looked down the hill, beyond the tombstones. There was the black limo waiting, and the kid with a pair of binocs watching. At his side, Mr Temple, his father, would probably be checking some papers. He was a busy man who normally did not have time for bullshit, but he knew what was important when he saw it, and educating his boy was important for him. Now that was a good father, or at least as good a father as you could find among the high class of the basin. Bunch of dicks they were, they couldn´t be arsed to bring up their kids themselves. That was what did Roark´s kid in, as far as I was willing to go with the rumours. You didn´t meet Hartigan unless he wanted to meet you. And Hartigan loved getting to know the smelliest shits in the city.

I had finished my smoke before noticing, and I almost burned my lips off. I spit it out, and looking up, I saw them. Two kids walking up the hill, one with jeans, t-shirt and a loose jacket with hood, very gangsta-rappa, and another one all in black and with sunglasses, thinking he was some kinda urban samurai piece of crap or whatever kids watched nowadays. They didn´t seem particularly pleased with having to waste their time coming up to the cemetery, especially because at this point it started to rain. At first it was a few drops, but it did not take long for the noise of the water hitting the pavement to be clearly audible. Well, they should have thought better before trying to play tricks on Temple´s kid. If it wasn´t for the money, it would be my time wasted too, and as much as I liked the rain, I did not like getting wet for no reason. Long story short, Temple´s kid, Travis, thought he would start making some money of his own by selling drugs. That was stupid enough (or clever, the line on crime being rather unclear here in the basin) without also giving the drugs in advance. The two jackasses coming up thought they could get away with taking the drugs without paying because oh, what a scandal it would be for respectable Mr Temple´s son to be caught selling drugs at his high school...

Of course, they should have known better.

"Hey, you! You the Temple guy´s bitch!?" The hoodie guy called out some feet away right before stopping in front of me. I would have been annoyed at that if I had not noticed the kid in black holding his head strangely stiff. Staring into his sunglasses, I could tell he was looking around to see if I had brought anyone with me. He thought his sunglasses would cover the movement of his eyes.

"How cute." I answered, grinning as I took another smoke out of my longcoat´s breast pocket and lit it up. I took a drag, exhaled, and looked at Hoodie in the eye. He glared at me with too obvious aggressiveness. So he was the kind of kid who relied on scaring his classmates to get what he wanted. All the better. "You got the money?"

"We ain´t got shit. Where´s that fucking pussy? Where he hiding?" Hoodie tried to find Temple´s kid between the tombstones and behind the trees. I don´t know what the fuck he was thinking. He thought I was his mom, coming over to solve things by forcing them to make up with some sweet words?

"Kid, you owe Travis three hundred. You are not getting out of this place without giving them to me." I gave him a fair warning as I started closing the distance. I did not run, or charge. I just walked forward while rubbing my fingers together to warm them up. The rain had already made my hair wet, as well as my trenchcoat, and my face was cold, but my fists warmed up pretty fast in my gloves.

Hoodie stepped back. "Come on, dude, kill her!" The kid in black slid a sheath out of his trenchcoat, and drew a sword out of it. A Japanese sword, to be specific. He weilded it with one hand, and got into a position that I could tell he was not used to. To his credit, it seemed like the correct position (I´ve watched a few samurai movies), and he even took his sunglasses off and stuffed them into his trenchcoat in a hurry. But he was going to shit his pants any moment. It was clear he had never done this kind of stuff before. I decided to go easy on him. He grasped the sword´s hilt with both hands and went for a horizontal slash with all his strength, thinking that would be enough to hit me. I just stepped back to dodge, and rushed into the side he began the slash from, changing in an instant from calmly walking, to spreading my feet and clenching my hands into fists. My hand was burning like a furnace when it hit the samurai kid´s face. The sound of the impact was like a gunshot, and his body did a 180º in the air without moving from the spot.

He was out-cold before he even hit the ground. I actually realized I may have hit him with too much strength, because his head hit the pavement hard. So much for going easy on him.

"Shit!" Hoodie reached into his wet jacket, and I think I knew very well what he was trying to grasp. If samurai kid had a sword, this guy must have a gun, and he was desperately moving backwards, trying to get some distance from me. I ran up to him before he could get away and clotheslined him. Much like his pal, he also was spinning in the air right before hitting the ground, face-down. He was unconscious too, but that was not what I had been paid for. I reached into Hoodie´s jacket and pulled a shitty little revolver out. Well, that one would be interesting. I pocketed it, and grabbed both kids by their necks before dragging them to a tomb nearby. It was recently opened. I left Samurai right by the tomb, and dragged Hoodie to the nearest tombstone. I took off my glove, and started slapping him hard. Soon, my hand was wet and red from the water, and from the blood leaking from his busted lip, but the kid was awake. Before he could get his bearings, I carefully placed his arm across the top of a nearby tombstone, and held it there with one hand. The place was carefully selected: Travis Temple could watch the whole thing from his dad´s limo. From the brief fight, to this.

"Alright, kid, you get two more chances. You got the money on you?" I asked him, calmly. I didn´t intend to sound cold, but I probably did, because Hoodie was obviously quite scared even if also a little numb.

"I don´t have it!"

"I believe you. I really do." With my free hand, I did a chopping motion and broke his arm. He screamed in pain. I could see the rain falling into his horribly open mouth as he screamed and cried and sobbed. He closed his eyes shut and started breathing hard. "But if you don´t have the money, you´re going inside."

Poor fucker opened his eyes to look at me, and I pointed at the open tomb right by us. Then he looked back up at me, his brain working so goddamn hard to get talking that his mouth could not catch up, and blabbered like an idiot for a few seconds before managing to talk again. "Mike´s got it! Mike´s got it in his coat! Please don´t kill me!" With his unbroken arm, he pointed feebly at his unconscious friend. I let his broken arm free, and moved over to `Mike´. I was starting to like calling him Samurai. As for Hoodie, he wasn´t going anywhere, not with a broken arm. I knelt by Mike and searched him. I found his wallet, fished it out, and counted the money inside. Five hundred.

"Marvelous." I stood up, pocketing the money together with the gun, and moved back to Mike. He began dragging himself away and against the tombstone, somehow trying to escape me. I grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt, and looked him in the eye. "I imagine you have the fucking common sense not to tell anyone about this. Because if you do, we´re going to meet again."

Hoodie nodded, crying, trembling. "Good."

And I threw him in the open tomb. There was a wet thud and a cry of pain. After that, I moved Mike over to the tomb, and left him by the edge.

God knows I did not feel proud about beating up two stupid teenagers, but I knew the two grand for an easy job would pay for some nice whiskey. Speaking of which, I noticed the smoke I had lit when meeting the kids was gone. Well, drinking something would make up for that. I walked down the hill at a brisk pace and toward the limo. Travis Temple was not at the window with the binocs anymore. I stepped closer, and the glass came down. "All done, Mr Temple. I got the money. The kid with the hood had a gun, too."

"Keep the money and give me the gun." Mr Temple cooly asked, looking up from his newspaper. He was a short, slightly overweight man, with a moustache and going bald. His hair was kinda fluffy and almost reminded me of a clown´s in how it was combed. His eyes were tiny pools of cold intelligence in a large face. A scary guy alright, even if you didn´t know he had kids beaten up by a professional enforcer. He had a small plastic bag around his hand as he reached for his gun. The gun exchanged hands right in front of his boy´s eyes. "Thanks a lot, Miss Sinclair. I trust they´ll keep their mouths shut?"

"They will, Mr Temple. Trust me on that." He nodded, setting down the gun on the seat, and tapped the driver´s seat twice. I turned and walked away, putting on my glove, while the car´s window raised and the limo slowly rolled down the road. On second thought, I decided to cut through the cemetery again rather than go around it in search of that whiskey.

Did I tell you how much I like the cemetery?

Gail

Sometimes, I forget about the money. Really. I do. I get lost in the thrust, in the smack, in the giving out of pain, of soothing wrecked nerves that need a focus. I forget that I am doing this because it's a job. I forget that I am doing this because it is all I know how to do. I forget that I am not the Mistress who sees all, knows all, punishes all. I forget. When that happens? Bliss. Magic. Relief.

I can't take johns, not like I used to. Running Old Town? Working with Miho and the others? Getting away from that is very rarely easily arranged. But a girl....has needs. Fuck. I have needs. There are days, hell, weeks when I can ignore that itch. That thing that makes me who and what I am. The deliverer of pain, the soother of wounded boys who have played too hard and now require someone to put all the pieces back together in a way that fits. Someone who gets all the jagged bits out. For the most part? I ignore it. There are others who work this particular bit. They aren't me...but they will do in a pinch.

But then? There is one...one who needs expiation, who needs to atone for some sort of great wrong that the church can't cover. I feel them, deep in my soul, I feel them. When they come looking~I don't send one of the stable. I go. Because it is what I do. It's who I am.

So we are here, in my room. All blood red and black. All leather and vinyl and flashy pieces of steel. We are here because this man has done a very great wrong and he doesn't know where else to go. I have him bound and blinded and the thin silver flechettes are working their miracles on his flesh. I hear him but the words are soft~a whisper.

"I'm sorry."

This is when they are mine. I know it, right then. My hand in all it's brutal glory comes up, touching his face with gentle fingers. I can read him and I know that the gentleness, right then, will be his undoing. His body shudders and it is painful and beautiful to behold. My voice is quiet, cigerette harsh, velvet wrapped in steel. Cold.

"Why?"

The gentleness continues. Because he needs it. Because I want to give it to him. Because even a high riding bitch like me needs to touch softly every now and again. And there are very few people who are allowed to get that, not from me. Too many memories from before. From before He saved me. When I was anybody's, everybody's, meat. Hands stroke his face, his chest, tracing through the bloody ruins I have left behind.

"I didn't know they would go so far. I didn't know. I figured a rape, a beating. Just for her to understand that hiding in Old Town won't save her if she comes out. I didn't know."

I knew then. It was about Cathy. It was about the wheels that had been set in motion. It was about the war that I could feel. It was about instilling FEAR in us, in me. He had come looking for ME. He wanted atonement, he wanted abasement. I could not give him that. I gave him the only thing I could.

Death.

I don't remember how long I cut him. I don't recall how many times I allowed the bullwhip to fly out and strike him. I don't remember. I don't ever want to remember. Because I was terrified. And when you are nothing but fear wrapped in a hard bodied shell with a mini uzi backing you up? That is something you never, ever admit. There is no fear....even if that is all you have. Even if that is all you ARE. Even if that is all I am.

Someone removed the carcass. Someone led me to my bathroom and started the shower. I don't know who. I don't care. Someone cleaned up the mess I created...and while they did so? I stood under the steaming, streaming water and tried to cry. I couldn't but God knows, I wanted to. When it was over? When the shaking and the fear and the need to hide passed away?

I stepped out of the shower, lit a cigerette and contemplated my next move. Because they had made it personal, whoever they were. And someone would have to pay for that. I just didn't know who. But that was ok. I am a whore and damned good at my job. Eventually, someone else would come here looking for forgiveness. They wouldn't find it but they would find me.

Nancy

You hear things in Sin City. You see things.
But what happens after you see, after you hear- that shapes what type of person you are. Stupid enough to get involved? Brave enough? Or smart enough to just shut up and go on by?

I think I can be pretty brave.
But I also know when not to be stupid.

Sounds. Screams. Swearing. Awful noisy for a cemetery.

Everything happens for a reason in this place. Good ones, bad ones... they happen.
Everything happens for a reason.
My back's hurting again. What was the reason there? Why did that have to happen? So Junior could die? So Hartigan could be a martyr? So I could be stuck alone in this hellhole?

I'm still here for a reason. I know it. That yellowskinned shit could have killed me. John could have been a little too late. Everything could have stopped right then and there. But it didn't.

I have something else to do in this city.

My mind won't stop as I walk home. John's headstone, the club, the noises, the expectations I'm supposed to be meeting of this unknown "reason". Traffic's picked up tonight. Lots of cars on the road, horns already sounding from that ungodly long light on Martin Street. Someone's got their radio too loud. Old guy, I bet. The news, blaring out his window as I pass.

That voice.
The senator.
"Tonight's event is about my new foundation, called the Junior Foundation. As you all may know, my son loved this city and he did everything he could to help it."

Politicians certainly were full of shit, weren't they? My hands tighten. Fists. Tighter, tighter still.

"Unfortunately he fell prey to the criminal element running rampant in Basin City, the underbelly of greed and weakness that now surrounds us. A corrupt pedophile cop tortured and killed my only son."

My throat is burning. Anger, hatred, fury.
You son of a bitch.
My fingernails are digging into my palms now, a realization too late as blood pulls up with them as I finally release my grip. The car's taken off now, the strains of the blaring newscast leaving my hearing range.

It's enough.
Enough to leave that tightened knot in my throat, my breaths blocked by the anger that tries to strangle me. It wants me to fight. It wants me to scream.

Just like his god damn son.

John saved me. Protected me.
I needed to save his name. Somehow.

Sometimes I think I can be pretty brave.
Sometimes I know it.

The stupid part might just show up a little late.

They say that, in Sin City, one can kill to the truth. I have found that method often ineffective, and wasteful. I am no detective, but I am no fool.
I find a cop I know. He finds me photographs, and walks away quickly.

In the alleyway, I pour over them. The work is sloppy. Inefficient. It is obviously meant as a warning, a threat, but delivered by...goons. There is skin and blood under Cathy’s nails. She is dead, murdered brutally, but less painfully than a professional might have done. Goons.

This tells me there are many steps to follow. The fool who hired them will know the one above. The one above will likely be displeased. The fool is in danger, and has the information I need.

I find myself at Kadie’s. I wander the room, appreciating some of the dancers, but primarily opening my ears. Fools talk.
It doesn’t take long. They aren’t from the city. They don’t know where they are. What they have done. Tough shit.
It is pathetic how little it takes to make one of them follow me out back.
I whisper a thing in his ear. He urinates before giving me a name.
I do not know if her will bleed out before he gets to a hospital. You can’t dial 911 without hands.

I am pleased with my detective work and head home with the information.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
See, I made a joke. People think I am not funny, that my humor always involves blood and death and explosions. This is not true. I am often funny without all that. I am also a soldier, a warrior, and a weapon. There are times when there is little room for humor.
But I am funny, none the less.


Two new girls, Kit and Kat, speaking in such poorly hushed tones that I could not help but overhear what had happened while I was out. They did not know why it had happened, but it was clear to me. Clients do not make Gail lose control. Clients do not end up dead with Gail.

Her apartment is luxurious, for where we were, what she is, what we do. I slip in easily, silently, and perch on her desk. The shower is running. I hear tears, through the droplets.

The water stops, and, a moment later, she comes through the bathroom door.

Her eyes barely have time to register my own.

In that moment, I feel rage. Disappointment. Contempt.

She has helped my enemy.

My thoughts vanish as my body takes over. The distance between us vanishes even more quickly.

My strike is hard, fast, precise. Brutal. For I am righteously pissed. Her neck will be sore for days. Her left ear will be ringing for hours.

I enjoy watching her body crumple to the floor much more than I should. I enjoy the sound of her pain.

Gail is curves and skin and muscle and impulse and emotion and a child far too powerful to be let run. And that is why things are so difficult around her. Difficult for her.

That is why she leads.

She leads, but I hold the line. She is focused chaos in a world that needs it. But her powers are limited by who she is.

I hold the line.

As I stand above her, seeing the tears in her eyes that have nothing to do with the pain I have brought her body, I can tell she understands. She forgets, sometimes, but she knows what she is, what I am. I will allow no less.

She leads.

I hold the line.

I leap backwards, a flip, landing me in a crouch on her desk. My anger has gone, but not the need for restitution. She will come to me.

She will confess.

Her words will ring true in my ear.

See? I made another joke.

Shellie

Kadie's

It was finally nearing the end of my shift. Tonight was a full house. New faces. New attitudes... but something was different and I wasn't sure what it was.

I wasn't one to really listen to the news and so when I heard talk about something going on downtown. I knew better than to get involved. Politics weren't for me. I was happy doing just what I was doing.

Surviving.

Did I mention before new faces?

That's all I'm seeing. I don't remember names very well. Just faces. A few people here in groups to see the girls. Some are here alone.

One caught my eye. Well, no...that would be a lie. I really don't like lying.

Lying just gets you a bloody lip. Sometimes a black eye. No, I don't lie.

He was dark. Handsome of course..they all were. Even the ones who gave you black eyes.

I'm not saying that the ugly ones didn't beat on you. They did. But I had a different agenda tonight. I wanted to find some to take home. Even if it was just a regular. It didn't matter.

None would be like 'him'...

With a hidden sigh, I approach his table. "Hey handsome, haven't seen you here before..what can I get you?"

Someone once said that knowledge equals power.

While I agree on the principle of the thing, the straight truth is that just being smart isn't enough. You can have street smarts or a fancy degree, but neither are going to stop that bullet when you're mugged for the paper in your wallet. Now, “applied” knowledge is slightly more beneficial. You know some things. You put that information to use. Stock brokers make a living off of “applied” knowledge. So just knowing what you know isn't enough. You have to put those smarts to work for you. I'm pretty good at that. Not the smartest guy, I don't need to be. I'm patient and I'm observant. Two qualities that have saved my life more times than any martial arts lesson or handgun training. I watch, I wait, and when I see an opening... I act. Some people call it being an “opportunist”. I suppose that fits. Seems simple just putting it together like that, but the hard truth is that it isn't something you can learn. You either have it... or you don't. So no, I actually hold to a different philosophy...

It's not what you know, but who you know.

People apply that to job hunting most often. It's true. You have the better resume, more experience, notable references... but that cousin or nephew the boss knows gets the job over you. Make a friend, find an “in”. That's how you make it in life. “You're nobody unless somebody knows you,” sums it up I think. Poetic, short, and to the point. I like that.

So I look around this bar, Kadie's, and I wonder who should I know? Who can give me what I want? I see the usual bar crowd, nothing special. A few cute gals, some real lookers, and a handful of tough guys with something to prove. A quick chat with the bartender, a cigarette with a stranger on the next stool, an intimate conversation with a pretty face, all to make an impression. I'm the new guy in town. No one knows me, but a few charming words and a striking smile later, and I'm their new best friend. The alcohol helps of course, but I'd rather not make excuses for any lack of ability on my part. So I make my way around the bar, mingling and rubbing elbows like I don't have a shy bone in my body. It's all for show. I could care less about these people and their opinions about life. Means to an end.

After what seems like forever of socializing, I pick a nice quiet booth and hang back for awhile. I let them talk. I let them look. I take the time to--

"Hey handsome, haven't seen you here before..what can I get you?"

The zippo almost slips out between unusually clumsy fingers. A quick glance up.

Well, hello there bright eyes. A cute blonde waitress. I saw her coming and going while I was making my rounds, another pretty face in the crowd.

What happened to being observant? Too focused on the endgame, I didn't even notice her walk up right in front of me. Lost in thought. Another glance up.

Oh, right. She probably wanted an answer.

Time to go to work.

“You know, I'm not entirely sure... I haven't gotten past your eyes yet.”

I give her that charming smile (the real crowd-pleaser) and wait for the blush.