1 Prologue
"Please..." a man gasps below them.
The Man in the black trenchcoat, hovering over to the people below did not as much as care or heed the pleads. "Sire.." a dark man whispers beside him, witnessing at the raging city falling apart as fire after fire eats it whole in flames.
"They are ready."
"Send the rest." The Man orders, whispering to the dark man. A gleeful smile turns up on the black man's face, a gold tooth shining among the whites of his teeth. He turns and leaves The Man's side.
Just then, a guttural scream reaps through the atmosphere, ugly and screeching. "Please!" the man below him wheezes, pleading, blood leaking out from his tortured eye. The Man feels proud of what happened, a geniune smile forms in his face, as the fire rages and rages with the battle cry of his minions screaming throughout the city in victory.
"Please — what?" He asks, sneering down at the whimpering mess of the former President they used to love and adore. He never saw love and adoration with the President, when all the problems The Man felt came from under this wretched man's rule. A pity actually, he was quite handsome.
He leans forward, his golden eyes shining against the light of the raging fire that suddenly comes to reach in arms length at the poor man. Crouching, he raises a hammer he found beside him, looking at it speculatively, scrutinizing its finest details.
He looks down at his quivering figure, "Why should I let you talk? Hmm?" He says, aiming the hammer at his heart. He leans his head near the man's face, sneering as he places the cool metal of the hammer on the man's skin where his heart locates.
"See this?" He gestures with his free hand, a proud look adoring his face. "We won. Your heroes can't save your people, such a pity really — you really loved and adored those ugly bastards," Disgusted, he spits on the man's face — making him cry in fear. A pleasant sound in The Man's ear.
"Sadly enough, they can't save your sorry ass too." He raises the hammer and the call of the darkness sends sparks through the air.
--
It was loud, but they supposed it was to be expected when entering a smoky tavern full of neon lights, liquor and drugs. The night was young, but they were younger than the night. There were no rules to bind them, no authorities to chain them down, or at least that's what they thought.
"Trust me, baby. I'll make this pleasurable." says a man as he starts exploring the entirety of one of the hostess-for-rent in the Stephen Rodeo Club, a particular establishment disguised as a legal liquor house in the morning, a party club and sex dungeon in the night.
"Everyone, hands up in the air! Duck! Duck! Duck!" The door flings open, men clad in blue uniforms armed with pistols, with bright headlights deciding to raid the so-called liquor house.
This sort of inspection might be common to taverns and nightclubs the world over, but not to this certain club, it has been exactly 69 days since they were last raided and that's two months of a quiet life for the clubbers and strippers. "God dang sake — Sam! You told us there's no raid tonight!" A customer angrily shouted.
"Shut your mouth, you lousy bastard!" responded another man in his late forties from the corner of the establishment, two women kissing him non-stop despite the presence of the Police Department and the S.W.A.T.
"I said raise your arms and duck!" Police Chief Fernandez Bancroft repeats angrily, marching towards the grumpy man, pointing the gun towards to his forehead.
The old man flinches, falling down on his knees, "Alright, alright! Put that away!" He cries out.
Buzzing like a bee, the sound coming from the wireless transmission and reception of electric impulses from the Chief's radio. "Bravo 7, this is Delta 9 are you there, over?" The voice from the other line says urgently.
Fernandez detaches the radio from his waist, without taking off his eyes from the grumpy lustful man in his forties in front of him, "This is Delta 9, what's the matter Bravo 7?"
"Abort mission — Abort mission now! There's a tank heading your way! Larger than the tavern, you'll get crushed!"
The Police Chief could've decimated his orders by now, he should have ordered his men to evacuate the civilians out of the tavern, he should have the easy courage to spat out commands. Unfortunately, he's too overwhelmed — seeing the mouth of the large artillery piercing through the window of the tavern, slowly it veers to the right before getting closer to his face, what is this lack of luck?
Fernandez hears the heavy shell loading in power, he can see its sharp tip glinting gold. That did not look good at all. He begins sweating profusely.
Fernandez begins laughing, pointing the pistol on his head about to pull the trigger, but the night is young — thus crimson fireworks will make the death parade livelier.
