The Nightfly Chronicles

[BrianEtrius]

Okay, I lied. I like writing Ryan Louis Cipher. It's a fun character. So here's some short stories that's been cobbled together.

Sid's Bar-Present Day

It's one of those clubs, the kind where those unsavory hipster types like to join together. The combination of the chanting music and the flashing lights makes me sick. My tie's already halfway down my shirt and if the music keeps playing it's going to go down even further. Not exactly my idea of a meeting place, but I can't complain. After all, Sid owns the place and agreed to talk to me; a rarity as he hates to choose sides. I down another yogurt-alcohol mixture (my eight of the night which curiously makes me hungrier) and watch more dancers go by.

It was an odd and ironic place to find too. Who knew Nirvana was in Seattle? Certainly Kurt knew, but look where he's at now. Still, it was uncomfortable having a 300 pound bouncer with huge piercings coming out of his nose pat you down. Not like you even bring in a weapon here anyways; the only harm you can do is to yourself. With that in mind I light up another cigarette, being one of the few of the many smokers in the place smoking tobacco.

After what feels like an eternity and some lame self-discovery thinking (I swear to God he does this on purpose) finally Sid opens the door to his private chamber and gestures to me to come in. As I do a flock of young women come out, causing me to raise an eyebrow as I shut the door behind me. "What?" Sid asks, almost in a humorous yet nervous tone.

"I thought you were supposed to refrain from desire."

"I was. I was helping them meditate properly."

"Right. Whatever Prince."

"Shut up Morning Star. I only agreed to talk to you because you're the only one who has played for both sides."

"Basically, you're talking to me because it doesn't put your ass in the line of fire. Yeah, that sounds like pretty good logic to me."

"Hey, watch it. I may seem peaceful but I can still get angry."

"What, are you going to get one of your followers to barbeque himself again? Yeah, that's really scary."

"Fuck you, you self righteous son of a bitch."

"Yeah yeah. It's good to see you again Sid."

"You too Louis. Come, take a seat." He offers a pillow on the other side of the table where I sit down on. Sid sits down also, offering tea. I decline, putting out my cigarette in the ashtray he's so kindly provided. "So, what seems to be the problem Louis?" he asks.

"There's been some.....interesting developments lately. I wanted your take on them."

"Which developments my friend?"

"Well, the Upper Realm seems......more active. Almost as if they were planning something big. I'm not sure myself, but neither me nor Mammon could get anywhere near their site. I was wondering if you've felt it during one of your sessions."

"Hm, now that you've mentioned it, the other day I did feel something out of the ordinary. It was almost like there was a new kind of suffering in the world, but it was a joyful suffering. Some souls came to see me about it, as they had lost their path in this new twilight. They're in deep rest now, inside the temple. They can't answer questions. I'm sorry Louis, but that's all I can do to help you at the moment."

"That's fine. I just wanted your take on this. Thank you for your time."

"No Louis, thank you. I was wondering what caused this."

"Yeah, being the middle man, you get left out sometimes. I know the feeling. Well, enjoy your, what is it now, 7th life? Yeah, that's right. Have fun."

"May you ease your suffering with your path."

"Sorry Sid, but my path has always been full of suffering." With those final words, I depart.

Trench in France, 1917

Poor bastards. Even though this was my doing (hey, no assassination like a political assassination) these guys don't deserve this kind of death. There are few medics, and most who are shot die slowly. The conditions here are brutal, far from what any army should expect their soldiers to live through. Compared to the endless sand, this is hell. The worst part of this is that none of these poor guys have anything to look forward to back home.

The faces that I past (at least, the ones that are still alive) are gloomed. The thousand mile stare that I've grown accustomed to seeing seems like a million miles. I'm only here to as a fake CO to order a reckless charge into enemy territory, a tactic that's sure to kill the rest of the squadron.
The mud begins to cake on my boots and my trench coat. Soldiers begin to pray to their respective gods once I give the order to the lieutenant in charge. "But Captain Bäumer," the young officer protests, "What about our position?"

"There is another battalion that is making its way up to your coordinates," I lie, trying to reassure the poor man. "You will have the artillery in the back. You will be covered."

The lieutenant takes off his caked hat and tries to run his hand through his messy, unkempt hair. I offer him a cigarette, which he accepts without hesitation. "This can make or break a green officer like you," I continue, my gut slowly twisting itself into more of a knot. "Be successful, and I'll personally recommend you for promotion."

After a long drag the officer finally accepts his fate and gathers his men. After a small prep talk that seems to do little, the group rises out from the trench and begins to charge toward Allied lines about 500 yards in front of them. As they leave I survey the items they've left behind, wondering if others will ever wonder how significant these items were.

Feeling somewhat guilty, I pick up a Madsen machine gun one of the gunners left behind. I load a 40 round magazine in and cock back the charging handle. Aiming toward the squad, I begin firing, making sure all the shots are fatal, sparing the men from the worse fate: a misplaced artillery strike. After the men are all killed the artillery shells start to rain overhead, vaporizing the fresh corpses. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'll have to drink a full bottle of scotch to get it out tonight.

[BrianEtrius]

Firing Range, HO, Present Day

I really like the new Marine M-45 MEUSOC that they have. They finally fixed the recoil issue that they had with the original M1911A1, not to mention a much better grip and tighter sights. My only complaint is that they still haven't made the magazine bigger; 7 rounds (not counting the one in the chamber) isn't a lot to play with. Still, this pistol was made to emergency situations for infantry, so if 7 rounds are good enough for Marines then it's good enough for me. It worst comes to worst I can always load an aftermarket extended magazine for personal use.

I just wish someone would have realized the potential of Mateba's Model 6 Unica, or the Autorevolver. This Italian revolver is a rare example of a semi automatic revolver. The only other notable example of such a pistol is the British Webley-Fosbery, chambered in .455 Webley. You might have seen this unique gun in The Maltese Falcon, but Bogie misidentifies it as a .45 eight shot. Regardless, the Mateba Autorevolver is a prime example of pure mayhem. Chambered in the always powerful .357 magnum, the Mateba, produced only for 8 years, has a unique firing system that once fires cocks back the hammer for the next shoot. This effectively makes this a semi-automatic, but the down side is the 6 shots. Another interesting design worth mentioning is the fact that the barrel is the lower part of the revolver's cylinder, making recoil less of a bitch.

My current favorite gun though is a modified Smith and Wesson Schofield, chambered for the Dirty Harry classic .44 magnum. I changed the cartridge after I realized no one carried .44 Russian any more, that and the fact the .44 magnum has much better range and firepower. The Schofield is a prime example of a top break revolver, so when I open the gun to reload the barrel the cylinder tips forward. The icing on the cake is that the spent shells eject automatically, so with a speed loader I can lay down a lot of firepower in a short amount of time. The scope mount on top helps improve my accuracy when I want to be precise. The only down side is that sometimes the shells don't eject properly, causing major jam issues. Still, for a gun that was designed over a century ago, it works pretty well.

However, my real pride and joy are my Glock 18s, proof that God loves Austrians. These machine pistols are chambered in the ever popular 9x19 mm, so ammunition is forever present. What sets apart these pistols is their secondary fire rate, fully automatic in the size of a pistol. The estimated rate is about 1200 rounds per minute, but more often than not you run dry before such a number is reached. For clearing out crowds or a small army these handguns are your choice. Adding to the already awesome fire rate is the versatility of the weapon: not only does it contain 2 firing modes but the pistol accepts a wide variety of different magazine sizes. The semi-automatic sibling of the Glock 18, the Glock 17 that's also chambered in 9x19 mm, uses a 17 round magazine, which when used with the Glock 18 is flush with the butt. This makes distinguishing the two guns nearly impossible, a handy advantage when dealing with well trained security forces. Furthermore, the standard magazine size is 33 rounds, so when firing in semi automatic mode the magazine lasts you a long time. The only downside to this magnificent weapon is the fact that it's chambered in 9x19mm. The round lacks enough kinetic energy to penetrate even the most basic of Kevlar vests, so the guns are best used in crowded urban areas where such equipment is not easily available.

My phone rings. It's time to go do another job. Maybe for once I won't have to deal with an angel prick.

Rome, 53 AD

As I walk past the Roman Guard, I pause, staring at one solider's spear. I bark at him in Latin, asking "Why is your spear bloodied?"

"I had to make sure he was dead sir. I didn't want any undead plaguing the city," the solider replies.
"What's your name Roman?"

"Longinus sir, I sort of felt bad for the guy."

"Well Longinus, I'm going to have to take your spear away from you. A dirty spear does not bode well with commanders. You can get a new one from the armory. In the meantime, I'll hold on to this one." Longinus presents his spear, which I take.

With the weapon in one hand, I depart, as my mission is over. Now to make sure no one gets their grubby little hands on this very dangerous holy weapon.......

Abandoned Alleyway, NYC, Present Day

"Who is it Murph?" I ask, gun aimed at the man's head. Murphy continues to whimper, even after I've told him to shut up at least 5 times already. I kick him hard in the stomach and ask the question again. "Who is it Murph? Who did it?" The shadows of the building hide whatever I might do next.

"Come on Ryan, you know I don't know! The force was 9 years ago! Any guy I knew then is either high ranking or long gone! I'm sorry Ryan, but I don't know who killed her!"

"Bullshit Murph. And to think I thought cops were supposed to be good at lying. You worked that IA case, you know who did it!" In a brief moment of rage, I cock the hammer of the suppressed weapon. "Stop lying to me!"

"Jesus Christ Ryan, I told you everything! I don't know anything else! I'm telling you, I'm sorry!"

"Sorry for what Murph? Sorry for letting her die while you did nothing as you investigated it?
Sorry for letting the rest of the force think I did it when you knew perfectly well that job wasn't my style? Sorry for trying to cover your ass after you sold me out to the mob? Which is it Murph? Please, tell me, then I might make this quicker."

"Okay, okay, there is one more thing, something I've never told anyone, not even my wife......the day right before I submitted the case file, a fed came in to look at the file. He came straight into my office too, bypassing all the security because of his badge. He told me he wanted to take a look at the file in private, seeing how it was related to a federal case or something........afterwards, he disappeared. The file didn't change or nothing, but there was something off about it. I never figured it out. I submitted the day after, and the rest, well, you know what happened."

"Who was this fed Murph? Tell me!"

"He was FBI. Said his name was Special Agent Urbino, can you believe that? I could never get a hold of the bastard afterwards."

"Urbino, I know that name from somewhere....."

"What's that?"

"Shut up. You're lucky this gun isn't loaded."

"What?!"

"Here, take it." I toss him the empty gun and a spare magazine. "Use it as self defense. God knows what's going to happen to you, and for once it's not going to be me. Shoot me if you'd like, but know this: to get to you I had to go through a lot of people who also want you dead Murph. Now be a good boy scout and disappear again, otherwise, I will find you again, and I will kill you."

"Oh Jesus, you talked with them, didn't you? You talked to them about my debts? Oh dear Christ....."

"Don't even bother trying to track me through the serial number on the gun. That SIG-Sauser P225 was stolen from a Swiss police station 6 months ago. If anything, you'd raise some eyebrows."

"Why now Ryan? Why have you waited all this time?"

"Waited? You think I've waited? God, you are more clueless than you look. You don't want to know how long I've be after this."

"I know you loved her Ryan, but you've got to let it go."

"You know better than that Murph; I can't let anything go."

"That'll kill you one day Ryan, you do know that, right?"

"It already has Murph."

"You're just going to leave me here then?"

"Since when have I done anything different?" I walk out of the dark ally, feeling somewhat satisfied and equally confused. Soon I will find out, and this time, no one will stop me.

[BrianEtrius]

Hungary, Vas County, Taplanszentkereszt, Current Day

It's a little after midnight in the small Hungarian town, and only now have I noticed that I'm completely alone. The late night drunks have finally gotten off the street and have wandered to their various resting spots for the night. The church bells ring once, and my butt's been aching since 11.
I'm sitting on the church's steps, chain smoking. All I can think of now is how late the bastard is.

A cat shrieks, piercing the silence. A dog's barking follows up, but those are the only noises remaining. At 1:30 the streetlamps shut off, leaving my burning embers as one of the few light sources left on the block. I glance at my watch again and start tapping my foot impatiently.

The church door behind me creeks open. In a hushed tone a raspy voice calls out, "I've been waiting Louis."

"About fucking time," I respond, walking into the church. The nave is still dark and my lit cigarette does little to illuminate the empty building.

"Shall we turn on the lights?" a distinctive Welsh voice asks.

"I see no reason why we have to stand in the fucking dark," I answer. The voice snaps his fingers and the candles in the church are lit. "Nice trick, but next time, I can do it," I direct to the man standing at the podium. He's wearing a white suit (God forbid) with a turquoise t-shirt underneath with matching white loafers. "Hey Belph, we're in Hungary, not fucking Miami."

"You know I like that show. Has it gone off air already?"

"Jesus Christ, how long has it been? The 80s were 30 years ago."

"Seriously? What happened to them?"

"Well, one got arrested for groping in public, and the other tried to be a musician and failed."

"Aw man."

"They made a movie though."

"Really? Was it good?"

"Horrible. It was like watching Die Hard, but in Miami."

"Shit."

"Yes it was."

"You miss a lot going to every single Earth in existence."

"I can tell. But let's get down to business. What did you find?"

"Enough to put even Satan in a nut hold. Turns out some of the planets are starting to decay."

"That's nothing new. We've always had a bunch of those due to God knows what, from nuclear warfare to Al Gore not being born. How is this different?"

"That's the point. It is different. The histories of these Earths are spiraling far faster that Azrail can predict."

"That ain't good."

"You're telling me. When Azrail starts not getting that shit right we got major fucking consequences man. We're not talking about that Great Flood shit, but more like another full on fucking war."

"Oh Christ. Not that shit again."

"Kind of makes you wonder if He made it so sometimes Azrail gets it wrong."

"No. That wouldn't be. Azrail is the Scribe. If the Scribe is wrong, than He's wrong, and He can't be wrong. Otherwise, the entire universe goes caput."

"I know that. Still, it doesn't make sense."

"Well, keep me updated. I'll pass on the word to the others."

"Oh yeah, I looked into that thing that you wanted me to look into."

"And?"

"You wouldn't be happy."

"Tell me anyways."

"I did. You wouldn't be happy in that dimension."

"Interesting."

"Heh, not like you aren't in this one."

"Shut up. Go back and do some more recon you twerp."

"At your command." With that, Belphegor bows and disappears. I clench my fist and the winds blows out the candles. The embers of my cigarette still burn slowly. I close the church door behind me as I leave. I hope the pastor doesn't mind the ashes.

[BrianEtrius]

~North Korea, Pukchang, Tavern

It takes a certain type of person to play Russian roulette. However, it's one of those traits where you don't know if people have it, rather, you know if they don't have it. Nine times out of the ten, though, the people who do play it are near insane. Most of these people are either in mental facilities or in black operations. The remaining few have no other reason for playing it, with the exception that they know they're guaranteed another life or they're immortal, like yours truly. This makes it fun for people like me to purposely fuck with the rest of the near-suicidal world.

That being said, it takes an even more insane suicidal person to play Reverse Russian roulette. The difference this version and the previous one is that only one empty chamber. The rest of the group better make peace with their god(s) if some son of a bitch lucks out earlier in the game. Again, all this really means to me is another way to fuck with the near suicidal and desperate, or in this case, very drunk enlisted men of the NPA.

The drunken fools have actually agreed to play such game with me after a long day of basically torture (Or as their leader and many other leaders of the world put it, "enhanced interrogation") since I was caught entering the country illegally. After several long hours of accusations that I was a spy (which is true, just not for the people they think) and some good old fashion electrocution, I "convinced" my interrogators otherwise and took most of them out for a drink.

Within an hour we're in a small creaky wooden tavern in the middle of fucking nowhere (No, that's wrong, I've been in the center of Nowhere, and it's no better than the side of Nowhere. In fact, the entire fucking place of Nowhere sucks major donkey balls) holed up until a storm passes. After a few rounds of what I assume is the best alcohol here (Think sake, but add piss to it. Now bathe it dirt. You're about half way there) I pull out an old Smith and Wesson model 10 with a shortened barrel chambered in .38 Special (Ironically, the band that's currently on my playlist) I pull out a speed loader and fill all the chambers. After giving the cylinder a spin, I point the revolver behind me at the worn out dartboard across the water and fire directly at the bull's eye, hitting my mark.

The gunshot shocks most of the drunken soldiers back into a somewhat sober mode. Luckily, we're the only patrons of the bar and the bartender's "out back", so nobody else will have to witness this event. "Okay you pussies," I say slowly in Korean, hitting the last word carefully to anger the drunks into the right mode. "Time to separate the men from the ladies. We're going to play a round of Russian roulette. Whoever wins this ordeal will get 100K American." I reach into my coat and pull out a wad of cash to some them I mean business. "Lose, and, well, we all know how that turns out." I slam the money down on the bar.

"Why the fuck should we play with you American?" a sergeant, the leader of the group, turns to ask me. "We just did you a favor, letting you out. So let me ask you again: why the fuck should we play for a measly hundred grand?"

A hundred grand is measly? Jesus Christ, these guys have high standards. Well, better do something else then. Maybe blackmail might work. Let's go with blackmail. "Well then, what would happen if I told your superiors about this little night out we've been having? What would they think? You'd be up against the same firing wall as myself. So let's have some fun, shall we?" I open the cylinder and give it a good spin before flicking it closed again. "You," I direct to the private on the far side of the bar. "Start." I slide the gun down across the bar and finish my drink.

"What the hell? Might as well; I don't have much else to look forward too." The private cocks back the trigger and point the muzzle to the side of his head. His hands are shaky somewhat, but not as much as I would expect, possibly due to the alcohol. He pauses to take a deep breath and then pulls the trigger. BANG. The private falls down with his stool, blood oozing out of the hole in his head. The revolver hits the floor, free of the man's hand. Smoke rises from the muzzle.

The other four soldiers immediately get up and draw their sidearms on me. Norincos, I believe. They're Chinese 9mm knockoffs of the Russian TT-30. Not that I blame the guys for doing so, I mean, they just saw a comrade die in a suicidal game proposed by this foreign devil. (Ha, devil. If they only knew.) I calmly refill and sip my drink, even though I hate it. "What the hell?" the sergeant asks. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you right now?"

"I'll give you two. First, he knew perfectly well what he was doing. It's not my fault he choose to pull that trigger. Second, if you shoot me, you'll have to explain to your superiors why you let a foreign spy out and shot him without getting any information from him. That'll fly really well with Kim Jong, won't it?"

"Fuck you American asshole." The men sit down, putting their guns back into their holders, still looking nervous. The blood from the first soldier steeps across the floorboards.

"Look, the way I see it, now there's 2 duds in that gun. That's a 1/3 chance of winning 100k American. There are 4 of us left. It's your turn." I direct to the sergeant. He walks over to the corpse, stepping over the blood and picks up the gun. "Give the cylinder a spin if you like. See if it improves the odds for you, but I can tell you already you're going to survive this round." The sergeant does what he is told and places his life in a simple spin. He snaps the cylinder pack into place, cocks back the gun, and points it at his forehead.

"If you're wrong American, I will kill you." He pulls the trigger. CLICK. The other two soldiers flinch, expecting the shot. It doesn't happen. The sergeant nervously puts the revolver down, and slides it over to the next private. "So maybe luck's on my side tonight then, hehe."

"Luck's got nothing to do with it. Your turn private." I drain the rest of my drink.

He picks up the gun and gives the cylinder a spin, then closes it and points the gun against his temple as I pour myself another drink. "Got any predictions for me foreigner?" the solider asks smugly. "If it worked for the sergeant, then it'll work for me."

"Nah, I'd rather stay up on my predictions."

"What?"

"It means pull the trigger pussy, and see where it gets you." I say, finishing my drink.

"Fine dickhead, but don't act so cocky when you owe me 100k." He cocks back the hammer and pulls the trigger. BANG. Another corpse falls to the floor, blood mixing with the other pool. The last solider flinches, but the sergeant doesn't. He must have been through a lot not to flinch.

"Another dead solider. What a shame." I look at my empty cup, and with all the blood in the air, decide I need another drink. I pour another glass and say to the last solider, "Your turn. How lucky do you feel tonight?" I swish the liquid around carelessly, spilling some onto the bar before finishing the rest.

The last man looks at me in fright. Finally, after a good long five minutes of him staring at the gun, he cocks it and places the gun underneath his chin. "Sweet mother of God, forgive me," are his words, and he pulls the trigger. CLICK. The man stops his profound panting. "Hey, I survived-"BANG. This time, the sergeant flinches. A third pool of blood is added to the existing two. Another stool is knocked over.

[BrianEtrius]

"Must have been a dud round that decided to go off. Poor guy," I say to try to calm the horrified solider. "Well, it seems like we're the last two left, and it's my turn." I get off my stool and pick up the revolver on the floor. I check its load and then show it to the sergeant to confirm what I say next. "There are two bullets left. 2/3 chance of winning. Those are some nice odds. This time, though, it'll be my turn to win." I give the cylinder a spin and snap it close as I did in the beginning of the game. Without hesitation or fear I click back the hammer and pull the trigger. CLICK. "Your turn sergeant. We'll go until there's only one left standing. The money's still here on the table for both of us. There's enough cash to buy your way through a lot of things. But this isn't about money, isn't it sergeant? It's about pride, isn't it? Otherwise you would have shot me a long time ago and hushed up the incident with your men, wouldn't you?"

"How about you shut up while I play this turn foreigner?" the sergeant responds, catching the gun as I toss it towards him. Pointing the gun to his forehead, he pulls the trigger with slight hesitation and nothing happens besides another CLICK. "Back to you asshole." He slides the gun down the bar to me.

"Okay, whatever you say sergeant. But I will tell you, these next two will blow your mind, more ways than one." I cock back the trigger; point the barrel between my eyes, and fire. BANG. My neck snaps back, and I can feel the .38 caliber bullet go through my skull. God, does it hurt. At least I don't have to put up with it for much longer.

I can hear the sergeant start to cheer. "Yes, I win! Now, how to pin this on him....."

"Hold on sergeant, it's still your turn." I creek my head forward, letting the blood drip down on my face. The sergeant face loses all color. "Now that'll cause a wicked headache in the morning. Oh well. Anyways sergeant, I said until there's only one left standing, and, as far as I can tell, we're both standing. There's one bullet left. It's your turn." I slide the gun down across the bar back to the lone solider. "You see Sarge, you and I? We're not that different. We've seen war. We've seen the awful things other human beings put each other through. We've seen things no one else should see. And for what? Politics. All it is. Politics. Isn't that just fucking weird?"

The sergeant continues to tremble as he picks the gun up gently, now almost scared of the damn thing. "Who are you exactly?" he asks, watching more of the blood trickle down onto my face.
"You'll see in a couple of minutes." I respond, picking up the bottle of alcohol I've been drink all night and looking at it. After some careful consideration, I drain the remainder of the bottle. "Your move."
The sergeant's face finally regains some color, and he comes to terms with the game. He cocks back the trigger and places the barrel in his mouth. "Tell my mother I love her," he says, as his final request.

"You'll tell her soon enough," I assure him. He pulls the trigger. BANG.

By the time I'm down washing the place down with the remaining alcohol that's assorted throughout the place the blood has dried up. Walking outside, I strike a match to light my cigarette. Instead of throwing it away, I toss the match into the bar, lighting the trail of alcohol and disposing of the bodies.
The incident will probably get covered up somehow. I probably won't ever be mentioned, because as far as most people are concerned, I'm a ghost, which is appropriate enough. Now to go get a decent drink.......

~Park Bench, Chicago, Present Day

I wake up to find a bottle of booze in one hand and a S&W .38 in the other, but it's hard to say which one did more damage last night. My vision's blurrier than bat in a snowstorm, but that still won't deter me from trying to get up. Still, I drop the whiskey that I'm holding. It's a shame, but at the same time, the stuff wasn't that good. The revolver's still got its shells in it, but all 6 of the shots have been fired. Fuck. I hope I didn't kill anybody unofficially. The paperwork I'd have to do would be enormous. A whole civilization could past before I'd be done.

The sun reflects off the lake that's in front of me, causing me to shield my eyes. Wait, where's my sunglasses? Fuck, I need my sunglasses. My suit's all wrinkled and messed up (Fuck!) but a quick hop over to my flat can change that. I tuck the revolver into my shoulder holster and run my hand through my hair, trying to groom it into a somewhat respectable style. God does my head hurt. I should probably stop drinking this hard. I need a smoke and a shower.

[BrianEtrius]

~Jazz Club, NYC, 1952

The croon of the tenor saxophone's soothing melody contrasts with the hardness of the high-hat despite being played with brushes. The bass is barely hearable in the symphonic mess, but without those chords the harmony of the piano would be lost. These wonderful sounds cut across the smoky room into the hearts of the listeners, but they only hear the composite piece. No, it's the musicians themselves who truly know what the song's about yet they've only seen the sheet music a mere 20 minutes earlier. Everything is in the moment, so as the drums finishes up, the musicians are just as happy about the turnout as the audience.

And while all of this is fun and joyful, I'm stuck here sitting on my ass waiting for this fucking informant to show up. Normally I send someone else to do it, but since the guy said it was valuable intel, I guessed I better show up in person. At least the scotch here is pretty good and I got a whole pack of Goethe's.

After the band finishes up their set a cloaked figure comes in through the door, muttering apologies as he rushes over to my table. "A bourbon on the rocks please," he tells the waiter, who goes over to the bartender. I offer the man a cigarette but he declines, pulling out his own silver cigarette case and taking one from inside. I at least light him up with my Zippo for courtesy's sake. However, despite being inside, the man still doesn't take off his hat. How rude.

"So," I begin, sweeping my cigarette ashes that I've left on the table. "What information do you have for me my unknown correspondent?"

"Look Yama, I don't have much time. Maybe a drink-that's all. But I got to tell you something really important, something most people aren't supposed to see."

"Yama, eh? Haven't been called that name in a while. Who are you?" I lean back in my chair, using the opportunity to make sure no one's eavesdropping on our conversation. While I checked out the place earlier, you can never be too careful. Besides, the way my companion's putting it, this is heavy duty shit that most people shouldn't know.

"Look, do you information or not?" the cloaked man asks, taking his drink from the waiter who's come back. I wait until the waiter replaces the ashtray on the table before I reply.

"Of course I do dickwad; spit it out. I didn't risk interfering with a protected dimension for jazz and a drink. I figure I got another hour or two before they realize something's up." The lack of lighting and the way the hat's tilted makes it impossible for me to identify the guy, but that's probably on purpose. If I can't make out the guy, no one else can, so I guess that's a good thing.

The cloaked man finishes his drink before speaking. "You're lucky you have that amount of time. I got 10 minutes, tops."

"Well, then, you better start explaining stuff then."

"Fine. Here's the thing: you know those weirdo dimensions where it's not just minor changes, but major changes that has happened?"

"Yeah, the Extremes. But those are few and far between. He doesn't like those. We're talking about truly massive shit that never happened, like mankind never existing or lack of violence. I haven't seen one commissioned in a while because of His attitude towards such matters. Why?"

"There's a new one that's starting up."

"That's impossible. We would have been notified already. We have everything they do. We're the other side of the coin; if they did shit, we have to do shit. If they create a dimension, we have to be aware of it. That's His rules."

"Well, not this one. This one's completely starched. No life, nothing. It's just a hunk of rock."

"Interesting, a whole planet of no life. And do you think He knows?"

"Hard to say. You know how He is; He never lets anybody on His mind until the very last second."

"So why this secrecy? And why now?"

"You heard that rumor about Michael's army being started up again?"

"Yeah, but they're just rumors. I've been hearing that crap for a long fucking time now, and it's never been legit."

"Well, put the two and two together smarty pants and see where it gets you."

"No, it couldn't be-"

"Oh yes my friend. It's a training ground. That's where he's going to begin."

"But that's an act of treason! The truce is already shaky enough as is!"

"Maybe that's why someone should stir the pot to mix things up."

"Sounds like Michael's got that covered already."

"I'm talking about something different entirely."

"If I'm thinking what you're thinking, no way. I'm not going to pull that lone wolf shit again. Look what happened the first time I did that. Nothing good's going to come out of this."

"Well, that's why I figured you ought to know. You've always been someone who knows what to do."
"How did you find this out exactly?"

"I've said too much already and my time's up. If you need anything more meet in this dimension at the address at the designated times. You might find more answers." He takes a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and slides it across the table. I memorize it and immediately burn it with my Zippo. There's too much of a risk leaving it out.

He leaves the payment on the table not just for himself but for my drinks as well. Somehow I'm pretty sure I know the guy, but I can't quite place it. Until then though, it's probably worth it to check out this lead. I finish my cigarette and leave the club, slashing a portal back home.

[BrianEtrius]

~Afghanistan

I'm currently embedded with a UN Security Force tasked with finding suspected Taliban-Al Qaida terrorists under the name and rank of Major Brian Crypt from England, but in reality I'm trying to find a weapons dealer named appropriately enough Imp. We're pretty sure it's actually an imp whose ego is bigger than his brain, so the Big S sent me down here to kill the SOB before he wreaks any more unofficial damage that could get the entire HO in a shitload of trouble.

While the rest of my unit continues to scout out the abandoned urban surroundings, I pull out my phone and use a custom tracker app to find the little bastard. It can detect supernatural elements within a 5 mile radius, so the imp should be easy to find. My radio pings in my ear, but the signal's not from HQ, rather from HO. "Find the guy yet?" the Big S asks me.

"Nah. We just got here. I'm tracking the bastard right now. Who was this asshole under anyways? It certainly wasn't me."

"Guess smartass."

"BB?"

"Yep."

"I told him not to be such a douche."

"Me too, but you know BB."

"Fucking asshole."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, let's see if I can find this guy. When the job's done, I'll just slash a portal back. You won't mind fixing the timeline so I was never here, right?"

"Yeah, I'll run it over with Logistics. Have fun."

I ready my SIG SG552, a compact 5.56mm assault rifle from the Swiss that I've been meaning to try out for awhile now. It's equipped with a red dot sight for medium range combat, so currently this rifle's good for my need. I check the magazine a second time to make sure it's full. I got 30 rounds plus the extra two mags that I'm carrying. I flip the fire selector switch to semi-automatic and continue my search.

The wind blows a bit more heavily after a few minutes. A sandstorm's coming; I can feel it. I better hurry up. My tracker starts to beep; the bastard must be close.

"RPG ON THE ROOF!" someone yells through the radio. BOOM! The explosion rattles my teeth in their sockets. Fucking-a, the imp must have given some local insurrection group some bigger weapons than expected. "MAJOR!" a sergeant screams in my ear. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

I run over to join the remainder of the group who are currently engaged in a major firefight. The opposing side has got some big guns; a .50 cal machine gun, a Chinese knockoff of RPG-7 and a hell of a lot of AK derivatives. Seeing as the rest of my force is laying down some suppression fire and the fact reinforcements have probably already been called for, I take refuge in an abandoned building. Using the suppression fire as a distraction, I take the time to line up my shots and start taking down the insurgents.

BANG. A corpse collapses; a bullet through his heart. BANG, a shot through the forehead. BANG, a liver shot that'll make him bleed out to death. The insurgents yell out there's a sniper on the loose, and the one with the RPG makes eye contact with me. He's reloaded the weapon, so we both realize whoever gets the first shot off will be the survivor of the ordeal. Too bad it isn't him as I drop him with three quick shots to the chest. Thank God I won't have to do the paperwork for this mess; this is why we have an automatic system for Christ's sake.

A revolver's hammer cocks behind me. I turn around quick, pointing my weapon at the source of the sound. To my surprise, it's the Imp. He's a bit on the short side with short black unkempt hair. He gestures to me to point down my weapon, which I do. "Well well well, isn't the Angel of Death himself. What have I done to warrant such a visit?"

"What the fuck do you think, Imp? You think you can steal a massive crate of weapons to sell to a random terrorist cell and get away with it? Come on, we know EVERYTHING."

"Do you now? That would be a first. Do you know why I did it?"

"Because you're a stupid power hungry prick that BB ignored as usual?"

"Nope. I'll give you a hint though, it's about your boss."

"He's still your boss too dickwad."

"No, he isn't. And that's why I've always wonder about you Lucifer. You're the second most power demon in the entire universe and you still take orders like a pansy who can't even think for himself. Have you ever questioned what Satan has done? Not just his random acts of anarchy, but also the logs he has on you?"

[BrianEtrius]

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You have no idea, do you? It's funny; I would have thought someone of your caliber would be more informed on the situation. Have you realized he's been using you since day one?"

"That's my job asshole, to follow orders."

"Not that way Lucifer. That's why I pulled this little stunt; to get you alone so I could make you an offer."

"And what kind of offer would that be?"

"Join me. With you on my side, we could convince others like us to fight against both sides and take down the System."

"You realize the implications of what you're saying. You'd be at war with both Heaven and Hell, and if by some miracle you did succeed against those two and took down the System you'd be fucking up His plan. And let me tell you, if you fuck with His plan you fuck with the very existence of reality."

"It's better to be nothing and be free than to be something and chained to an invisible wall."

"See, this is where we disagree Imp. I've already tried that before and it didn't work. I don't want to go through that again."

"Fine. Then let me change the subject. Do you know what kind of gun this is?"

"Sure. It's an S&W Model 29, chambered in .44 Magnum. Are you going to impersonate Dirty Harry next?"

"No, but are you aware of the Iron Cross, correct?"

"Yeah. Besides its use in Nazi Germany, it was originally a symbol from the Crusades."

"Well, at one point, there was an actual Iron Cross built in Jerusalem at one of the main temples. After the Crusades the Cross was stolen and was lost in the sands of time, or so the legend goes. However, it was actually melted down and made into a series of bullets. 7, to be exact. Being blessed by multiple priests over the centuries, I'm pretty sure it's one of the few things that can actually kill you. I've got one of them here in this chamber. Good bye Lucifer. I hope your death will shake the heavens and make them realize what fools they are."

"Normally at this point I'd point out what a big mistake you're making here, but since you've already made a mistake punishable by death, I'm going to hold off. However, you don't think my team will wonder what happened to me?"

"Of course not. That UN force will be dead within minutes. Then I'll disappear once again, waiting to strike."

"Not them asshole, the other team. You don't think Heaven or Hell is going to come after you with full force after you kill the Angel of Death? God, no wonder why you're Imp."

"Would you just stop the fuck up and enjoy your death Lucifer?"

"Of course not. It's not in my nature."

"Say good bye then asshole." The Imp pulls the trigger. I flick my fingers, causing time to stop. Activating such powers within this realm will definitely give me a shitload of paperwork to do later, but it's worth it. The bullet is actually an Iron Cross bullet to my surprise. I thought the Imp was just bluffing. He must have found in the crate of weapons he stole. After all, that crate was my crate of weapons that I wanted to check out to see if in fact there was proof the Iron Cross bullet. I flip the bullet around so it points to the Imp. I resume time and the bullet goes through the Imp's chest. As he begins to decompose (that's what a blessed object does to an Imp) he stares at me and speaks. "Why did you refuse..."

Picking up my rifle on the floor, I respond. "Because I'm motherfucking Lucifer, that's why. If you want to challenge the System, the System that gives ME power and expect me to break it down you're fucking stupid as shit. You deserve to die if you believe that. Besides, I like doing whatever I please. And in this case, it means killing you. By the way, it's actually 22 bullets, not 7. Get your fucking facts straight before you dive into a huge monologue. Otherwise it's just fucking annoying." With those final words the Imp disintegrates into the atmosphere.

The team sounds like they're winning. I think they'll do fine on their own. I slash a portal back to my office where I'm sure there's a mound of paperwork to do.