The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four

by Daniel Lawlis

  “Shoot,” Sam ordered.

  “Well, just today there was a very bizarre occurrence in front of our police station.”

  Sam’s eyes glowed like coals, but Benson knew there was no retreating now.

  “Several witnesses walked into the station to report that some dreadful creature had just swooped down from the sky and snatched a young man walking towards the station. They said he screamed loudly but disappeared so quickly into the sky, and his screams with him, that it was all over before they even realized what was happening or got a good look at him.”

  “So they saw nothin’,” Sam remarked, trying to sound tough, but it was clear he was worried.

  “Well, that was what the witnesses said at first, but then I asked them if they saw any kind of distinguishing features about the individual. And I started out with tattoos, piercings, a limp or other strange means of walking, and they were all as silent as the grave. But then when I asked about scars, one of them piped up right away and said, ‘I did notice a moment or two before that the man seemed to have some dreadful scars on his face.’ But then she said she couldn’t be sure that it was the same guy who was snatched, because it all happened so fast. She may have simply lost track of the scarred guy in the crowd.”

  “Yeah,” Sam began slowly, purple veins beginning to become visible on his neck, “but no scarred guy came walkin’ in der now did he?! And you know Stitches when you see Stitches. Am I right, or am I right?”

  “I concede most of our officers would recognize Stitches,” Benson said matter-of-factly.

  Benson didn’t quite see this tantrum coming.

  “KASANI!!!!!!!!” Sam shouted, suddenly lifting the table up and over, and then he began a boxing match with the wall. Benson thought he must have seen fifty punches thrown in the minute-long tornado that ensued. Plaster flew everywhere, but Sam’s cigar never fell from his mouth.

  When it was all said and done, he returned back to his desk, lifted it back up, and sat back down behind it. Blood trickled from dozens of nicks and gashes on Sam’s meaty knuckles, and he was breathing heavily.

  “Whooo!!! Sorry, Chief! Sometimes, I just need to clear my mind a little, ya know.”

  The chief calmly closed his cane back together. He had moments ago, with slightly less calm, opened it sufficiently that if Sam had lunged at him he could have sunk sixteen inches of steel into his throat.

  “It’s been a bad night, Samuel,” the chief replied with a fake calm, and he realized he hadn’t been able to completely hide the apprehensiveness in it.

  “So, let’s talk facts. I lose Scorpion to this guy, so I sends Stitches to set him up for a meet and greet with twenty of my toughest men. They ends up in pieces, and Brass escapes on a bird. Stitches then has somethin’ on his mind he wants to share with the boys in blue, and a bird decides it would be best if he took a little one-way flight somewhere. So, Brass the Bird Man strikes again! And it all sounds so nutty I can’t use my contacts to put it in the papers ‘cuz people would think it was nuttier than visitors from the moon with five eyeballs and six noses. So, Chief, what do we do? I ain’t payin’ you peanuts, in case you’s forgot. Do I have a sit-down with this guy and let him keep his little junkyard rats and his few measly blocks of business to himself, or do I march all one thousand of my men down to that filthy little junkyard and kill every single last rat in it and hope I get this mangy Brass mutt at the same time?”

  “If you go marching one thousand of your wild hooligans down to the junkyard neighborhoods with their bats, broken bottles, brass knuckles, and swords to start smashing, bashing, and slashing every able-bodied man they see, you’re going to create a far-greater ruckus than what you can quiet down by paying me off. Not even if you had the entire city council in your pocket could you carry out such an outrage with impunity. It would hit the national newspapers in days, and if the army were not pulled from its sundry bases to come and restore order to this pit of barbarism then I could not predict the outcome in a race between a cheetah and a turtle!”

  Sam looked at Chief Benson furiously.

  “So that’s it. It’s ovuh. He wins ‘cuz if I takes him out whiles I can, it’s gonna cause a ruckus?!”

  “Mr. Belvur,” the chief began, surprising himself by this formal salutation, something he had never before awarded Sam, “now that’s not what I said, is it? Frankly, I don’t know what the best solution is for you, but before you go getting too huffy with me, I think it would behoove us both to take a look at what you do pay me for. You do pay me not to arrest you. You do pay me not to arrest any member of your gang without your prior approval and to release any member of your gang who ends up arrested. You do pay me to warn you about upcoming police raids, which I am obligated to make from time to time to keep up appearances.

  “But while I may occasionally remark to you that a stratagem you have in mind would invoke too much furor for it to be wise, that does not mean one of my job titles is Kingpin Tactician!”

  Once Benson saw this had brought Sam down a peg or two, he then said, “Furthermore, you don’t even know what this Brass fellow looks like. Now that Stitches is gone, you’re going to have your work cut out for you on that, unless you have other agents in his gang. Suppose you went into the junkyard neighborhoods and started killing people willy-nilly—there would be no way you could even assure yourself of acquiring your true target. After all, it’s Brass you want. Were it not for him, all of the junkyard crooks would now be working for you. It’s not their fault. It’s his.”

  While Benson could never be truly certain that Reason was working her way into Sam’s head, it did seem that she was having a slight calming effect, perhaps similar to the flutist charming a hooded cobra, which still remains ready to strike.

  “You should consider patiently waiting until you know how to find this gentleman. Then, you should seek to kill him without great commotion. Need I remind you that the death of your twenty men served as a catalyst to the formation of the National Drug Police, something my sources tell me is being filled with recruits of a most-militant mindset? This alone will soon enough be causing you sufficient troubles, for they will have their own separate jurisdiction for all matters concerning Smokeless Green. If you show up on their priority list because you create a ruckus with this whole Brass thing, and you are unable to bribe them, you are going to soon have troubles that will make you wish you had allowed Brass to keep a few rotting blocks of city turf.”

  Benson could tell some portion of his advice had had an ameliorative effect on Sam, for he looked rather docile now by comparison. He was not sure which portion Sam had found cogent, but he soon had his answer.

  “‘Rotting blocks’ is damn right!” Sam said with emphasis. “Some of the lousiest, two-bit, third-rate blocks in this city!” Sam said again, apparently unaware it was himself he was trying to convince.

  “Spider’ll tell me what Brass looks like. He’ll set him up nice and clean like Stitches did. ‘Cept next time, I’ll send fifty men into the alley if that’s what it takes. Or find five men that can be sure to do that job. Or, I’ll do it my damn self.”

  Chief Benson thought this was as good a time as any to be excusing himself, and he was relieved not to find opposition from Sam. On his way to his carriage, and then to his home, he found himself deep in considerable thought. He was beginning to wonder whether he was on the wrong side of this war. After all, this Brass character was a wily fellow, and the fact alone that he had the guts to ride on the back of a pholung—and a freakishly large one at that, if what he had seen in his country days told him anything about the average size—gave him an itch to meet the man.

  But that wasn’t all. Sam was becoming a bit too explosive for Benson’s tastes. The money was hard to complain about. He was making per month from Sam what he made per year from his normal salary, but Sam’s temper had only grown worse and worse over the course of the last year, and he found himself dreading each meeting with a progressively increasing intensity, and he wondered if
it was a matter of when rather than if Sam would one day attempt to pulverize him with those meaty fists of his. Even with his bladed cane, he knew that—like the hunter of the great bear—he would have to aim true, for if his blade hit anywhere other than the throat, eyes, or heart, the last thing he would see would be one of Sam’s carriage-sized fists hurtling towards his skull.

  Something told him Brass was a different man altogether. And most likely not from the junkyard. His name had only recently begun to circulate in police circles, and yet in such a brief matter of time he had gone from obscurity to taking out Sam’s puppet leader, Scorpion, and then thwarting an assassination attempt by twenty of Sam’s most brutal thugs. Benson’s instincts told him there was something special about this man. He most likely was not from the streets but had come from some curious walk of life that had prepared him superbly not to merely walk on them but to rule over them. Perhaps an ex-military man?

  There would be plenty more analyzing to do as the details trickled in, but what intrigued him the most was his gut instinct that Brass would be an incredibly more pleasant business partner than Sam. Perhaps, he and this Brass character had something in common, should it indeed prove true that this was no lifelong criminal but rather a man who had acquired his taste for crime in a later stage of life. For Benson it had been the hypocrisy of SISA. Thirty years he had worked these streets—either as a patrolman or, as of late, the chief overseeing the investigations thereof—and time and time again he had seen the vile effects of alcohol. Whether it was two men with a dozen stab wounds earned in a drunken argument over an inconsequential matter, or the man who beat his wife into a coma while three sheets to the wind, he had seen alcohol’s horrendous effects time and time again. Yet no talk of outlawing it.

  And not that he would have said it should be. After all, he had a tendency to crack open a history book or two now and then, and he knew about the bloody history behind Article 8. Centuries ago, the nation had been plunged into near anarchy due to the corruptive influence of bootlegging gangs. They had corrupted the local police and politicians and then the national ones. It then became a violent civil war between the gangs, each with their own motley assortment of purchased policemen and politicians waging the war alongside them, all the while claiming they were winning the war against alcohol.

  It had culminated not only in the repealing of all laws outlawing alcohol but also in the addition of Article 8 to the Seleganian Constitution, which forbade the Senate—that pit of vipers—from ever criminalizing the voluntary adult consumption of any non-poisonous substance. History oft gives her lessons, but seldom is she heeded. He smiled to himself as the well-known maxim entered his mind.

  He knew the Sivingdel Massacre was not the tip of the iceberg. That would offend the metaphor. It was a nick on the tip of the iceberg. And he had no intention of putting his life on the line for the next fifteen years on lousy government pay to enforce an unconstitutional law. Heck, if he could survive a year or two while making money on the side from a kingpin, he could then retire in style. The thought of a large ranch out in the countryside seemed nicer now than ever. Perhaps a ranch like the one his father used to own before he passed away from that rattlesnake bite, after which the family learned of his gambling debts. Then came the creditors. And then went the ranch. He had never dreamed he could ever afford a ranch like the one his dad once had, but . . . maybe, just maybe, he could after all.

  He would be keeping his ear to the ground and developing his own profile of Brass. And if he thought it looked prettier than that of Heavy Sam’s, well then who could blame him if, like any discerning shopper, he considered his options?

  Chapter 27

  By the time the night was over, Righty’s only concern was it seemed too good. They had taken back a block or two of Sam’s turf, and not one person had offered them any trouble. It seemed too much like the proverbial calm before the storm. At around 5 a.m., the group met back at the junkyard, and Righty pulled Tats aside.

  “Where’s your sword?”

  “It’s back at the house.”

  Righty almost changed his mind, but he refused to be undeterred.

  “Okay, you can use your sword later, for now use this.” He handed Tats a piece of steel from the junkyard. He then picked up a piece of steel for himself, not wishing to expose his own sword’s hiding place to any potential onlookers.

  “Now keep in mind I’m not a master, and I don’t presume to be, but I can teach you a few things. And maybe I can take you to see my master one day.”

  Tats nodded solemnly. Righty then taught him several postures, basic attacks, and basic defenses.

  “Practice and internalize these movements, Tats. Make them second nature. Otherwise, you’re better not even pulling your sword out at all.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tats said with a serious expression. He would be practicing until daylight.

  Suddenly, Righty remembered the note Janie had left.

  “Got to get going, Tats. Tomorrow. Nine p.m.”

  Tats nodded.

  Righty barely contained his urge to start sprinting. He left the junkyard as swiftly as he could without appearing to be under pursuit. His anxiety about having left Janie home alone two nights in a row without having given her any kind of warning or white lie to prevent any needless worrying caused him to begin to feel panicky all over, and as he walked out into the pitch black of the countryside he had the sudden fear that Harold would not be arriving and that Righty would be stuck out here a good two or three days’ walk from Ringsetter. Perhaps Harold had had enough of him. That would be worse than being killed by Sam himself.

  Far from a glorious battle to the death, Righty would simply drift away into obscurity, perhaps the way he had always been intended to. There would be no more thirty-minute commutes between Ringsetter and Sivingdel and most certainly no more impulsive trips to the tops of mountains when the urge to have a little alone time struck him. No, he would be bouncing up and down on the back of a horse hour after hour each trip to Sivingdel and back, and if he found himself trapped in the back end of a dead-end alley, then he would just have to face the music.

  These dreadful thoughts were interrupted by the ever-pleasant whoosh of air that swept over him when Harold arrived.

  “It’s good to see you, buddy,” he said, as Harold lay down prostrate for a moment in order to permit Righty to get on top of his large frame. And then they were off.

  And thirty minutes later he was home.

  He unlocked the door and walked inside. No lights were on.

  “Janie, it’s me.”

  Nothing.

  He lit a candle and walked towards their room. He saw a figure inside his bed.

  “Janie?”

  The figure shifted position inside the bed, and he saw her tell-tale jet-black hair.

  He went towards the bed and began to lie down.

  “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!” she screamed at the top of her lungs and then rolling off the bed and crashing onto the floor.

  He himself crashed into the wall, but on the opposite side, as he recoiled in terror, thinking perhaps he had disturbed the slumber of some demon.

  “Janie! It’s me for Kasani’s sake!!”

  She then squinted at him in the candlelight, and as soon as she was convinced it was him, she went back to bed without saying so much as hello.

  Righty knew he would probably never earn an A+ in Sensitivity, but he was enlightened enough to know his presence was not welcome at this particular moment.

  He went to the kitchen, grabbed a piece of paper and began writing:

  Dear Janie,

  I’m sorry I’ve been away without explanation. I’ve been looking for a site for a new store in Sivingdel. Business has been good here in Ringsetter, and I want to reinvest my earnings into business expansion. I wanted to surprise you. I thought it would only take a day, but I’ve been facing a nightmarish combination of shady real estate agents and tough decisions about location. I want you to be proud of me, and I
guess I wanted to keep it a secret until the store was a success. Stupid, I know. I’m sorry.

  Love,

  Richie

  He was about to put the note on the table and go look for Harold to see if he was up for whisking him away to one of the remote mountaintops near his soon-to-be ranch. After all, it would be a cold night here or there, but at least there he could smell the pine trees.

  But a warm, soft hand closed around his before taking the note from him.

  He felt almost as afraid at that moment as he had in the alleyway a night ago. While his ambition lay in Sivingdel, his heart was here, and Janie owned it. When he heard the note being folded up rather than wadded and torn, he dared look at Janie. A few silent tears were streaming down her face.

  “Haven’t you proved yourself enough to the world, Richie?” Janie said softly.

  Righty grabbed her in his arms and held her close. The warmth of her body charged his and refreshed his soul. It seemed to Righty an eternity passed, which meant at least five minutes.