by Lee Bond
Jordan could smell her from here and the scent was so overwhelming that the beast inside stirred fitfully.
“I love this place.” Jordan had to shout a bit so that Gary Bad Chicken, who sat pensively beside him, could be heard; the booth they were in had one of those new dialed controls that could affect precisely how soundproof the seating area was, and while the owner/operator of the Black Altar loathed the hedonistic thumping issuing from the speakers, Jordan needed to feel the reverberations rolling against his bare flesh.
“Of course you do.” Gary tried to sound anything other than sullen and knew he’d failed as soon as the words had fallen oh so flatly into the booth.
It was hard not to be sullen when it looked for all the world like the man you’d thrown in with was the only one in the room rapidly escalating in both power and influence, even when you knew damn well that it wasn’t true.
Gary felt he’d come to regret making arrangements to supply Darren Freoli with everything the man wanted, felt like the end would have to come any day now, and those thoughts were keeping him from truly enjoying the legitimate growth in influence that he really had experienced; the diminutive Tenerekian had little to no real knowledge of what the ex-security officer had been like before having a space port blow up on top of him, but ever since he’d stepped out of the hospital and into the public eye, Darren Freoli had … unfurled.
It was almost like something from one of those ridiculous shows that’d been so popular years and years ago. Darren practically had himself a secret identity. By day, you could find the man on one of a dozen shows being interviewed by one of a hundred eager reporters, some of them allied to the Church, some of them outright parishioners, others plainly and almost eagerly willing to prove that they saw the religious organization as nothing more than a way to oust people of their money, their possessions, their free will.
Those that spoke out against the Church weren’t wrong, but Darren, who by now knew precisely how warped and twisted the faithful really could be when they believed they were on their own, in the dark, doing the things they did, Darren managed to be nothing but poise and grace and handled the reporters with the kind of suave sophistication you would never expect to find housed inside the brain of a man who’d failed to make anything of himself before being turned into a piece of fried meat.
That was Topside. That was for the whole world to see, and so long as the man the world saw, as the man who touted words poured into his ears by Seinfeld’s legion of expert speech writers remained bright and shiny and fully and wholly committed to expanding the power of the Church from one world to many, there was regrettably nothing Jerry or Richie or Steve could hope to do about the man’s frequent visits.
Not without admitting to the public that the poorly kept secret of the Black Altar was a thing, which in turn would invite all manner of rabid reporters and journalists to try their hand at sneaking into the place.
Top quality facial recognition software tied into cameras hidden in a radius of nearly three blocks outwards and placed every five feet linked to some of the best AI minds a criminal mastermind could acquire had thus far ensured that none of those idiots got within spitting distance of the darkened stairwell, but that was only because no one outside the Church really cared.
Yet.
And as for inside? Well. The people who came here were foolish enough to believe that the awful things they did and said would never reach the outside world, and so released the pent up rage and frustration that came as part of being associated with the Church, but, at the same time, smart enough to realize that every time they asked questions about secrecy, the answers they were being given were false.
Gary smirked. After risking those questions, after airing concerns about being held accountable in one way or another, the penitents swore they’d never return, that if their face and likeness were blasted across the airwaves, revealing for the world their various perversions and sick yearnings, they’d be able to stand tall and shout ‘see, this is how I used to be, but the Church of Nothing saved me from myself’ and that, in their daydreams, would be that.
Only … it was never that.
The Black Altar, that seedy offshoot of the main Church … once it got into you and you got into it, there was no staying away, not for long, never for long. You got used to the freedom. It became a narcotic all it’s own, and when you suddenly found yourself at the black door, knocking that knock, you’d convince yourself that tonight would be the last time.
A great deal of this fresh resurgence of interest in the Black Altar had too much to do with Darren for Gary’s liking, and it all tied in to the impossibility of the man’s popularity, of his … charisma.
The lifetime criminal loathed Darren. Wanted nothing more to do with the man but there was nothing he could do to change their arrangement, not without risking the power he’d already gained; the outside world saw Jerry Seinfeld as a modern-day messiah, a man with a message so powerful that they were all good and goddamn lucky he’d decided to spread the word, but Gary knew better.
Jerry hated the Black Altar. The leader aired his concerns about the direction the BA was taking every time they met, which was thankfully so infrequent that it hardly counted, but during those meetings, Seinfeld spent a goodly portion pretending he wanted nothing to do with what went on and the other portion trying to pry secrets loose.
Gary was niggardly with what he let slip. A tactic suggested to him by none other than the man sitting next to him, a tactic that worked. Too well. There was an unnatural rhythm to those conversations, a kind of dance that started off sweet and simple, a handshake and a nod, a dance that progressed swiftly and smoothly to a hint of scandal balanced with a return of a small amount of official recognition. Back and forth across the table, each man whirling and twirling, twirling and whirling, until both stepped back and away, worn down to the bone but walking away with something fresh and new.
Sometimes Gary wished that Jerry would flip his shit and try to shut the Black Altar down, just so the whole world could finally see, once and for all, that not all demons hid in the dark. That sometimes the man you trusted the most was the man you should avoid at all costs.
Jordan tried not to smile at Gary’s discomfort and failed, so he instead transformed the earnest emotion into a leering caricature of hunger and lust, one he aimed at the beautiful young woman, who was now doing … things … to a woman easily old enough to be her grandmother, all while the older possibly-politician watched on with poorly disguised ardor.
“What’s not to love?” Jordan raised his voice until it was able to be heard quite easily over the thumping music that percolated through the bloodstream, a rhythmic narcotic that stole your breath away.
The beast stirred in Jordan’s bosom, a feral recognition of the tidal war continually raging inside Gary Bad Chicken’s heart and it took a moment for the ex-CEO to soothe that savage awareness.
Gary shifted uncomfortably. He didn't particularly care for the direction that the BA was taking these days either, yet at the same time, that very same direction was one proving to be exorbitantly profitable. Alcohol and drug consumption were at an all-time high, with virtually every single person entering the Black Altar imbibing one type of party favor or the other. That kind of continued use -some would argue abuse, especially at the rate it was increasing- was only destined to grow the more popular his little venture became.
"And how is Preeta?" Now that they were close companions, yoked to each other by their duplicity, Gary was more interested in how Darren was choosing to deal with Jerry's little honeypot.
The laughter escaping Darren's fleshy lips was more than disconcerting. It was downright chilling.
"Ah, the lovely Preeta Etanh." Sharp curls of disgust rose most pre-eminently from Gary's skin, a sharp, disinfectant-like odor that was acrid and quite enjoyable to Jordan's warped senses. "Jerry's little whore, so elegant, so masterful."
As he sat there, powerful senses summoned forth perfect memor
ies of Preeta.
Oh, the taste of her flesh beneath his tongue, the purity of her looks, the smell of her awkward lust for his touch -oh, it had not gone unnoticed that in the course of performing her duties for Jerry Seinfeld that the poor young thing was experiencing, if not love, a kind of unbreakable carnal need that drove her to distraction- all of these things stirred the beast within to the point where it took all Jordan's efforts to rein the monster in.
Tonight. It was going to have to be tonight, whether or not Gary Bad Chicken was ready for the next phase of their relationship, it was going to have to happen. Sooner, rather than later. Jordan was impressed he’d managed to stay in control for this long, but … no longer.
Now it was time for the Beast to have it’s moment in the spotlight.
When Gary merely grunted, made uncomfortable by the heat rising from his skin, Jordan continued. "She works tirelessly to bend me to her sexual will. What she lacks in genuine spy craft she more than makes up for in earnest willingness. Every time we meet, she tries new tricks, new lures. I am having quite a lot of fun. I think that by the end of our run together, she will stand willingly by my side."
Gary finally nodded. It was a good thing. Having one of Jerry's inner circle under their sway could only further their efforts to assume complete control of the Church of Nothing. He didn't necessarily approve of Darren's methods and it frankly bothered him every time he realized those very same methods were proving to be incredibly effective for him. If Jerry's pet whore could be turned outward, possibly even towards the rest of the Inner Circle…
Gary subconsciously licked his lips, literally tasting the power that was due him. They deserved it. He'd come to them with sincerity in his bosom, and they'd spurned him. "How close do you think you are?"
Jordan couldn't take his eyes off the blonde. Hunger squirmed in his belly. Had the beast known ahead of time that tonight would be the night he broached the most important topic, or had it driven the course of the evening to this point, without him being aware? The Trinityman supposed it didn't really matter one way or the other.
Tonight he'd feed, and it'd be on the dancing diva, the diva who spun and danced with such wondrous abandon that there was even a chance that when he approached her, when his teeth slid through skin into muscle, she'd surrender willingly.
The burgeoning red monster growled in greedy anticipation of that particular feast.
Jordan shrugged. "A day, a week. A month. It all depends on things that I cannot control. Jerry may realize her efforts are the same as trying to burrow through a ferrocrete wall with a plastic spoon. She may wake up tomorrow, full of filth and regret. Today or tomorrow or the next week, Jerry may send her to someone else. She may die in one of the riots that are cropping up. Religious fervor is one of those wild cards, Gary Bad Chicken. Like your ascent to power, many facets must be taken into consideration. In this instance, I counsel patience."
Gary squirmed. It'd been the same thing coming from Darren's mouth for the last week. He'd gotten a taste of power and wanted as much as he could get, and as fast as possible. He was smart enough to realize that -however impossible it seemed- the third-rate security guard turned spokesman had an incredible grasp on these things, more so than he himself owned.
It was a hard pill to swallow. On a daily basis, he swallowed it, usually with an unfortunate amount of alcohol. Then he drowned his sorrows, in the arms and legs of whoever was closest.
The corners of Jordan's mouth quirked in humor. The man's greed was a wonderful tool and his need to dominate everything around him made it so very easy to manipulate.
"Jerry's attitude is beginning to bother me, Darren." Gary all but spat the name. "Ever since you came aboard, he's getting higher and higher handed with me. All the good you’re doing for the Church makes him more powerful, and he's been hinting at seeing no need for my Altar to even exist for much longer."
"Wasn't that always the plan?" Jordan inquired slyly. "To move into the light, to have a legitimate source of income?"
"You know damn well that I've no plans of getting rid of this place, or any of the other industries I've got going on. My dreams of legitimate power are only out of revenge, and you know that as well." Gary kicked the underpart of the booth. Clunk clunk clunk.
Jordan reached out and put a conciliatory hand on Gary's scrawny shoulder, enjoying the faint hint of skin rippling from his touch. The Tenerekian had no idea why he continually reacted so badly to his presence, another thing that he loved.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Gary, but have you not been invited to sit on the board for no less than three of the Church's primary assets? And in a way that is by no means honorary? Are you not being given the opportunity in three weeks’ time to address the Tenerekian Business Association on how best to move forward? Are you not tasked with coming up with a method to assist non-Church businesses in how best to integrate with the Church, so that the rift that grows between the two different aspects doesn't get out of hand?"
"Yes." Gary muttered sullenly. All of the things mentioned by Darren were in fact coming to pass. It was just that -out of nowhere- it'd dawned on him that possessing the face of legitimacy carried with it an awful lot more hard work than he'd ever imagined.
It was unfair. It was hard enough holding on to the criminal underground he’d built. Adding more work to the docket seemed, well, criminal.
"Then quit complaining." Jordan offered firmly. "It does you no good and won't change a damn thing."
Once again, the two reluctant business partners –of a sort, since the business of stealing a Church was unlike anything either of them had ever gotten up to- fell into silence. Jordan allowed the waves of music to wash over him once more while Gary plucked miserably through an online menu, aimlessly wondering if food or drink might fix his mood.
After going back and forth for more than five minutes without a single snack or beverage catching his eye, Gary found himself interrupting Darren’s reverie with yet another question lurking in the back of his mind. “How goes the hunt for … him.”
As much as he was a criminal and a man working his way up through the ranks of the Church so he could acquire all the power he possibly could, a man who honestly viewed the religious institution to which he belonged as nothing more than a cash grab regardless of what Jerry and the others insisted, Garigtch Porfol nevertheless held Garth Nickels in precisely the kind of regard that an honest, pious man belonging to the CoN should.
How could you not? Though none of his prior encounters with Garth Nickels fell into the same categories as those endured by Jerszak Sinfell, Ritchie and Steve, he’d met the man. He’d spent time in his presence, had … been in awe. Yes, the first time he’d damn near been arrested by the Specter for some pretty serious crimes, and yes, he’d been all but pathetically willing to do whatever Nickels had demanded in lieu of going to prison –or worse, given the particular gleam in those too-blue eyes- for those crimes, but the outcome was the same.
Garth Nickels the Specter, the re-dubbed ‘Changemaker’ … he was something else. Something special. Dark and wild and yet curiously noble and just. He’d steal anything of value the moment your back was turned, but if you needed him to stand in front of an army with nothing more than a screwdriver, you could rest Goddamn assured that the maniac would not only do that, but he’d win.
Gary didn’t mind how he felt about Garth Nickels. He was one of the few men on the planet to’ve met the man. That was an honor in and of itself. Of all the ‘leaders’ in the CoN, Gary was the only one who didn’t prance around like an idiot or preen because of his connections.
He liked to think that at the end of the day, that fact made him better than Jerry.
Jordan shifted. Ardor was making him uncomfortable. He wanted the conversation to come to an end, yet knew that if he pushed his desires to acquire that which he needed most, Gary might not accede quite so willingly.
“At last.” He intoned morosely, eyes ever trained on his blonde beauty. The more sh
e danced, the more she moved, the more he wanted her. All of her.
“At last?” Gary quirked an eyebrow. The both of them were all over the map in this conversation, leaving Bad Chicken with an odd taste in his mouth. The evening felt raw, feral, as if something unexpected was going to happen.
Based on how his life had been going of late, Gary knew the source of the unexpected. It was just a matter of getting it out of the other man, and whether or not whatever it was the man wanted was something he was willing to give.
“At last,” Jordan nodded minutely, clenching his teeth in frustration, just for a second, “you touch on something that is a sore point for me.”
“The equipment is no good?” Gary wasn’t the best when it came to technical stuff, he knew that. He was more of a con artist, a planner, but there were people on his staff who’d gone to college and university to learn the kinds of stuff that he could exploit, and the kid he’d spoken to had provided Darren with kind of equipment needed to begin a massively … massive search for a single man. If he’d been lied to or misled … “Say the word and I’ll fix it right now. Whatever you need. Within the hour, even.”
Jordan shook his head, flapped a hand at the personal computer that was linked to the BA AI mainframe. It was a damnsight better than the one he used when he was at home, but it hardly mattered at all when hunting for Nickels. “No, Gary, the equipment is just fine.”
After hundreds of years of using not only cutting edge technology to do just about everything he could dream of but using the irreplaceable Spur to perform everything else, being asked to use a computer that barely qualified as technology was damned near awful. Glacially slow for certain.
With antiquated software connecting to –of all things- an AI that claimed it was a solid six but was, in fact, a four kludged up to a functional if splotchy five with the sort of software that’d get the creator and the user a lifetime in prison?
Hell on this or any other earth.
