Description: After his fight with El Fuerte, Damnd recovers in an backalley surgeon's office hidden under the bridge of Metro City. Before he can drown his sorrows, though, Duke intrudes on his domain to give him an offer he just can't refuse.
"Oh God, it's like a bunch of little midgets are biting me!" Damnd cries, as a local street doctor works on his right hand. Damnd has recovered from his fight with El Fuerte, and is presently sitting on a burnt out couch, the springs squeeking as he shifts about from the doctor putting splints and bandages on his wounded hand. The doctor frowns, telling Damnd, "Prognosis is, it's only a sprain. Be careful next time - that nut could have broken something." Damnd grunts at this, opening up a cooler, and pulling out a Red Stripe. "Ya mon, I'll be more careful a mask wearing freak beats me up and steals my product!"
Too much class.
That is what the Duke brought to the scummiest, lowest dredges of Metro City. Too much class. American cities were often a disappointment to Duke. It wasn't wholly Metro City's fault; it used to have credibility. Now he was a vanilla medium between the brutality of the gangland streets of Russia, and the professionalism of Southtown.
In otherwords, garbage.
Garbage was what was all around Duke as he Forced his way through the slummy makeshift shacks that lined throughout the gangland under the bridge. This was the world for the homeless, not for the criminal underworld. And yet, this was where he was expected to find his man.
Damnd.
"Ahem." Came the deep, booming baritone from the entrance of the good doctor's 'operating table.' In the improvised doorway, the form of a finely dressed gentleman in black and red stood tall, ducking slightly. In one hand was an ebony cane with a wrought-iron handle. In the other, the unconscious body of one of the thugs posted to guard outside. Clutching the poor victim by the top of his head, he tosses him across the room to the foot of the couch. "I did not have an appointment." Duke begins, arcing his eyebrows wickedly at the pair. "But I convinced your receptionists that you were open to walk-ins."
"I have business with you Damnd."
Damnd only has one hand for the beer, giving him a conundrum - how does one open this beer? He's in the middle of eyeing it, holding it up to the dingy light in the ramshackle medical ward, when Duke steps in, tossing one of Damnd's thugs at his feet. "'ey, why you do that to Larry?" Damnd asks, looking down at 'Larry'. "Larry, dawg, you okay?" As the doctor continues to calmly bandage up Damnd's hand, the brawler looking at Duke from behind a fresh pair of blue shades. "Yah, I be Damnd. Whatchoo need? You didn't have to mess up Larry, mon. He gets messed up enough."
Duke lumbers towards Damnd, moving with the class of a Mafia Don. Looking upon 'Larry,' shakes his head. "He will live. I have my limits, Damnd, and Larry unfortunately pushed them to the limit. But he is just a bit player. You can find more Larries. That is why I have come."
"To make an offer."
Duke looks upon the can of Red Stripe, turning his nose in disgust briefly. What low-brow swill. Beer was an indulgence, and all indulgences should be done at the highest quality. Why settle for a dumpster whore when you could have a courtesan? But, as Damnd probably knows all too well, those who work the streets often are left with the scraps of the streets. The Duke, shaking his head, continues with his offer.
"Tell me, Damnd. How did you get that injury?"
Damnd kicks Larry aside as Duke explains what happened, still holding that glass bottle with that maddening cap. "'ey, Larry, you gotta stop f***ing with people." The Afro-Caribbean dealer turns his attention back to Duke, frowning a bit. "Some crazy Mexican with a mask didn't like me dealin' in his neighborhood. But dat ain't 'portant." As the doctor finishes with his hand, he carefully pins the bottle against his chest with the bandaged hand, pulling a bottle opener out of the cooler and popping in the cap. "I 'teem to have heard somet'ing about an offer?" he says with a grin showing off some gold teeth.
Duke continues his slow approach towards Damnd. First it was Dug, getting taken out by a masked woman. And now, it was a masked Mexican taking out Damnd. It was a pattern. Or maybe, it was just a sign of the times. "Not important? You are not thinking of the big picture, Damnd. Tell me, Damnd, how are the old remains of Mad Gear doing? I am certain you remember the arrangement between the Southtown Syndicate and Mad Gear?"
"Well, I need some ground work done."
Duke looks at the doctor, and asks him curtly. "Bring me a map of Metro City. Go!" Turning back to Damnd, he looks at the injury. "Look at you. Barely can open a bottle of beer. What was that over? A mugging? A drug deal gone bad? Or just bullying someone who bit back? Don't be ashamed of the truth, Damnd, I'll learn about it one way or another. That the gangs are no longer organized, at at each other's throats! Tell me, Damnd, how many people are working for you now."
Damnd listens quietly, chugging cheap lager as Duke speaks. As Duke finishes, Damnd lowers the empty bottle and sets it down beside him, the doctor rifling through a filing cabinet. "Ground work? Listen, mon, a lot goes down on the streets. Since Belger bit da big one, no one respects Mad Gear no more. The damned cops keep taking my shipments from de Colombians, and you can barely even get weed down 'ere from Canada. And I love my weed, mon." He pulls out a fresh Red Stripe, popping it open. The doctor emerges triumphantly with a map. "I got about ten straight guys working for me, mostly smuggling. Dey drive de trucks, fly de planes, do whatever it is ya do to boat...Beyond dat, I got a couple dozen freelance distributors I supply to." It's not the old days, but it's a respectable operation.
Duke suddenly erupts in a deep, jeering laugh. "Bweh ha ha... Really? Respect? Respect isn't a resource that is given, Damnd, it is earned. You are a leader of Mad Gear, an officer. If you want respect, it begins with you."
"And I see no reason to give you any."
Duke glances over at the file cabinet before bringing his gaze back upon Damnd, stroking his beard. "Look at you. What have you done to earn fear and respect on the streets? Dope? Cocaine? You are less of a gang lord, and more of a burned out junkie! But..." Duke seizes the map from the doctor, and plants it down on the table beside the couch.
"You have some groundwork to build off of."
Duke motions his finger around the map. "If you work for me, Damnd, you will not have worry about the police. Columbia and Canada are fine, but I have... bigger prospects." Reaching within his coat, he frisks out a small vial, shaped like a 'stick.' Tossing it across to Damnd, he raises a wicked eyebrow. "I hope you remember what that is, Damnd."
Glow.
Damnd bristles a bit at Duke's laughter, but keeps his mouth shut. If this guy is really with Southtown Syndicate, then he's not to he disrespected. Especially while Damnd has a sprained wrist. He sets the half drunk beer in his hand down, and picks up the stick, peering at it. "I didn't know dey still made this stuff. Well, my my'terious friend, if you want someone to push yo' Glow, I'm ya man. At least, in Metro City. Dis stuff is rare, and people still wish dey had it. I can make you a lot of money, my friend. So, what do ya call yo'self?" he asks, setting the Glow vial down and picking his beer back up, finishing it off with a sucking sound.
"I go by many names, Damnd." The Don begins, looking over the map. "Some call me The Man Hell Coughed Up. Others call me the Devil himself." Rumbling slightly, he looks towards Damnd, eyes burning with contempt.
But you.... You may call me Duke."
The brute of a man points a finger in the downtown of Metro City. "I need you to do me a favor, if you are working for me. I will help protect your drug trade; you will find the glow flowing to your coffers. But I need you to do me a favor first. I am setting up an insurance company in Downtown Metro City. In exchange for a few token fees, they will find themselves protected against their shops and homes being broken into and being looted." The don shakes his head. "Unfortunately, what we are lacking in is the proper volume of looters, thugs, and vandals, and I simply can't seem to find any customers to invest in their own safety." Looking up from the map, the Duke's eyes hold a glimmer of mischief, the corners of his mouth turned into the smallest smirk.
"Do you think you could help me out?"
Damnd stands up, a third beer in hand, which he pops open. He works fast - you have to, when you're his size. "Okay, Duke it is. I don't believe in the devil - just Baron Samedi and Dhamballah and dere friends, mon." He moves over to the map, peering down at it and nodding. "I know jus' de area. I can arrange some crackheads bustin' the place up - they'll do anyt'ing for da pipe." Damnd slurps a third of the beer, before belching, right near Duke. "So, I do dis, I get da Glow connection? If so, you got yo'self a deal."
Duke smiles. Drugs. It was so easy to work with druggies. Even the peddlers were bound by their vices. Duke, naturally, had his own; but he was in complete control of them. "That will be the -beginning- of our relationship, Damnd. I can assure you, once you get me my insurance policy off the ground, I will see that you will be rewarded handsomely. I have much bigger ambitions than simply running a numbers game, while you run a few kilos of Glow to the streets. No, my goal is dead simple." The Duke grimaces, rolling up the map.
"To unite the gangs of Metro City under me."
Damnd raises his eyebrows. "You wanna...Well, okay, I'll help you if you pay me, but ain't no guarantees anyone can keep da Mayor off yo' back." He slurps the beer again, finishing it. Going for beer number four, and says with his side to Duke, "Gang bosses in dis city tend not to last very long. Dis ain't Southtown - da Mayor is one scary dude, I tell you what, take it from me...I'm da guy dat snatched his daughter, mon, and let me tell you what, he gets /pissed/." He pops open bottle number four.
Duke looks at the list of bottles. Bottle number four. Such drinking. Then again, being beaten by a mexican wrestler might drive Duke to the drink as well. Eyeing his partner in crime, he nods. "Of course you will be paid... when I see real results." But then, he brings up Haggar. The Duke smirks wickedly. "The Mayor is the least of our concerns. In fact, I will see it that Mr. Haggar will not trouble you one bit." There was something outright malicious in his eyes.
There was something scheming.
Duke turns around. "Remember! You will start breaking apart randomly and without reason at first. We need to strike fear in their hearts, before I offer my insurance. There needs to be a reason for them to invest in their own safety." Duke begins to step out, before pausing. "If you need to get in contact with me again... Then I will know. There will be no phone number, no location. You will get those when you truly are...
"A made man."
Duke begins to step outside the doctor's office.
Damnd sits back down, and slurps down more beer. Six beers and he's going to stumble home to whatever drug den he's crashing out. He's on number four, giving him some time tob be here. "We'll see, eh mon? Hopefully, we can work dis out...I'll start with the vandalism tomorrow. Hopefully it makes de news, eh mon?" He laughs, and leans back on the burnt couch.
Duke glances back at Damnd in midstep, a sinister smile over his face. "Oh, don't worry about that, Damnd. I will see to it that it will be on the news."
And with that, The Duke leaves.
Log created on 20:17:12 04/14/2012 by Duke, and last modified on 22:52:24 04/14/2012.