Description: Following his blundering attempts at being a detective, El Fuerte's trail leads him to Duke's hide out. There he enjoys a nice dinner with the man right before everything goes dark.
Vitales Corleone. 9 PM. Metro City.
Dress Code Enforced.
The clay brick Italian restaurant lays humbly in the wayward corner of the Metro Square. A safe block, a secure block. The restaurant never seemed to take in much business, but the sort of business it attracted ensured Andre Corleone a long and lucrative career.
As long as he kept his mouth shut.
The exterior of the restaurant held a small exterior cafe, sectioned off with intricate black iron fencing. A light splash of flora highlighted the white clay exterior, proudly holding its Romanesque architecture. Within the Italian restaurant was thick red velvet theme, highlighted with black lace and black iron. The heavy scent of spices hung in the air, barely covering up the thick smell of cigar smoke. Mahogany tables were spread evenly throughout the dining facility, some tucked away in semi-private rooms, others holding screens on the side, ready to be pulled out at a moment's notice. It was a heavy, thick restaurant, holding much more than a culture. It was mostly empty, short of a small party in one of the VIP private tables....
And as the maitre d', a brown-haired man with a black suit, bearing an eyepatch, standing solemnly behind a mahogany podium.
Waiting for the guest of honor.
A cook in a restaurant?
This should be a breeze.
Never did El Fuerte think that the winds of destiny would take him to such clandestine meetings. He is a wrestler and a cook for crying out loud, not a detective, this is the kind of work that the police should be doing, why in the world is he now preparing a suit whilst following the directions he received from a notorious drug lord to meet up with him? As he looks at himself in the mirror though, dressed very formally while still wearing his ever present mask, he is reminded of the embodiment of the spirit of lucha and he who inspired him to become what he is now. No doubt El Santo, her of Legend, would be proud of him, as he now resembles the spitting image of the Silver Mask, Luchador of Justice.
All that has happened that lead up to this event is....strangely fitting.
Fuerte makes a few phone calls before leaving, leaving messages on both Fuji and Brett's answering machine. Don't go look for him, he says, but in case he doesn't come back they'll know what happened. Steeling his resolve, Fuerte drives up to the most forbidden part of town, the place where not even hardcore criminals dare to tread. It is seemingly the spot where only the head honchos hang out, lacking all the filth and scum that is associated with Metro City's gangs but still having all of the danger involved.
With instructions still in hand, El Fuerte lets the valet park his Fuertemobile, and walks up to the eye patched, tough looking maitre d'.
El Fuerte is about the only person that can pull off looking perfectly normal wearing a tuxedo and a luchador mask at the same time. Because truth of the matter is that, the person beneath the mask does not exist, the mask is in fact his face, it's not a stage name or a double identity and such he introduces himself by his proper name.
"Ey amigo. I'm El Fuerte, I think I have reservation."
And the One-Eyed Man says nothing.
The grim-faced maitre d' inspects the besuited man before him. Quietly, he reaches within his suit. Drawing out a small photograph, he holds it up. Comparing the picture to the man before him, the man. Silently, he nods, tucking away his photograph. From behind the podium, he draws out a black leather briefcase. And looking into the masked man's eyes, his stony-faced expression does not change as he speaks.
"Oui."
Walking from the podium, holding the briefcase in his right hand, he motions for El Fuerte to follow. Quietly, he begins to walk through the restaurant, past empty tables holding oil lamps upon them. Further and further back, deeper and deeper, until he reaches a pair of oak doors. There, the maitre d' knocks twice, before turning around, facing El Fuerte. There, he waits. And waits. For nearly a full minute, he stands at the door, preventing anyone from coming in. He only steps aside when a deep rumble rolls out from the room, the maitre d' swiftly opening the door for El Fuerte as the call comes.
"-Come In, El Fuerte-"
So far so good. It's about the best type of reception that El Fuerte was expecting, he wouldn't put it past Duke to try and ambush him with a couple of his goons, or heck even the maitre d' himself could possibly take a pot shot at him.
The wrestler follows complacently but he is jut slightly tense while doing so, clearly on his guard. Brown, wide eyes glance to the sides making sure that nothing is lurking in any shadowy corner, ever vigilant to dodge or out grapple any thug that might try to...oooh..this place is fancy.
Unfortunately for him, El Fuerte seemingly has the attention span of a gnat and ends up getting quite carried away with all the intricate details of the establishment. It looks so foreboding yet gallant at the same time, as if he had just stepped into a bonna fide noir movie. The wrestler almost collides on the Maitre D's back when they come to a full stop and he adjusts his tie a little while waiting for the doors to open, still looking a little fidgety.
Obviously a whole minute of waiting is TOO LONG for Fuerte, and when the doors finally open it looks like he has actually fallen asleep while leaning on one of the support beams to the building. "Ey wha-!!?" He is awoken by the booming voice from the pits of the abyss and shakes his head. Eyes narrowing to switch from his usual silly demeanor back to serious.
It's go time.
"Merci!" Says the luchador to the man with the eye patch as he waltz inside like if he owns the place.
Fearlessly walking right into his doom most likely.
And the first thing to hit El Fuerte was the heat.
The room was unbearably hot, and the stench was terrible. Gone was the heavy spice in the air, and in its place, was the heavy smell of tobacco. A thick strata of smoke hangs on the ceiling. A great table, enough to sit a good dozen around it, sits in the middle of the room, black with mahogany, draped with silk tablecloth. The walls bear classic art, reproduced by local artists, showing each of the seven deadly sins around the room. Only two chairs are present, however. An empty one before El Fuerte.
And at the far end of the table, Duke sits in the second.
As the door closes behind El Fuerte, the dark-skinned Russian sits quietly, his fingers steepled as he stares at El Fuerte. Eyes cold, a faint smirk on his face. This was the expression of a dangerous man, a confident man. Decked in his classic suit of red and black, the Man That Hell Spat Out just watches. Finally, he unsteeples his hands, sweeping it as the man rumbles with a deep, demonic tone.
"Have a seat, El Fuerte. I understand you have something to discuss?"
El Fuerte can take the heat.
He's from Mexico after all.
When the luchador enters the room though, it is the smell of tobacco that hits him like a ton of bricks. He shuts his eyes tightly as the stench clogs up his longs momentarily and even seems to stagger slightly, as an avid runner any impediment to his breathing capabilities is a serious issue for the luchador, so it's safe to say that he doesn't smoke, despite what Damnd might want to believe.
The wrestler adjusts quickly though, he is in a mission after all and it demands that he puts on a tough face, enduring what he most in order to achieve his goal. Sharp eyes quickly zero in on his target, spotting the brooding large Russian sitting by his lonesome at the only table in the room, with only one other chair empty apparently set for him.
"Thanks." Well, just because he's in a sketchy and quite likely life threatening meeting doesn't mean he can't be courteous can he? El Fuerte takes a seat cautiously at first just to make sure it won't explode from under him, or it sinks into a hidden pit fall. Once he has done away with his precautions, the luchador actually looks at a loss of what to do, he has no previous experience of negotiating with criminals, when it came to his homeland carteles it is safe to say he only fought them, and because of this he only says the first thing he can come up with, something to break the ice.
"So...is it true that jail food is as bad as they say?"
Of course, the cook would ask about the food.
Duke's expression does not change. Instead, he simply stares, a dominating smile on his face. He was looking at El Fuerte. Inspecting him. Trying to read his expression. But the mask concealed so much of the truth. A truth that he was very carefully trying to uncover. But the question is dropped. And for a moment, Duke's doesn't seem clear how he was going to react. Until finally, he speaks slow, heavy. Deep.
"The food was exquisite."
Leaning back in his chair, Duke closes his eyes, remembering the brief experience. "When I was in jail, I was served only fine, russian-style cutlets of Wagyu Beef, illegally exported from the most exclusive Japanese farms. With it, I only drank fine wine, with the occassional sifter of brandy. I am not some low-life, El Fuerte. I could have lived like a king within gilded bars, El Fuerte, well away from the hustle and bustle of the nightlife of Metro City."
"But I have returned."
Duke opens his eyes as the door suddenly swings open. The one-eyed man reenters, cradling a platter in one hand, the briefcase in the other. Balancing it with exceptional skill, he places the platter on the table, putting the briefcase down on the ground beside him. Standing by the mid-point of the table, he begins to reveal a covered plate, containing a simple plate mussels in linguini, with a sizzling steak on the side. As he places one plate before each of them, Duke leans over, a small flare of temper as he rumbles a roar. "I have -made- time to listen to you, El Fuerte."
"Do not make me regret it."
You know, now that he thinks about it, El Fuerte should really start bringing a hidden microphone in his meetings with Duke, this kind of information would prove greatly beneficial if he were ever to be prosecuted again.
Though that is assuming he lives long enough to actually use it against him.
El Fuerte just stares at Duke, locking eyes with him as one would stare not at a menacing drug lord, but instead an oddly shaped insect. Just as before when they first met, Duke's infernal gaze seemingly has no effect on the insane luchador who listens intently with the severity of the situation completely lost in him, more concerned about trying to memorize the food Duke ate rather than think of what he is going to do or say. The Russian might be having a hard time trying to figure out Fuerte's secrecy, yet the enigmatic nature of the luchador comes not from brooding secrecy, it comes from simply being just too darn eccentric. What Duke sees before him is what he gets, a crazy luchador in a suit.
"So you have." Once Duke finishes listing the numerous delicious food he had in jail, El Fuerte can now move on to the true point of this dangerous meeting of his. He is about to speak when the maitre d' returns with plates of food and again, gone is El Fuerte's train of thought to instead look down at his plate with great concern as he sniffs it and pokes at it, trying to figure out the ingredients.
It should come to no surprise that the business oriented Duke is getting pretty exasperated with him, and only the rumbling voice of the Baron of Hell manages to break the luchador out of his fascinated stupor. "What? Oh right, the meeting..err..well, thanks for making some time to meet up with me and give my regards to Damnd too if you can for being a trooper." El Fuerte doesn't touch his food yet, at least deciding that he should force his mind to stop trying to go a million miles per minute and focus on a single topic.
"I wanted to talk to you because we got off on the wrong foot." Although he is wearing a suit, his tone of voice has none of the business tone that meetings such as this would demand, the luchador is pretty much addressing Duke as if he was talking to him at a taco stand. "You know, I don't know what was your deal with trying to bully vendors into forking over cash, and that deal with my amigo's parents, and then the stuff with messing with Lucha Libre and all that stuff. That, that was pretty loco, you know?" He chuckles slightly, trying to formulate better words. "What I'm trying to say is that, stuff has changed after you got outta the slammer, vato. Delta Red did a pretty good job at getting rid of all the Glow, there's no business for it anymore according to Damnd. Things are..back to normal."
Or at least as normal as they can get in Metro City.
"But I said it the first time and I'll say it again. You strike me as a pretty reasonable guy, and I refuse to believe that a vato like you just wants to stick to lowly drug trade. See the thing is that, I have experience with people like you.."
"You have the gangs of Metro City, that are just concerned with dealing and getting quick cash. Then you have guys like los Zetas, who are just plain evil and terrorize people because they are assholes. And then we have people like you, who want the big dough."
"You're a businessman Duke, I can tell just by looking at you and that leads me to believe that you can be reasoned with." He smirks "So! Let's try this again shall we? Your demands were /pretty/ unreasonable last time but I may be more inclined to listen now. Just tell me what is it that you're doing now and if it isn't too bad then /maybe/ I won't have to spend the better part of my week beating up your crew."
"Because let's face, you don't want to deal with me and I certainly don't want to deal with you. So let's agree to disagree. Comprende?"
And with that said, he starts looking around the table. "Ey, where's the ketchup?" Because how in the world is he supposed to eat linguini without ketchup!?
"No, El Fuerte."
Those were the words that clenched across the room. Duke's gravelly baritone is decisive, bone-breaking. Unyielding. As the plate is put down, the one-eyed man prepares a napkin, wrapping it around Duke's neck. Putting down a set of utensils for him, he dips back down... and rises up with a bucket of ice and a bottle of thick, red wine. With two wine glasses, he prepares a wine glass for the Duke... and then, another is placed down before the Well-Dressed Lucha.
His expression unchanging.
As the ganglord prepares his knife and fork, he begins with the steak, carving it up with a delicate touch. As he saws off a thin slice of the beef, he continues. "A place like Metro City needs.... foundations. Foundations are the heart of any empire. The Los Zetas? Nothing more than bloodthirsty bandits. My game has a sort of.. elegance. A sort of grace." Duke motions the knife towards the one-eyed man, before rumbling at him. "Jacque, fetch the man some ketchup." The one-eyed man grimaces harder, stepping out of the room out of sight. As he leaves, Duke shakes the fork at the the wrestler, smirking darkly. "But I do agree, El Fuerte." Duke begins, as he places a thin slice of steak into his mouth, chewing quietly, before swallowing it heartily.
"I do not want to deal with you..... anymore."
This is pretty much what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmoving object.
El Fuerte a mile a minute machine gun like talking is well countered by just a single sentence from the Duke, a few of his words are the equivalent of many that may come from the Luchador. For a moment, El Fuerte actually looks concerned, as if Duke's warning had finally pierced the veiled of the luchador's madness and he finally realizes in just what sort of danger he's in.
But sanity has never been something that sticks for long with Fuerte and he motions in circles with his finger. "It's The Zetas, not The Los Zetas, because then it sounds redundant and..that's not really what we're talking about is it? Hmm.." The luchador clears his throat, glancing to the side as the man with the eye patch exits the room, strangely, El Fuerte still hasn't touched his food which is definitely odd for someone who pigs out no matter where he is. Maybe he just /really/ wants his ketchup, or maybe he figures that it may be poisoned.
Either way, he is definitely more wary of Duke even as he gives him his cryptic answer. Not a no, or a yes, just that he wants to get rid of him.
"So..uh...what are you suggesting?" Eyes dart to the side and up and down. Cue pit fall? Maybe, but El Fuerte is ready to jump to the sides even if he looks perfectly relaxed.
Duke takes a hearty drink of his cup of wine.
Letting it sit in his mouth, he savours every taste. He pauses, letting the flavor fill his tongue, before finally swallowing it.Clearing his throat, he finally answers. "My suggestion has always been that you stay out of my way. You have no vested interest in the people of Metro City. Your Zetas will not be here. This will be a safe city, not one where... friends and family become soccer balls. I doubt you will allow me to have my reign. You and your Brett, and your Fuji..." He sighs softly.
"It makes it difficult to convince you when you have such an iron will."
Jacque returns, bearing a bottle of ketchup... and a box of cigars. Placing the bottle down by El Fuerte, he stands to the side, beside the briefcase he left behind. Duke gazes across the way, not at El Fuerte, but at the food he was playing around with."You don't seem to be eating, El Fuerte. Andres Corleone would be disappointed. A fine chef like yourself should enjoy this. Mussels in Marinara, on top of Linguini, with a side of Sirlon-Cut Beef. A dinner worthy of myself." Narrowing his eyes wickedly, he lets loose a low, threatening growl.
"If you are frightened of your food, perhaps you want me to have a taste?"
Despite the severity of the situation, something that Duke tells Fuerte manages to relax him enough to give a soft chuckle causing him to lean back on his chair. "Really ese? You're saying that you're not gonna be as bad as Los Zetas? That's like saying whatever is gonna happen won't be as bad as eating a grenade."
El Fuerte props an elbow on the table looking slightly more serious now that the Zetas have been mentioned, the chuckle from before was only one caused from pure cynicism as the maddening trauma that he holds behind his winsome facade shows a glimpse to the light. "You pride yourself saying that you're the man that Hell spat out, the Devil himself and all those titles of grandeur. But let me tell you something, ese. I have seen Hell with my very eyes and I will not allow the same thing to occur here in Metro City, or anywhere else in the planet for that matter. Not on my watch it won't."
El Fuerte's gaze goes lost as he glances to the abyss. "By my mask..it shall not happen."
Then the happy go lucky nature returns, and the luchador is all smiles and the hero of the children again. "Which is why I requested this audience in the first place, amigo! If I have shown such iron willed tenacity against your thugs so far it's because of my previous bad experiences in Mexico! Don't take it too hard that I've rallied Brett and Bartitsu Mask against you, it was something I did out of reflex." He smiles helplessly as if saying 'woops'
"All said and done, if I /really/ wanted to fight crime, I had ample opportunities to do so in Mexico. There are...reasons...why I didn't pursue that career. All I really want to do is Lucha and cook as I am sure all you want to do is have your shady business in this place, and that's fine, you know, if no one gets hurt then what is the big deal?"
"If I learned anything from dealing with Los Zetas though, is that I cannot simply turn a blind eye to..uh..'organizations' such as the one you're running here." El Fuerte makes quotation marks with his fingers, still trying to keep the mood as light as possible, shaking off Duke's evil dangerous aura as best as he can. "So I want to make you a deal, tell me what kind of business you're going to run here in the City and if it is not to harmful mis amigos and I will leave you alone. I'm not asking for much, just a bit of info!"
El Fuerte graciously takes his bottle of ketchup and starts to pour its contents all over his fancy plate. "Eh? No, I was just waiting on the ketchup, honest!" Considering that he eats his own food, even if the plate happens to be poisoned it's safe to say it won't kill him. In fact, it's surprising that El Fuerte can be rendered unconscious at all considering he survives eating proverbial atomic bombs on a regular basis. "Hmm! This is quite good! Better than what I make!"
You don't say Fuerte...you don't say..
Duke may hold more reputation than action, it is true.
But as El Fuerte challenges him, he finally comes to the proposal. Sipping the wine, he listens quietly. Furrowing his brow a bit, he simply dines; he would let El Fuerte finish without interruption.
And he does not speak just yet.
Finishing the wine, he seems to lose focus for a moment, before clearing his throat. Holding the glass out, the one-eyed man swoops in, ready to fill the glass. As it fills, Duke turns back towards El Fuerte, focusing on him. Holding the glass by his face, he finally speaks.
"No deal."
Taking another sip of the wine, he runs it around his mouth for a moment, before swallowing. "The problem is, El Fuerte, is the fact that you are too unpredictable. I can't simply take you at your word anymore. Where do your friends begin? Where do they end. Frankly, you are correct in that you are too much trouble to be constantly bothered by. You and your friends. I cannot simply reveal my next plan of action to see if it will bother you, no. If I had my way, you would be out of the city for good. But no, I must settle you through other means." Duke places the glass down, returning to his steak. "And it is good that enjoy your meal. You must try the steak. Jacque here is an excellent cook. You should compliment him!"
The one-eyed man continues to grimace.
Hah! El Fuerte gets a bit of his own medicine.
Well, played Duke.
The business man in Duke shows by how he uses Fuerte's very own words against him, the luchador had refused any attempt to negotiate with Duke when the two men met and now the shrewd gang lord returns the courtesy to let the tecninco know how it feels to meet a brick wall. The luchador didn't think this meeting was going to be a walk on the park, but he does look a tad disappointed when Duke shows he can be unreasonable when he wants to, he was counting on the man at least being willing to listen!
Cleaning his lips with a napkin, El Fuerte regards the other man with a mouth full of food, one of his cheeks puffed up as he stares out. Swallowing at last, once Duke explains they whys and hows of not trusting the luchador, Fuerte gives out another cynic chuckle. "You really have no idea who you are dealing with, eh amigo? You could have just lied to me and it might have given you an edge when you did do something." He continues to chuckle. "I suppose you're too used to dealing with vipers like yourself to appreciate old fashioned honesty."
El Fuerte sips his own drink whilst glancing to the one eyed Jacque. "Always a pleasure to meet another cook, ese."
Although this bit of courtesy is the last the luchador gives before he grows somber, he doesn't seem to want to beat around the bush anymore if Duke is unwilling to negotiate.
"And what are these 'others means' you speak of? Seņor Duke."
R"Kidnapping you."
Duke coughs a bit, swaying a bit to the side as he takes another sip of the wine. Such blunt words, such arrogant words. "I expected a great deal from you. Normally, I would break a man like you with my bare hands. But... I did not wish to kill you. Besides, this place is a wonderful resteraunt. It would be a shame if we made a mess in this place, is it not?" The Don inspects the decor idly. "No, capturing you would be tricky to do with a delicate hand."
"That is why I've had Jacque take the liberty of drugging the food and wine."
Duke blinks hard, and plants his hand on the table. Groaning a bit, he regains his balance again. "Yes, El Fuerte. Even my own food, my own drink. I could not allow you to switch plates on me. The seasoning of steak, the salty taste of the mussels suited well the conceal the taste. And the wine itself... Naturally, a fighter like yourself could not be drugged through any mere means. So I have granted my right hand man... the authority to adjust the dosage to someone of my body weight." Duke seems to grow glassy-eyed as he rises up. One-Eyed Jacque draws out a gun quickly, training it on El Fuerte. "Even if you resist.... you can't resist all of it." Duke claims, barely staying on his feet. "Nor can you resist the rest of my men. You were a fool, El Fuerte, to come here alone."
"And soon, I will be making a fool of your friend Brett as well!"
Dang it...
The food was drugged.
It is only the fact that the food contains enough drugs to down a man Duke's size that keeps El Fuerte from bolting out the door when he hears that Duke was planning on kidnapping him. El Fuerte is by no means a hero, he will fight for justice and the likes, but above else he is a survivor that fights when he needs to and runs if he's able. El Luchador was not planning on giving the gang lord the time needed to give a long explanation of why he does what he does, being dramatic only slows you down and takes away the precious seconds needed to make a mad dash out the restaurant.
Problem is, that as El Fuerte is about to stand up to toss the table at Duke and start making dose, his legs give out from under him and plant his rear firmly on the chair. The masked wrestler feels as though a hundred pounds just settled on his shoulders and eyelids, hands firmly grasping the table to keep his balance.
Well, this is certainly a situation he did not want to be in.
"Ah heheh..you..even drugged your own food?" The luchador gives a weak laugh as he stays awake against all odds, though he only prolongs the inevitable. "That's..haha..I dunno if I should be flattered...it...it didn't even occur to me to change the food.."
Grumbling, El Fuerte loses all hope to escape when Jacque pulls out a gun. If Duke was also half asleep then maybe he stood a chance to tough out the effects of drug and run past Jacque..but not through all of Duke's men and he certainly didn't have the strength to break through a few solid wood doors even if he wasn't drugged.
"You...you won't get away with this..even if you capture me, Brett and Bartitsu Mask will take you down. You will pay Duke..for all you've done...and especially for..."
"Ruining such good food."
He glares at one eyed Jacque as he says that "How disappointing..to see a good chef, go bad." But El Fuerte is not going to go down without a fight. This /truly/ was good food and it would be terrible to see it go to waste. As such, while Duke is struggling to keep himself awake as long as he can, El Fuerte actually starts to munch on the rest of his plate planning to finish it all before he loses consciousness.
If that was going to be his last meal, he was going to enjoy it!!
And to his credit, he manages to finish about three quarters of it before flopping to his side, burping as he goes down.
"You should be flattered, El Fuerte."
Duke's genteel rumble, as diabolical as it was, did give a glimmer of respect. "Rarely does a man earn enough respect from me to earn something as merciful as letting him keep his own life. But I've made too many mistakes already, El Fuerte. Just like I could not risk you out smarting me... or overpowering me." As El Fuerte lets out his last surge, One-Eyed Jacque doesn't blink. He is utterly focused on the man, gun trained on the lucha. But instead of fighting.... he enjoys his food. Devouring the meal, One-Eyed Jacque's expression does not change, despite the compliments. He was business.
And gangland is his business.
As El Fuerte finally collapses. One-Eyed Jacque cautiously approaches the man. Kicking him with his foot, he finally tucks away the gun back within his suit jacket. A cause for celebration, but Duke, sitting in his chair, groans. "... Search him, Mr. Brown, and bring me his cellphone." Dilligently, Jacque searches the man, poking through his suit pockets, until he finally draws out his phone. Bringing the phone to the drugged Duke, he steadily grips the phone. Peering at it, he scrolls through the address book... and finds the name. Calling the phone, he brings it to his ear, and waits, before letting out a sinister baritone.
"Hello, Brett?"
"I have your friend."
Log created on 20:57:07 07/22/2012 by ElFuerte, and last modified on 14:54:05 08/05/2012.