Description: Rolling with the high life amongst the low lifes, Damnd has it made. He got the weed, he got the hos, and he got the respect from all his bros. But when his boss, Duke, arrives with an offer of promotion, the Jamaican crime lord can't say no to an opportunity to became not just the drug lord of Metro City... but a lord of Southtown as well.
Damnd has been simply loafing within Metro City for the last few months; things have been quiet for him, but not entirely unprofitable. He's been laying low as instructed, and reaping in on the proverbial benefits of such within his makeshift territory. And the name of the game has been 'weed'. Weed, weed, weed. The #1 supplier of such within the city by far, his pseudonym on the street has been 'Grinner' for some time now, and ruthlessly suppressed any major attempts to intrude on his brand name.
At the moment, the massive Jamaican is roosting atop a gutted out schoolbus, crouched near the end with a cigar-sized joint clamped in his mouth. The yellow has been mostly spraypainted red, with a giant white smiley face upon the side. About a dozen of his gangsters are settled about as well, a couple oilcans burning in the midst. A couple large boomboxes rest atop cinderblocked cars, booming out echoing music beneath the bridge.
A few lower-class people from the city are doing business, exchanging crumpled bills for small plastic bags of weed, but the focus is entirely on the party. Coolers full of various booze are strewn around, and someone's even broken out a giant propane barbecue for the occasion, laden with ribs, hotdogs, and chicken. The air is hazy with the scent of product, and morale is certainly high. A good day to rule part of Metro City's underbelly, indeed.
But Damnd did not own all of this.
Oh yes, Damnd was the lord of the Metro City underbelly, the seedy, shameless rot hanging loose from the dark side of the city. Weed was cheap, it was easy, and it was popular. The drug trade was always simple, and Damnd was well suited to slaking the tastes of the common refuse of Metro City. He was a king of his slums.
But he was not a Duke.
A clicking sounds cuts through the music of the ghetto. Breaking through the idle haze of the shantytown comes a large, well-dressed figure, a stark contrast to the ramshackle appearance of the slums. Dressed in a red suit jacket against red slacks, the dark skinned man clutches a mahogany cane, capped with an iron head. Walking through the riffraff, his presence alone should be enough to break the deadhead rally. If that was not enough, the cold, vengeful glower would be enough to dare any of the riffraff to challenge him.
The Duke has arrived.
And alone, in a turn of fate. Duke's normal aide de camp was unfortunately indisposed in Southtown, and the Don had no interest in having the position replaced by just anybody. That was, in part, why he had sought to come and meet his most successful minion in all of Metro City. His reliable ground guy, the overtly competent Mad Gear lieutenant. There were many reasons why Duke had come, half of them spinning through Duke's mind as he approaches the bus silently, only the sound of his cane clicking on the asphalt.
It was time for the devil to collect his due.
Damnd is certainly the second best dressed. A white sleeveless pants, faded blue jeans, and of course his classic blue sunglasses even within the shadows of the setting sun. Gaudy gold gleams from nekclaces, rings, and a few bracelets, a signal of his wealth worn overtly for all to see. Heads turn to see the new arrival, and eyes widen in overt fear. In a scramble of activity the boomboxes are turned off, the grill slammed shut, and like a bunch of children trying to cover up their shame before the parents finish walking up the driveway, they assemble in a more professional manner.
A quick glance pinpoints the source of the intrusion. At first, Damnd is mad. Someone's killing the buzz of his party, and he seeks out the source. And upon seeing the scarred figurehead of Southside Syndicate, that faltering grin blooms all the brighter.
"Duke! My man!" he calls out. Kicking off the bus, Damnd balls up tightly and spins in a crazy fashion. He descends like a comet, impacting the ground with a significant CRASH that is felt a few meters away. Hefting up to his full height, in simple statue Duke is completely overshadowed; the Jamaican giant passes seven feet, and is well built all the same. But there is no comparing the raw, visceral presence he holds to Duke himself. Indeed, there is no questioning who is in charge here.
"Been gettin' restless, ya? How ya doin'?" Sucking the end of his joint into a bright red cinder, the smoke is exhaled to the side in a heavy cloud. Fingers snap, and a couple gangsters slither over. A briefcase is set down within arm's reach, before Damnd hefts it up and slams it carelessly on the dented hood of a car. When opened, thousands and thousands of dollars are visible, bundled with rubber bands. "Your cut, of course. Never missed a single penny owed to the Big Boss. And business been good... but it can always be better?"
His grin spreads even further.
Duke does not flinch
As Damnd comes down with a dive, the crime boss continues onward, finally coming to a stop beside the bus. There, he mounts his cane in place, placing it firmly in the base of his palm as he pins the end before him. Placing his second hand on top of the first, he stand tall, looking down. Of course the riffraff would leave. Duke's arrogant gaze casts down upon the surrounding clearing, before settling on the eternally bright Damnd. Duke was here on pure business
But even Duke can't help but crack a smirk.
Taking in a deep inhale, Duke exhales slowly as Damnd's minions come in with Duke's cut. Taking a single wad of bill from the open briefcase, he inspects it deftly, turning it from side to side as he looks over it carefully. The drug trade was far from the most glamourous business of the Syndicate. But thanks to the hard work and criminal knowhow of Damnd, it was a profitable one. Mad Gear had long been a joke, a punchline for the professionals of the Syndicate. But none were more professional than Duke. And looking pleased with the money, Duke growls out his response to his minion.
"Excellent work, Damnd."
Those words come sincere, the words of a boss proud of his employee. Duke was proud, proud of a man making him money. "Business can always be better." The crime boss begins, replacing the wad back in the briefcase. "But business is good. I always come in with higher and higher expectations of you, and you have yet to disappoint." Replacing the wad in the briefcase, he nods to Damnd's men. "Have your men wrap it up, and send it home with me. Normally my associate would take care of it, but Mr. Brown is out of commission, and will be for some time." Duke arches a brow, looking down on Damnd with a judging, skeptical eye. Inspecting him closely, as he continues.
"That is why I have come to see you, Damnd."
Damnd seems to puff up under the praise, but there's also an air of light arrogance. He's aware that he's good at this sort of business. And unlike many minions, Duke's desire for higher station and power is shared with this particular man... overreaching the tyrants in the carribean is what caused him to flee one step ahead of a sea of assassins and start up his business again with Belger, after all. And he even survived kidnapping Jessica and starting the rampage that ended in his former employer's death. Nothing to sneeze at, indeed.
"If I was happy with money, I'd have stayed overseas. I made plenty to stay happy, ya?" Another snap of the fingers, and his men close the briefcase and slip off out of sight. Striding over to the barbecue, Damnd props it back open. The air fills with charred meat, and a grunt of approval leaves him. A few ribs are slapped onto a paper plate, and he turns back towards Duke informally, lapping his fingers clean.
"You came to me since you need results. Grinner's dime bags can last a couple weeks without me headin' it. Tell me what ya need. Territory crushed, heads on a pike, building razed to the ground... I'm your genie. I'll make it happen." Always that wide grin, never faltering even as he digs into his food. Crunch, munch.
Damnd seemed to puff up under a lot of stuff.
Some people underestimated Damnd. Duke was not one of them. Once you get past the cheerful exterior and laidback lifestyle, Damnd was an infamous drug lord. The shift to Mad Gear could almost be a retirement in that regard; a shift away from the high-stakes life into the moderately less dangerous Mad Gear. And yet, there was spark of ambition, that spark of danger; after all, it was Damnd to kidnapped the Mayor's daughter. That took courage... ora reckless disgegard for personal safety.
And Duke needed both.
"All of that, and more." The crime boss begins, approaching the barbacue after Damnd, his cane clicking along. As he reaches it, he frees a hand, and picks up a single rib gingerly. "Consider this an offer of promotion. I need someone with a strong record of getting things done, as well as a great talent in, how to put it. Human relations. Recruitment. Getting fresh meat into our ranks." Duke looks at the rib with distaste, sniffing once before dropping the rib back into the barbecue. "You have consistently been both a reliable source of income for the Syndicate, as well as the primarily driver of recruitment. If I had to question you on anything, it is your willingness for blood. Let me make it clear what I plan to do, Damnd." Duke approaches Damnd's side, moving in close to the Jamaican drug lord with an intense scowl, rumbling deep.
"I'm going to bring the Syndicate back Southtown."
"Hah!" Damnd states, obviously liking what he hears. He manages to devour the rib with a peculiar precision, only getting the sauce on two fingers. The stripped bones are flung away one after another, before a last slurp leaves him clean as a whistle. And for all of the subdued deference that the large man has, he still does not shrink at Duke's proximity. "Blood...? Tell me how to prove I'll draw blood, Duke. I'll let you float in a sea of it."
Although what he says next... Damnd looks rather surprised. "The Syndicate...?" Thoughtful, he returns to the barbecue and impales a chicken breast with the three pronged fork. "You be firing big cannons there. There's some white demon in the shadows now. They say he burned Geese to cinders in blue fire. Has a caped, masked beast as his executioner in the shadows. You hear those rumors?" Tearing off a sizeable bite of chicken, at long last the smile is gone.
"But..."
Turning back, his pristine whites are bared with a predatory air that was lacking. "I be willing. Ya. This life is not bad... but not enough. I'll see about getting you the men you need. The Grinner got a lot of pull in Metro City... and I know which gangs are independent. Can be bought. Or crushed. Mad Gear... psh! You much better boss then crazy japman with the Ninja Turtle weapons!!"
"Geese is a coward."
Those words rumble with defiance, but utmost certainty. "There is no excuse to shy away from our namesake. If he is too frightened of some 'mysterious warrior,' perhaps he is best suited in sulking in his office buildings, and leaving the streets to the likes of us!" Duke rubs the disfiguring scar on his neck, eyes burning intensely. "Geese would leave us squander in poverty if it meant protecting his wealth and more importantly, his ego. He has no taste for power, for ambition like us. And as for those rumors."
"I have a plan to deal with him already."
Duke releases his neck, staring fiercely any other minions nearby before focusing on Damnd. His gaze softens, as if the Jamaican was inherently soothing. "If you are willing, then welcome to my inner circle, Damnd. My goals are simple right now. We are to recruit fresh blood into our gang, we shall transport them to Southtown Harbor, and we shall invade. I have an agent already working on the transportation, and the landing site. As for the recruitment..." Duke begins to reach within his suit jacket, looking with one eye aside to Damnd.
%R"You recall my tournament, yes?"
"
"Coward...? He was complacent as fuck, that much I know." Damnd offers simply, finishing off the rest of his chicken before flinging the cooking fork back on the barbie. Pulling out a new oversized joint, he lights it with the flame before flicking the burnished metal barbecue closed once more. Although the idea that Duke thinks himself capable of dealing with men of Geese and Kain's caliber earns an interested raise of the eyebrow, thick arms crossing before his chest. The minions have mostly scattered to the fringes, not near enough to eavesdrop or get piledrivered by Duke's violent tendencies without a bit more effort on his part.
"So I'll be movin' to Southtown, eh? Definitely greener pastures, if you can survive. Heh!" Damnd is not a particularly hands on person. If he has a weakness, it's that he has no true drive as a fighter. Taking advantage of his physique and using seas of minions is how he prefers to operate business... he could be a much stronger man then he is, but he's still nothing to laugh at. "The tournament...? Figured you just having fun with the bottom feeders. I think I see what you are drivin' at..." His chin is stroked, expression already thoughtful. "Talent scouting... right?"
"Indeed, Damnd."
Duke draws out a small folder, with a list of names within. "Naturally, I will keep the best for myself. But even the losers can have a great deal of potential." Holding the list aside to his new officer, he points to a name on the list, underlined and highlighted with yellow. "Take this Senna for example. Eliminate early in the fights, but hardly a waste of time. It seems she is part of the Chaiket family, a martial art family of some importance in Thailand. If she is digging for scraps in the Metro City underworld, she may be worth our time to drag from the gutter. I have my eye on this Layla myself; she is angry, mean-spirited, and seems to have a way with some of our men. I do not know if she is more valuable than Katsuya here, though: he is former Yakuza, and may serve a better officer to me." Duke suddenly grimaces.
"But not all of these are what I would called talented."
Duke points at one of the underlined list. "Like this Varvara; too stupid to realize how the tournament works, but still manages to show up and disrupt fights. She ruined one of our better matches with some Mick type. Still, Edi. E has given us his top recommendation for them, and promises to take some of YOUR boys out if you get them in." Duke shakes his head at the dossier, rolling his eyes. "Or this Roland; some obnoxious cripple who thinks he is a cowboy. I don't even think he will be worth your time." The crime boss hands the list and dossier to his Jamaican lieutenant, so much more than a mere minion now. "Losers, idiots, and lowlifes, desperate for anything to prove meaning in their lives."
"In other words, prime material for Mad Gear."
The myriad folders are taken by Damnd, who handles them as if he's somewhat baffled by the whole idea. Duke is rather more organized in terms of paper and such; the Jamaican giant never bothers with records for many reasons, primarily that he can't be bothered. Unsurprisingly, he focuses most of his attention on the photos of the female fighters. "Anyone will pass for muscle. Long as they show up to the right spot and brawl. Heh! So I sift through the chaff, is that it? Fine. Just don't regret it if a gem falls through, ya?" The folders are set atop the grill of the barbecue. This rapidly turns out to be a bad idea, as they swiftly burst into flames. A bit of awkward patting fails to curtail the damage, and Damnd just kind of casually shuts it as black, acrid smoke pours out the sides. "...I memorized them." he lies. Well, it probably won't be an issue. He gets things done; although he's charismatic and straightforward, nobody can claim Damnd isn't a bit thick in the head...
Duke pauses a moment, considering if it was worth it to regret the entire arrangement, as the dossier goes up in smoke.
He eventually settles against it.
Taking a deep breath in, he exhales. "Good. I expect a quota from you. You better get me 100 men within one week, Damnd. Damned good men." Duke grips his cane, and looks at Damnd with a threatening glower. "I have placed a great deal of responsibility on you, Damnd. Do not let me regret it." The crime boss turns his back on Damnd, beginning to leave, before pausing. "And one last thing." He adds, the memories of his meeting with Mature returning to him. 62.5 Million dollars. The quota of the price to fund his own private war. A painfully expensive war. The drug money drifts to his mind. "I expect twice as money from your drug trade as well within one week, too."
And with that, Duke takes his leave.
Log created on 18:04:18 05/22/2013 by Duke, and last modified on 21:09:58 05/22/2013.