Den of Thieves (2018)

They called themselves, The Machine. 

Precise. Violent. Ruthless.

The scourge of the city.

They didn’t bother with pretending to dress nicely, like criminals in a film.

No suits. No hiding. No illusions or allusions to something honourable or respectful.

This was a war, and they were the apex predators.

And in any war, like any fighter, they dressed accordingly.

Head to toe, they looked like a professional military fighting force.

Black long sleeved garments, cargo pants, heavy protective plate carriers, war-belts and open carry holsters.

They were a SWAT Team, armed to the teeth with assault rifles, pistols, breaching shotguns and dozens of cable ties.

The only difference were their masks. All criminals needed a mask.

Each of them, had a unique all steel ballistic face mask.

The leader was Clown.

A garish mixture of red, white and blue. Red lips and tears streaked down and past the jolly red nose, staining the ghostly pale white face. Blue shadows were sprayed around the eyes. Tragic and terrifying.

The medic was Roman.

Solid gold, it cut a stoic expression, with narrow eyes slits, a patrician nose and expressionless lips. It featured curls atop, to mimic hair and ridges that resembled a legionnaire’s cheek shields. Inscrutable and indomitable.

The support was Oni.

A visage of the Japanese underworld, the mask was sheer obsidian with red accents. Scarlet short stout horns curled towards the sky from the top of the mask, that contrasted the large flared onyx nose, and gave prominence to the large mouth, with flared crimson tusks. Demonic and dangerous.

The scout was Alien.

An elongated heart shape, with an over-sized forehead, the mask was a gradient of midnight blue to jet black, with the darkest part of the mask ending at the chin. The eyes were two diagonal tear-drops that glowed a night vision green and occasionally thermal white. Fear-inducing and frightening.

No one knew where they had come from, or how they got all their equipment. They left no traces of their identity anywhere. The countless shell casings were all devoid of prints. The boot prints only indicated their size. Witnesses couldn’t even place their voices, because they used voice modulators.

They moved and behaved like a former Special Forces unit, but all leads concerning their identities died, the moment queries started. No one was listed as missing, killed or having gone rogue. All men were accounted for in the military. None of the branches had any clue who these men were.

Even attempts to track their movements fizzled out. The police found themselves  getting desperate. They shook down prostitutes, drug dealers, other thieves … none of the major gangs knew who this crew was. Whoever they were, they didn’t associate themselves with the riff-raff.

They were exceptional professionals, disciplined to a fault, and tactful enough not to boast about their exploits. These men left no trace except their name and signature at the start of every robbery.

Every single witness reported the same speech, whispered about the same monotone delivery, and the instant fear it bought upon deliverance.

“Good Evening ladies and gentlemen … 

We are the Machine. We are here for money, not lives.

You are to be restrained and immobilised. If you are experiencing distress, breathe and relieve yourself on the spot. 

Everything in these premises is insured, so you will not lose anything. The system will provide. 

If you allow the Machine to do its work, you will be unharmed. 

Interfere, and this will occur.”

Witnesses would report that at the end, the Clown would execute the cuffed security guard on the spot, with three shots. Two to the torso. One to the head.

Screams would emit throughout the bank and several hostages would faint on the spot. No one would try to be a hero. Hostages wet themselves on the spot. The other security guards felt like doing the same. Managers didn’t resist or ask stupid questions. Complete compliance was ensured.

Every single crime committed by these men ended with a single dead security guard. Every single robbery took place in under 9 minutes, from breach to extraction. Every details of every branch they hit, they knew intimately.

The Machine knew where the vault door was, who the bank manager for the day was, what type of coffee the cashiers liked, the time-locks, the trucks that would deliver the cash, the schools that the daughter of the manager attended … every aspect was covered, every detailed dotted, and every fact checked.

There was a modus operandi. A play-book they never deviated from. Every single survivor report would corroborate it.

Alien would secure and sweep the premises and keep an eye on the response time.

Oni would disable the cameras with quick bursts from his massive machine gun, before training them on the hostages.

Roman would pressure the manager, displaying photos of his family, friends, ex-lovers … and gain access to the vault.

Clown would execute the guard, before securing the hostages phones, and cable tie their hands, then place hoods over their heads.

Then he would leave and begin rifling through the deposit boxes, the vault and prepping the money alongside Roman.

Once everything was complete, all of the best valuables stored away in duffel bags, each member of the team would take one and sling it over their shoulders.

Alien would run out, and secure the car, a nondescript but powerful vehicle that was capable of outrunning any cruiser but never the same make and model as the heist before.

He would pull up, and Oni would fire a long burst from his gun, causing everyone to press their faces even harder into the ground, and the three men would pile into the car and be out, before the squad cars could turn up.

Not a single word would be exchanged between the men. No one would say anything, unless things went wrong. They would let the guns do the talking and Clown to his speech. Actions spoke louder than words.

The only true sounds that would be heard, as they drove away, were the constant screams from the hostages, as they wailed and begged, terrified that they had died after Oni’s machine gun rampage.

It was textbook. It was violent. It was efficient. It was deadly.

And it worked every time.

The only time, it had ever gone wrong, was when there was a pair of squad cars that arrived earlier than they had anticipated.

The resulting firefight was brief. Over in a matter of minutes.

4 officers dead, 240 rounds of ammunition expended. The cars had come away like Swiss cheese, the officers not much better off.

The police had sworn revenge for their fallen brothers and sisters. But no opportunity came.

The Machine was too efficient. Too cautious. Too disciplined to make any error. They had found their groove. Their niche.

Even when a mistake was made, they had come out with superior readiness and firepower.

They were the apex predator in town, and soon the entire city knew it, when robbery after robbery went unpunished.

Security guards application went down. No one wanted to be a statistic after a Machine crime. Banks found themselves seeing more resignation forms than applications.

Which left them more vulnerable.

Copy-cats began to appear everywhere, causing even more work for the police.

Most were sloppy. They didn’t possess the right gear. They weren’t disciplined. They forgot to shoot cameras, confiscate mobile phones, adequately use the right cable ties.

They used cheap guns; home-made shotguns and small calibre pistols. They would spent too long at the scene of the crime, trying to take everything instead of escaping with something.

Most couldn’t kill the security guard. They weren’t ruthless enough to set an early precedent to the rest of the hostages. They weren’t scary enough.

But the deed was done. Bank robberies were now in vogue. Everyone wanted a piece of the action.

Soon discussions were being made, about bank managers being armed, in case of an emergency. This backfired spectacularly, when a manager wounded more hostages than the copy-cat robbers did.

Gun instructors found more ways to make a living in this time of chaos, as more and more people sought their knowledge. Banks began organising training programs and funding support classes for their staff.

One branch even went so far as to simulate a robbery for realistic teaching purposes.

The mayor, desperate to fix his approval ratings, began the slow militarisation of the police. Now officers began to carry heavier firepower in their squad cars.

Shoot-outs between criminals and police reached an all-time high. It reached a tipping point where policemen were doing more property damage than the criminals, with their firepower.

Bystanders got caught in the fray more often.

Then it was gun stores who found themselves out of stock, as people began to believe in their own ability to protect themselves than the law.

A defining example was expressed, at a local small bank in an outskirts neighbourhood to the town, where 3 copy cats came in with stockings over their heads and tried to rob the place. 2 patrons drew their concealed carry pistols and began to fire at the robbers.

Both patrons died, along with one of the criminals, and 3 hostages were wounded in the fray. The other two impersonators died, when the police arrived and opened fire.

It was a time of chaos. Cops grew more and more aggressive as their brethren grew tired of being over-worked, under-appreciated and under-mined. Corruption within the force, an all-time high in the country, shot higher still.

Extra judicial justice was now more and more common. Patrols took bribes more often. Cops started pulling rifles out more than their pistols.

Atop of all this, the Mayor watched as his city tore itself apart. He was furious. The delicate balance that he had worked so hard to maintain between cop and criminal, was now completely erased.

He had played each other against one another and profited from it for so long, but now, the money was drying up. His anger and fury led to poor leadership.

Inefficient governance from the Mayor crippled the town and allowed the Machine to do its work under the cover of anarchy.

And work they did.

Heist after successful heist soon made them millionaires. They could now afford to do one last raid and be financially secure for the rest of their lives.

But the Machine knew that they couldn’t just do any ordinary robbery. It would have to reflect their status as the apex predator. It would have to be a message.

So they bid their time. They stopped taking down small banks and branches. They allowed the copy-cats to sow more discord in the town they had made their own.

The cops were bewildered by their sudden departure.

But they were grateful in a strange way. These men were untouchable. At last, they could salvage something akin to reputation from this mess. The break gave the beleaguered men and women in uniform some confidence back.

Rumours began to spread among the force that the Machine had finally stopped their crime spree.

One outlandish officer claimed he killed them. Another said they had moved on to another country, and began taking down targets there. Even more theories were circulated that the Machine had taken each other out in their greed.

For the Mayor, he didn’t care. This was his chance. He went out and claimed a victory for the city without truly announcing that they had actually caught the Machine robbers.

Now, he claimed, they could focus on the real crime.

The Mayor went into fanatic leader mode. He diverted even more money to the police force and began to ignore and overlook certain cases that were too brutal.

In every press conference and media outlet, the Mayor promised to be tough on crime. He swore that he would regain control of this town. Affirmed that he was the boss. Vowed to bring justice back.

Soon the police were cracking down hard on all types of banks. They reduced their response time from 10 minutes to 6 minutes. They came armed and ready. Countless copy-cats were arrested and many more killed in this moment of reprieve.

The city could breathe again. The Mayor could breathe again, with tributes pouring in from criminals and policemen alike, adding zeros to his account. Things were beginning to be normal again.

The Machine merely noted all these improvements and continued their preparation for their final heist. The end-all signature on their legendary chapter.

Their target was now the Mayor.

This had always been the plan from the get go.

The Machine against the System.

There were 4 common links among the men of the Machine.

Each had been presumed KIA (Killed In Action) by their respective foreign military and sought refuge in a foreign land. Only Clown belonged to the country that they had bought terror to.

Each man had grown to love the country they had adopted. But the flaws and lack of governance had become all too apparent after years of settlement. Every single one of them had conducted multiple types of vigilantism justice after a crime touched them. All of them had lambasted and blamed the Mayor for years about the corruption.

Each had lost all their relatives or contact with them, since their last military action. None had any strings that held them to any part of society. But that didn’t stop them from looking out for their families from afar.

And each man had his own personal score to settle with the Mayor.

Oni blamed him letting a murderer free, after he killed Oni’s niece.

Roman had lost his only daughter in an understaffed hospital.

Alien was a direct and tragic consequence of immigration laws.

The biggest grievance however, belonged to Clown.

Clown knew that the Mayor was responsible for his “death”. A former squadmate who had betrayed Clown’s squad and left them for dead in the desert.

A traitor who used his “tragic” story to win sympathy and votes and gain control of a city, where he had run it into the ground with his corruption. Clown and the men of the Machine were a direct consequence of the Mayor’s corruption and incompetence.

Each member of the Machine crew, were completely focused on the Mayor. It was he, who was responsible for their actions.

It was all on the hands of the Mayor. The Machine was merely life’s response to the system the Mayor had created.

The robberies, the new-found riches, was mere compensation for these men who had lost so much and wanted to build anew.

Outside of the robberies, the four men barely spoke to each other. Their native languages were too diverse from each other, but years of military training had taught them basic commands.

And that was all they needed. Each knew of each other’s story, but privately considered it insignificant to their own personal tale. However such justification didn’t matter when taking a score together. All that mattered was that each member was aware of his job and were to execute it well.

To take down the Mayor, they were going to have to make it past a veritable platoon of  bodyguards, not least of all, take into consideration the Mayor’s past as a soldier.

Clown had dismissed that idea. The man was soft. Spineless. If he was a true soldier, he would not have betrayed Clown’s squad.

The others nodded in agreement.

In addition, terrain was on their side. The Mayor had purchased an ultra-modern forest retreat that was situated well away from the town that he governed.

A beautiful and stylish house, the retreat featured a large clearing surrounding it and a nearby private lake, that generated a moody mist that enveloped the entire area.

Tall pines and birch on hilltops, surrounded the compound, with a single road that lead to a major highway to the town, some 6 miles away.

A security booth was situated at the road, to allow the police to check visitors and there was a permanent sniper’s nest for the Mayor’s bodyguards to use.

An expensive speedboat was docked at the lonely pier, and there was even a private helicopter pad that allowed the Mayor to park his private black and white McDonnell Douglas MD-900.

All in all, it would be challenging for the Machine to infiltrate and kidnap the Mayor, especially when he had three potential escape routes ready to go at any given time.

But to finally retire, the Machine had to go through with this. There was simply no other way they could walk away, knowing that the Mayor was still running the city, and sitting atop 200 million dollars worth of illicit sales, bribes and dirty information.

Money that would secure the men’s future until death.

Information that would protect them from any reprisal.

Bribes that would loosen any obstacle that stood in their way.

It was the perfect score.

It was to be a whole month after the city had died down that the Machine finally got its gears moving again.

When the hour of final raid came, it was twilight and the sky was beginning to darken and soften into black.

In the Machine’s safe-house, Oni, Alien and Roman were quietly nursing beers, wrapped in their thoughts.

Oni, sitting silently on the couch, his huge frame taking up half the space, stared at the TV, allowing the visual and noise to wash over him like ambient distractions.

Alien was contemplating the dart board, with multiple knives embedded in the centre bullseye, wondering if he could pin another one.

Roman was hunched over the kitchen table, scratching his chin and staring at the sudoku puzzle that Oni had designed for him, only reaching for his beer once he solved a line.

As Alien threw the knife, Oni switched channels on the TV and Roman solved a square, they all heard the sounds of sirens nearing.

Oni reached under the large coffee table in front of him, and drew out a large assault rifle, standing up to his full frame and aiming it squarely at the door.

Roman and Alien, both drew pistols from their waistbands and stood to the sides of the door, their weapons held close to their chest, ready to engage.

The sirens came closer, and closer, before dying out and disappearing.

Relieved, the men lowered their weapons and were surprised when the door was opened and a man in uniform stood there.

Oni, his reflexes the fastest, snapped the heavy rifle up and was about to send two to the head, when he recognised Clown.

Scowling, Oni safetied the weapon and lowered it, motioning to the others that it was OK.

Clown made a mute gesture of apology and gestured to them to ready up.

The time had come.

A month of reparation and training was about to come to fruition.

Upon being given the green light, none of the men smiled or showed any emotion. Instead, they silently padded back to their room, where they began to change and kit-up.

Dark woodland camouflage long sleeved shirts and pants came on, with Alien slipping on extra camouflage scrim and netting to hide his body better. Whilst the others looked ready for war, Alien looked ready to hunt.

Each man tugged their body vests tight around their torso and checked their holsters for fit.

A variety of pistols were slammed into hips, and each man chose their favourite weapon;

Clown with his assault rifle, Roman opting for a nimbler submachine gun, Oni hefting a huge machine gun, and Alien slinging a sniper rifle across his back.

Clown made sure his police uniform was easily torn off in case of an emergency and waited for his men.

In their only ritual, they came together in the living space and presented to each other their masks. Each man would whisper a brief battlefield prayer in their native tongue, before ceremoniously putting their masks over their heads together, as a unit.

Clown led them to the police car that he had stolen and killed for, and they piled in, and silently waited through the long drive to the outskirts of the town they owned.

Amber lights flashed across their masks, as suburbia began to flatten out, landscape,  away from the skyscrapers and high-rises of the central business district.

Looking out, the men saw houses that showcased ordinary men, women and children living together. Some were watching TV, others had a man and his child playing baseball; there was even a couple making out on the couch, their window left open for all the world to see.

Domestic bliss.

The sanctity of a home. The comfort of the ordinary.

Clown, Roman, Oni and Alien stared out, reminded of a quote that they had heard bastardised many times in their military career:

“People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”

Tonight, the Mayor’s sleep would experience such rough men ready to do violence.

It was nearly 3 hours later, when the houses became sparse and the tall trees more abundant, that Clown began to slow the car down.

He was now taking his time, using the police side-mounted headlamp to scan the dense forestry, eyes peeled for the marker he had placed for Alien.

Spotting it, a surreptitiously placed discarded Coke bottle that leaned against a tree, he signalled for Alien to bail out.

Alien kicked open the door, and whilst the car was still moving at a good clip, half-stepped and half-ran out, his sniper rifle unslung in his arms, disappearing into the dark woodland in less than 5 seconds.

Clown kept going, circling around the Mayor’s compound, looking for the last Coke bottle. Upon its discovery, Oni leapt out, his huge frame hugging his precious machine gun and he ran up the hills, letting the darkness take him.

Roman looked at Clown and they both synchronised their watches, for 20 minutes and both men settled in for the wait, Clown tearing off his police uniform and getting comfortable. Neither men spoke, as they waited by the side of the road.

~

Alien crept through the woods, grateful for the thick mist that was rolling off the lake and providing even more difficult visibility for the sniper nest.

If Clown was correct in his recon, Alien would be coming up directly behind the nest, his job being to secure it and then provide cover for the rest of the team and prevent any escape routes from being used.

The nest was situated on the right side of the lake, closest to the road, to allow the sniper team to cover their VIP en route to the road if the police checkpoint was taken down.

With the retreat situated directly in the middle, the nest was at a relatively high elevated position, almost level with the second storey of the compound, giving the team incredible overwatch over the surroundings and into the building itself.

Alien, aware that there were most likely traps surrounding the nest itself, placed each boot carefully in front of the other, his sense attuned and alert, paranoid about every sound and any movement he could see.

As he moved from tree to tree, creeping ever so closer, he kept scanning his surroundings, his caution paying off when he saw a thin wire run at ankle height between two trees.

Scowling in concentration, Alien followed the wire with his eyes and saw a large Claymore mine staring back at him.

Noting the small metal hook that stretched the wire, he carefully lifted the hook and slowly spooled it back, and stepping into the safe area, behind the Claymore before slightly shifting the angle of the mine and attaching it to an area that would protect his flank if there were any counter-attacks.

Knowing that he was in the right area, Alien kept moving, now in a low crouch, his footsteps silent in the dense undergrowth.

Every few steps forward, Alien would touch the side of his mask, turning the world from night green to thermal white, and scan the floor and trees, unsure if the snipers would be above or below.

His patience was rewarded, when he saw a dark spot in his thermal vision, on the ground not some 10 metres away from him. Flipping over to his night vision, he saw 2 pairs of feet, lying face down in front of him, camouflage netting covering them.

Taking out his suppressed pistol, Alien scanned around to do a final check, to make sure there were no sentries, and that these men had truly only used a Claymore to protect their rear, Alien walked up to the two mounds that were meant to be men, and without hesitation fired four shots, two into each of their heads.

Shoving the bodies aside, Alien settled into their warm sniper pad, and pulled their netting over him, and taking the dead spotter’s night vision binoculars, began scanning over the lake for Oni.

Oni, having encountered no resistance to his side, was approaching from the left side of the lake.

It was his job to take the brunt of the fire. He would find an appropriate spot, suppress the house, draw fire and hope that Alien would take over multiple targets as they came out to attack Oni. Once the initial attack stopped, he would help Alien engage any escape vehicles and be support for Clown and Roman if they needed it.

With a small army of 30 men, the Mayor was extremely well protected, his paranoia about his crimes and corruption evident by the type of men he chose.

They were your standard ex-cop, ex-infantry private contractors. Cheap, disposable and in plentiful supply. They understood basic tactics and were disciplined enough against the criminals that the mayor feared. But push them against the Machine and they would crumble.

The Mayor slept upstairs, with a bevy of prostitutes that he enjoyed soliciting and having fun with, on all his woodland retreats. In the rooms next to him, were his quartet of most trusted and dangerous bodyguards, who were all ex-SWAT officers.

It was Oni and Alien’s job to try and eliminate those first.

The lights of the house shone over the lake, shimmering the water and creating a warm glow.

Oni crawled over the hill and settled down behind the sights of his machine gun and checked his watch. There was still 5 minutes to go. Looking over at where the supposedly sniper nest was, he pressed his radio once and heard a reply squawk. Relieved that the first part of the operation was smooth, Oni squinted his eyes through the tiny red dot and superimposed it onto a security man’s head at the docks.

Clown and Roman waited until the very second that the 20 minute mark ticked over before beginning to flash the lights on the squad car and driving off the highway and into the road that led to the back of the retreat and the police checkpoint.

Oni and Alien saw the sirens light up the forest and began to control their breathing, their feet plush into the leaves and grass of the forest, the cold steel of their guns resting against their masks’ cheeks.

The policeman at the checkpoint, stared at the flashing lights, thought about calling it in, but decided against it and waved the squad-car forward.

Clown lowered his window and the policeman’s eyes widened in shock, before feeling three thuds across his chest.

Clown kept the car moving forwards and Roman flicked off the lights, as they pulled up to the front door of the house.

From above, the head bodyguard, a tall ex-sergeant from an elite SWAT team stared down at the car, and frowned when one of his trusted men shook his head at the radio.

Scowling, he grabbed his rifle from a locker and signalled to the rest to get ready.

Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta.

Simple, smart, and efficient names. They had a combined 15 years of experience in SWAT teams, and many more as regular patrol officers. They had fought cartels, gang-bangers, angry and abusive husbands and mobs. They were hardened fighters, used to street violence, and not above taking a lot of money on the side.

These men were the thugs of any police force, gangster cops that could be expected to take the dirtiest jobs, the highest bribes, and employ the most violent methods.

There was nothing more they loved than a good fight. The Mayor offered them plenty. Political opponents, high-ranking lieutenants, journalists … all were removed at the Mayor’s whim. These men were the foundation of the Mayor’s power, the extension of his will and guardians of the system.

Modern day Praetorians.

Alpha was Clown’s counterpart, a burly, tough and brutal man, whose face was scarred by a cartel bomb years ago.

Bravo was Roman’s analogue. Stout, muscular and possessing skilled hands, Bravo was callous in his application of medication, preferring to twist his knowledge in interrogation techniques.

Oni’s twin was Charlie. Equally big. Equally terrifying. A hulking mass of a man that could bulldoze his way through doors as if he was knocking over a vase. He stood at over 2 metres tall, and once shrugged off a small calibre pistol shot to the chest as if it was an bee sting.

Delta equalled Alien. Wiry, small, sneaky and playful with a knife. He was an expert hand to hand combatant, once taking out 5 gang-bangers who cornered him in an alleyway with just his knife. He adored serrated steel and relished any opportunity to wield it.

Just as Alpha aimed his rifle at the squad car, and his men were slapping on their vests, a single crack split the silence of the night.

What followed was chaos and fear, as machine gun fire streaked across the upper floor of the house and terrace, and shattered windows splintered and showered glass fragments everywhere.

Oni, keeping his finger poised and steady, watched as bright red streaks from tracer rounds flew from the barrel of his gun and laced their way across the back lawn and into flesh, as security guards ran out, guns up, only to be flung backwards by the heavy bullets.

Oni kept up the suppression, the heavy kick of the gun, barely registering in his shoulder, lacing round after round across and around the lawn and house, sighting muzzle flashes and punching bullets into cover, watching men reel back as metal, glass and wooden splinters entered their face and hands.

From across the pond, Alien heard the frantic radio calls from the Praetorian guards as they tried to reach the two corpses next to him. Ignoring them, Alien blew on his trigger finger, and swivelled his sniper rifle onto a man’s head, who was gesturing wildly at the woods, to his team-mates and felt the gentle kick in his shoulders as he pulled the trigger.

The man’s head snapped sickeningly hard and propelled the body into the ground, the dead fingers working the trigger of his gun, spraying rounds in a crazed cartwheel of death.

Several of his compatriots screamed and dove to the ground, where Alien’s crosshairs followed them and stilled them.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the house, Clown saw Alpha’s rifle up at the window and sprayed a burst, through the windshield of the squad car, Roman mirroring his movement, as they kicked open the door of their car and ran to the front entrance of the house.

A hail of bullets smashed through the front doors, splintering wood and causing Roman and Clown to take cover on either side of the door.

Inside, Charlie was laying it on thick, with his assault rifle, as Alpha grabbed the Mayor’s shoulders and with Bravo covering them both with his body, the three of them moved from the upper floor to the lower, as Delta scouted ahead of the three, flicking his weapon left, right, centre and up, down, searching for targets.

Charlie continued firing into the front entrance, until he saw the four of them go past him and into the kitchen where there was another staircase to go below the porch. Peeling off, he narrowly just avoided the counter-fire from Roman and Clown, as they kicked open the door and stitched gunfire across the corners of the room.

Holding for a moment, Roman nodded to Clown about the upstairs floor, and Clown pressed his radio.

Alien heard the radio squawk, and scanned the mostly glass upper floor, noting dispassionately the trio of dead women that Oni had killed in his initial machine gun burst. Scowling, he sighted one more man hiding behind a closet, his gun jutting out from behind the cover.

Pulling the trigger, he shot the man once through the head, and followed it up with two more through the chest as the body fell forwards, blood erupting violently and splashing the wall.

Satisfied there was no-one else, Alien gave a signal back and began eyeing targets on the lawn, most of whom were lying in puddles of blood.

Of the initial 30 men, 12 of them laid in pools of blood. The others had retreated to the darkened interior of the house, where they refused the orders to go back out.

Alpha stared out from the basement of the house, and looked at the simpering man next to him, and disgust entered his mind. Looking away, he stared out and knew that his sniper team was dead.

The main road was blocked.

Only the helicopter, and the boat were the two viable escape options. If they weren’t shot up. Luckily the pilot was still alive, bunking in the basement having saved his life.

But in order to reach them, he needed to remove the sniper.

Looking across at his squad and the remaining 14 men, Alpha pulled Delta close and whispered to him.

Delta nodded tersely, with the beginnings of a confident smile emerging on his face. Motioning for 3 men to follow him, Delta snuck away, and disappeared into the darkness of the night.

Repositioning the rest of the men, he strategically situated them in rooms all around the basement floor. Some stared out glass doors, at the tempting lake, whilst others got comfortable laying prone on the floor, staring at the doorway.

Bravo chose a choke point that if Clown and Roman came down, they would have to confront a three prong assault, tackling the hallway to their rear as they came down the staircase, or dealing with the two doors in front.

In addition, Alpha and Charlie were in the room adjacent to the staircase, ready to shoot right through banisters and railing, with a door behind them ready to exit.

Clown and Roman stared down the staircase, knowing that it was a trap. The gunfire had ceased and receded into silence, and they had found no one on the ground floor.

Pressing his radio, Clown awaited for confirmation from Oni, before looking at Roman. Together, they unhooked 4 grenades and slowly crept down the staircase until they were level with the first gap in the railing.

Pulling the pins, Clown tossed his pair to the two rooms in front, while Roman stuffed his down the hallway.

Sprinting back up, as gunfire roared and nipped at their boots, Clown and Roman surged back out the front entrance and Roman waited by the front door, while Clown went at a full sprint towards the rear of the house, hoping to cut off any runners with Oni.

Oni had already moved forwards and positioned his machine gun at the likely enfilade angle and saw Clown peer around the corner of the house, as they both heard yells and shouts and the sounds of hurried movement.

Just a nano-second before the explosions and frag shattered everything, Oni could have sworn he saw bright flashes at the sniper nest.

But it was forgotten, as he saw a man his size smash through a glass door, along with 7 other men, three of which were crouched and running as fast as they could.

Oni aimed his weapon and mowed 4 of them down instantly, bodies shuddering as bullets tore through them.

But the big one was still up and he roared and returned fire, charging straight at Oni.

Oni ducked for cover, as the rounds pinged through his machine gun, one of them cutting through his bicep, as he scrabbled at the ground, trying to hide.

The fire stopped as abruptly as it started and Oni tore at his leg, drawing his pistol, as Charlie appeared over the brim and with his empty rifle, clubbed at Oni, smacking away the sidearm.

Oni rolled to his feet and the two massive men stared at each other, before settling into defensive poses, Charlie adopting a boxer’s poise, while Oni hunched into a defensive jiu-jitsu stance.

Clown’s eyes widened in shock as he saw the two of them settle into their stances, but by then, the Mayor, and Alpha had reached the helicopter, the pilot desperately trying to spin up the rotors.

Emptying his magazine into the helicopter cockpit, which soon became splattered with the blood of the pilot, Clown ran forwards, towards his revenge, his pistol outstretched, the slide rocking back and forth as round after round entered the helicopter.

Elsewhere, just before the grenades had gone off, Bravo had recognised the distinctive noises and charged headlong up the stairs, screaming and firing in desperation, and colliding head-first into Roman.

Both men fell to the ground, as the explosion rocked the house and placed all the defenders out of commission except for the Praetorians and the Machine.

Scrambling back, both men went for their pistols and began firing wildly at each other, not truly aiming, just squeezing the trigger as fast as their fingers would allow. On their backs, and wriggling from side to side as bullets impacted near and on them, they looked like bizarre break dancers, desperate to avoid death.

Blood immediately began to pour, as surface wounds appeared across both men’s arms and legs, before together they ran out of ammunition.

Exhausted and desperate, Bravo pulled out a surgical knife from his chest rig and threw it at Roman, who caught it square in the face.

His head snapped back, and laid still.

Moments passed, before eerily, Roman sat back up, the knife sticking out of his stoic, expressionless mask.

He pulled the knife out, and Bravo opened his mouth to scream, but were unable to find the sounds, as the knife entered his throat and blocked them from coming out.

Groaning, Roman fumbled for his pistol, managing to just slam in a reload and angrily shoot Bravo three more times, before slumping back, clutching at his arms and legs and pressing the radio three times, to indicate his wounded state.

~

Alien heard the distress call, above the sounds of a man choking to death, his death rattle emptying into Alien’s ear. Rolling off to the side, he released the choke-hold on the man he had caught trying to ambush him and ducked as an explosion went off near him, the Claymore mine shredding the two men who dared to set it off.

Alien looked around, his senses nearly overloading him, as he stared through his mask, scanning around furiously.

As he stepped around, he suddenly tripped and the movement saved his life, as Delta rushed from the shadows, his arms outstretched, knife in hand.

Grabbing nothing but air, and tripping over Alien, as he kicked out his feet, Delta lashed out with the knife and narrowly missed stabbing Alien’s head.

Rolling away, Alien pushed himself up and drew his own knife.

Both men stared down at each other, weaving their knives slowly, their hand movements like snakes eyeing down threats, jabbing forward with terrifying speed.

Circling one another, Alien felt fear and adrenaline coursing through his body.

Delta, with a serious grimace across his face, lunged forwards with a yell.

Alien side-stepped and blocked the knife-hand sweeping in towards his stomach. Turning his torso, he let Delta in closer to him, to prevent him from getting distance, and stabbed down hard with his own knife.

However, Delta, reading his intentions, jerked backwards and spun around in Alien’s grip, breaking free and stepping away.

Both men took deep breaths, and charged in again.

Like mirror images, Delta’s support hand grasped Alien’s knife hand, with Alien mimicking the same defensive move.

They stood still, like statues, tense sinews and strained muscles, fighting each other, unwillingly to give up pressure. Desperate to avoid death and the killing move that would follow. Alien stared through the night vision green to scan Delta’s eyes, who showed immense concentration.

Suddenly remembering his advantage, Alien swiftly shifted the pressure down, instead of up, and Delta buckled, as the Alien mask smashed the bridge of his nose, stunning him.

Reeling back, Alien cut away at Delta’s knife hand, causing him to drop it, before severing the man’s armpit and then slicing out the tendon at the ankle.

Delta, his legs splayed out and on his knees, stared up at the Alien that was going to kill him.

Burying the knife back of Delta’s neck, and slicing through, Alien watched as the blood poured out and stood back, as the body fell forward limply into the dirt.

Gasping slightly, he picked up his rifle again and aimed through the scope, desperate to get back into the fight.

~

Down at the lake, Oni and Charlie mirrored the fight at the sniper nest.

Charlie was throwing punch after punch, with Oni ducking and weaving, his huge mass slowing him down, as he tried to get close the distance.

Their styles were radically different.

Oni needed to defend and tackle Charlie onto the ground, before he took too much damage from Charlie’s powerful boxing moves.

He had already absorbed too many jabs, grateful that he mostly just had to protect his face and throat, as he could rely on his chest rig to soften body hits. Even with his mask softening the hits, the force was immense.

Oni was also desperately trying to read Charlie’s moves, to avoid the devastating uppercuts that could end the fight.

He kept his elbows up, hands out, blocking and ducking like a madman under the onslaught.

In the end, when the fight wasn’t going your way, it was time to improvise.

Oni saw his damaged machine gun on the ground behind Charlie and began to subtly move him towards it.

Charlie, focused too much on landing satisfying punches, kept up the flow. A jab to the right, followed by a feint, that transformed into a straight left. Haymaker that he knew would miss, but could follow it up with 2 jabs into Oni’s chest and then a big swing into the side of his head.

Only the final swing didn’t occur, because he stepped into Oni’s machine gun, breaking his concentration, and Oni immediately rushed forwards, wrapped his arms around Charlie’s legs and swept him onto the ground.

Charlie’s eyes buckled as Oni wrapped his legs around his torso and squeezed them together in a vice like grip. Charlie desperately tried to punch at Oni’s face, but with his movement limited and with most of the power coming from the hips, the punches were ineffectual and beginning to weaken under the immense pressure that Oni was applying to him.

Feeling Charlie was close to a blackout, Oni squeezed even harder, and heard a sickening crack as Charlie’s spinal cord snapped and immediately resistance went limp and weak.

Holding on for just a few more seconds, Oni stumbled away from Charlie, sweating profusely, his breathing, ragged and raspy. Picking up his discarded pistol, Oni walked over to Charlie and delivered a coup de grace to the back of his head, before sinking to his knees in exhaustion, staring at Clown.

~

With the helicopter destroyed, the pilot killed, Alpha was forced to move the Mayor down to the docks. The final option. Everything had gone completely wrong, even in his protection duty, as the Mayor had gotten hit in the leg by Clown’s pistol fire.

Half carrying the limping Mayor, Alpha gritted his teeth in anger, and fired his pistol back at Clown, who took two to the chest, dropping him hard onto the floor.

Gasping for breath, Clown shuddered as he opened up the chest rig and pulled the ceramic plates from beneath to stop the huge deformation of the rounds from pressuring his body.

Rolling off to the side, as more pistol fire slammed into the ground near him, Clown reattached the chest rig correctly and got into a crouch, his eyes watering from the pain.

Cursing, he saw that the Mayor was already in the speedboat at the pier, and tried to fire his pistol, except he couldn’t see the sights through his blurry vision.

Struggling upwards, Clown got to his feet and tried to rub his eyes, only to touch his mask.

Shaking his head instead, he cleared the tears, dropped the magazine in the pistol, racked the slide and pressed on, cold fury in his eyes.

Alpha saw him move down and fired at him, as behind him, the Mayor struggled to operate the speedboat through the pain in his leg. Above the gunfire, Alien looked through his scope and finally settling his breathing, centered the crosshairs on the boat itself, and began firing methodically.

Bullets ripped themselves into the control panel, causing sparks and the Mayor to shriek in pain, and duck for cover in the boat. The engine spluttered and sparked as rounds after round continue to slam into the boat.

Alpha, realising what was happening, dove off the side of the boat and towards the docks, where he pulled himself up, just as Clown came charging down and drove them both into the lake.

Alien looked up and swore under his breath, and remembered the distress call. Coldly speaking over the radio to Oni, he told him to head over to Roman and see to his wounds, as he continued to suppress the Mayor, hoping Clown was alright.

In the dark water, Clown and Alpha struggled together, their arms clutched in each other’s chest rigs. The cog in the Machine, against the elite of the system.

Seeing Alpha’s pistol come out, Clown let go and scrambled away, watching as the pistol barked underwater and the bullet coming towards him, only to drop suddenly off, robbed of its momentum.

Seeing the pistol run dry, Clown swam for the surface, taking a quick breath, before Alpha pulled his leg under. Opening his eyes in the murky water, Clown punched Alpha in the groin, and watched as he reeled back.

Taking out his knife, Clown stabbed at Alpha, only to get kicked in the face as Alpha tried to get away.

Losing his grip, he made for the surface again and saw that Alpha had begun swimming for the pier. Swearing, Clown did the same and go to the pier, just as Alpha had climbed up and was spinning back around, trying to reload his pistol.

Boosting himself up, Clown grabbed the Alpha by the chest and threw him back into the water. Taking a massive breath, Clown dove down and this time, stabbed manically through the water, slashing at anything that resembled Alpha’s form.

Alpha screamed as his arms took the brunt of the attack. His training was trying to kick in, to remind him to keep up his defence, but by then the terrifying Clown mask was so close that terror took hold of him.

Clown stabbed the knife into Alpha’s chest, and strangled him savagely with the other, watching as large air bubbles erupted from the mouth, mute with horror and fear. He kept going, working the blade methodically, tightening his grip on the neck until finally the last gaggle of bubbles came billowing out, and the eyes turned glassy.

Bursting through the surface again, Clown swam back to the pier and exhausted, hauled himself onto the sand, lying flat on his face, dead to the world.

~

It seemed ages later that Alien came running down, and began slamming his fists into Clown’s chest, waking him. Clown struggled up and went mute with horror for a second, when he saw a Roman, a Demon and an Alien stare at him, before recovering and remembering where he was.

Getting up, Clown saw that the Mayor was zip-cuffed to a lawn chair and was pleading with his eyes, his mouth having been stuffed with his own socks.

Looking over at the Machine, his squad, they nodded and Oni handed him a knife.

Clown remembered the speech, that he had rehearsed and reaching under the mask, he deactivated the voice modulator.

“Good Evening Mayor … 

We are the Machine. We are here for money, and your life. 

You have been restrained and immobilised. If you are experiencing distress, breathe and relieve yourself on the spot. 

Everything in these premises is now ours. Nothing you own is sacred to you any-more. The system no longer exists for a man like you. Only the Machine will spare you any attention.

If you allow the Machine to do its work, you will be spared further pain. 

Interfere, and this will occur.”

Clown punctuated the speech with a swift knife into the Mayor’s thigh and dismissing the muffled scream, pulled out a pen and paper from his chest rig and wrote the word “PASSWORD.” in block letters.

Ripping the socks away, the Mayor began spilling out all his secrets, Oni standing by with a tape recorder, whilst Clown wrote them down.

Once he had finished, the Mayor slumped in his chair, exhausted, staring dully at the knife that stood out from his thigh.

“I just want to know one thing before I die. Who the fuck are you guys.” he murmured.

Clown tucked away the notepad and pen in a waterproof sleeve. Raising the mask briefly, he stared into the Mayor’s eyes.

“You! You …”

The Clown sealed his mask shut and stepped back.

Roman, Clown, Oni and Alien stood side by side, as the Mayor looked up at them.

The Machine drew their pistols as a unit, and fired together.

4 bullets. 4 attempts at redemption that had been destroyed. 4 men that had been turned into something else, something mechanical.

Turning around, the Machine walked towards the house, to their prize among the dead, silent and emotionless, their masks betraying nothing of how they felt inside.

Author’s Note:

Quite easily the longest story I have ever written in a single sitting, clocking in at around 8400 words.

I started it yesterday, taking a break around the 1500 words mark, before finishing it off today at 10.30pm. in between serving customers at work and taking breaks here and there.

The inspiration for this, mostly came from the film Den of Thieves (2018) which to me, was a decent attempt to pay homage to the legendary film Heat (1995).

I used the basis of extremely violent, highly trained thieves, and originally wanted to describe a bank robbery, but it ended up turning a lot more interesting and reminiscent of the 007 short story by Ian Fleming, For Your Eyes Only which I stole the entire basis of a cabin retreat, surrounded by dense forestry and a lake.

If you are struggling to imagine what the retreat look like, I took inspiration from the film Gone Girl (2014) when crafting together the overall look of the Mayor’s home. In particular, I referenced Desi Collings’ cabin retreat, where Amy seeks refuge.

Obviously for the Machine, I didn’t really intend for it to be about how the “system” failed these men, but I needed a recurring theme as to why these men were so driven, so ruthless in how they operated and performed in bank robberies.

This was also inspired by why in fiction, you seem to see so many iconic masks for bank robbers but not many other criminals. I don’t really know the reason myself, but I was pondering that question and wanted each member of the team to stand out and have an identity for him.

Clown, was obviously American based, with his colour scheme and the fact that creepy clowns are a very iconic American pop culture reference. His masks resembles that of the clowns in Payday 2 (2013).

Oni, my personal favourite, was Japanese-influenced and meant to be the antithesis of typical Asian depictions, him being the biggest and strongest guy, akin to a sumo wrestler, of the quartet.

Roman, was based on the video game designs seen in Ryse: Son of Rome (2013), in which I also took the idea of Praetorian guards to design the counter-SWAT team for the Mayor and of course the Centurion character in For Honor (2017). Of course, this indicates Italian origins for the character.

Alien’s mask, was actually designed around a custom mask I made in the game Payday 2 (2013), in which it was called Alienware and I made a very similar colour scheme, only the mask’s eyes didn’t glow green or white. He is a rather obvious nod to the US-Mexico border problems.

Another writing technique I tried was seamlessly merging the four separate fights. I don’t think I had ever written anything quite like this, where I was trying to create connective tissues between the 4 different locations, as well as create something unique for them all.

Of the 4, I struggled with describing Alpha and Clown’s fight the most, as trying to make a water fight sound interesting is difficult to pull off, when your vocabulary is limited to words like “splash, swim” etc. I hope what I managed to do, did convey the chaos, but at the end of the day, action … is inherently better suited to film, than writing.

Maybe I should read more Matthew Reilly to get a better understanding of action. I can always visualise his scenes perfectly well, when reading his books.

That’s it for now, I hope you didn’t mind the long read.

Expect some reflective stuff soon.

~ Damocles.

P.S. This is now officially, 9000 words long. Not bad eh?

 

The Guest (2014).

At night I’m driving in your car
Pretending that we’ll leave this town
We’re watching all the street lights fade
And now you’re just a stranger’s dream
I took your picture from the frame
And now you’re nothing like you seem
Your shadow fell like last night’s rain

For the last time …. 

(Lyrics taken from Chromatic’s Shadow song)

The melancholy sweet pop song wafted through the air of the apartment room, the atmosphere changing where Adam was sitting down, his eyes glued to the screen. He watched as an attractive brunette sat down at her dressing table, her bare face ready for the night out.

Clad in a crimson silk bath robe, that still showcased her wet skin from the shower, Adam stared intently at the laptop, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration, as he tried to pierce through the screen to see what type of brands she was using.

There were dozens of bottles and brushes on her table, and Adam could make out most of them with the zoom feature.

Tom Ford eyeshadow, Chanel No. 5 parfum, Fenty bronzer … the brands and items were expensive and effective at transformation.

The brunette took her time, her already sharp features enhanced, brushstroke by brushstroke, powder by powder, each pencil sketch; a refined definition.

The cheekbones became sharper, the tapered and sharp jaw, even more acute, the shimmering emerald eyes lifted by mascara, the wavy brown locks lined by a hot hair straightener.

Adam felt his breath catch slightly, as the bathrobe came off, and he saw her bare back and buttocks, the long straight legs that seemed to stretch to infinity and the small diamond shaped birthmark on her left thigh.

He watched as she reached up, the long hair falling to the side, revealing a full, shapely breast that was soon covered by a purple lace Agent Provocateur bra. The hips were also soon accented by matching purple high waisted briefs.

Adam felt his breathing coming in shallow and fast, as he beheld the brunette in her purple lingerie, admiring her figure in the full length mirror of her walk-in wardrobe, the marble navel taunt and flat, the long slender arms outstretched above her head, as she pouted and pursed her full red lips.

As she plucked clothes off the rack and tossed them onto her large double bed, Adam also allowed himself to get up and mirror her actions, flipping on the large plasma TV in the centre of the apartment to reflect the laptop’s feed.

Looking down at his phone, he noted the time and flipped his thumbs over to an app, that began to play music from the Bang & Olufsen Beosound Shapes, a rhythmic, pulsating song, The Demon Dance by Julian Winding.

The song throbbed and vibrated the apartment, turning it into a dark twisted fashion show. +

Pleased with the atmosphere, he padded over to his own walk-in wardrobe, and looked at his own collection of exclusive menswear and decided to go with something that would complement the woman’s dress … a Navy Twill O’Connor tuxedo that would contrast the woman’s red Silk Duchesse Pleated Pants and Cotton Velvet Jacket.

Standing at 184 centimetres tall, Adam was the type of person that could be summed up in one word: obsessed. Obsession drove him to success, obsession allowed him to work hours on end without any loss of focus … obsession had given him everything in life, except the perfect arm-piece to bring to cocktail events.

Everything about Adam, signaled intensity. His body was a Michelangelo sculpture, all marbled muscle and virile masculinity, with an equally strong face, that boasted of a strong jawline with a cleft down the middle of the chin and piercing blue eyes that stared out from under tousled, wavy black hair.

Many looked at Adam, like he was the very first and perfect specimen of a male that God had ever created. It wasn’t far from the truth, with his intelligence and ruthless nature an equal match and complement to his physical appearance.

Such looks however, were bought and enhanced by money and a scalpel, and Adam remained conscious of that fact, despite the hundreds of compliments thrown his way, since his life altering surgery.

But his obsessive nature and intelligence were all his, a narcissistic point of pride for him.

Staring at himself in the mirror, he touched his stomach and could only feel hard muscle resisting the pressure. Pleased, he got dressed in the Tom Ford tuxedo and noted with pleasure that the brunette had also finished the final touches to her own Tom Ford outfit, wearing the blazer with only her bra underneath, her enviable collarbone and full bust on display, the bra only just hidden by the button up nature of her velvet jacket.

A hanging diamond necklace came around her neck, as Adam adjusted his black bowtie and dabbed his neck with Giorgio Armarni profumo.

Then, both of them went for their final items, wallets, phones, watches and other essentials. He watched as the brunette dialed in for a Uber, and the door to her apartment close softly behind her, before killing the live feed and heading down to his apartment garage, where a myriad of sports and hypercars awaited him.

Taking a pair of keys off the rack, he turned on a dark carbon black Mclaren P1 and slowly eased the vehicle out of the garage.

They had arranged to meet at one of NYC’s finest restaurants, Daniel and at 6.30pm, Adam parked the Mclaren and got out, at the same time as the brunette. They both smiled at each other, and Adam offered one of his forearms for her to hold, the brunette pursing prettily at him, in recognition of the gentlemanly gesture.

They walked to the revolving front door, all bronze, and dark wood with marble walls, and were shown to their seats, the moment the maitre d’hotel recognised Adam.

Settling in, the brunette glanced around her happily, eager to sample the French cuisine on offer. Adam, waited patiently, rehearsing what he suspected she would order, and was pleased to know his prior research about her was correct.

Adam rolled off his order smoothly, and the rest of the dinner was spent, with Adam confirming what he already knew about the brunette.

Vivienne Lockwood was her full name, a heiress to a luxury cruise company, and well-renowned socialite. She dabbled in the film industry as a producer, and enjoyed a great number of dalliances and social circles.

Both of which had mysteriously shrunken a little in recent times, with several of her male admirers having been taken away on long holidays or her favourite one disappearing at sea.

So she was pleased when she met Adam, a veritable Adonis even among the famous and beautiful of the elite.

What she wasn’t aware of though, was that Adam had been researching her for the past 6 months, a project that had come about from his obsession with her, having once seen her on the spread of a magazine.

For 24 long weeks, Adam had studied her and carefully orchestrated everything to lead up to this moment.

The installation of the security feed in her apartment had been easy. He had gotten his workers to install it, under the pretense that the apartment building was faulty. In addition to a live-feed, there were trackers on her cars and an app on his phone that notified him of any strange deviation in her schedule.

Adam was also hardwired into her social media, frequenting her page regularly to check in on her favourite spots, her regular brunch eateries, her small desires and even her closest friends, which he had done cursory research on, to determine her best friend.

Everything about her was scrutinised and examined under Adam’s unerring inspection. Her online brand, the social media manager of her team, even the fabric of her bed … none of it escaped Adam’s attention.

Aware of her large social circle, Adam didn’t have any hesitation in removing her favourite distraction with a well timed scuba trip and drowning him in the Bahamian waters.

It had been easier than he had expected. With his huge mass, the man barely struggled, and died with minimal resistance, no doubt the huge amount of alcohol in his system contributing to the speed in which he met his demise.

The body was found an entire week later, far out to sea, Adam already back at work in his office, when the news was announced.

It was common for Adam to spend his nights, staring intently at the live feed of Vivienne’s apartment, observing her in her grief, marveling at the way how she writhed whilst masturbating, and watching her in her deepest, darkest and most private moments, sympathising with the times when she talked to her friends or herself as she admitted faults and sins, wishing he could be there for her.

And now, now he was with her, on a proper date, saying and expressing all the right things. Laughing with her, smiling with her … Adam was delirious on this high and wanted to ride it forever.

He wanted to own it, and possess it. Control it and mold it to his liking. He wanted it begging and yearned for it to dominate him.

But patience!

He couldn’t mess things up now. Not when he worked so hard and so long.

So he kept up his appearance, his shield. He was the perfect gentleman, the type of man that Vivienne had told her girlfriends, hundreds of times before. He poured generous amounts of her favourite wine, that he had privately bought to Daniels, hours before their meeting. He laughed at stories that she bought up, even though he was fully aware of their ending, having seen her instagram stories hundreds of times.

Adam was endlessly charming. He knew his best side and rehearsed endlessly how to laugh in multiple ways, from sympathetic chuckles to big booming laughs that showed how much he loved her jokes. All of these actions were calculated and designed to only display his perfect side, the angle of the face that was the most pleasing, photogenic and aesthetically worthy.

Vivienne loved it all. She couldn’t believe that she had finally met the perfect man. She was entirely oblivious to his efforts. They seemed natural. This was her first time meeting a man, who was so effortlessly a man.

The first date could not be going any better. She was determined to see things through to the absolute limits tonight with Adam. She wanted all of him.

He wanted all of her.

When dessert came, Adam took a calculated risk and placed his hands over hers. She responded immediately, caressing his hand back.

From there, the night took on a dream-like quality.

Blurriness overtook the proceedings. Adam was riding such a high, he wasn’t sure he was even properly aware of what he was doing.

He recalled the shape of her legs in his Mclaren, the hard press of her lips against his as they smashed together in the elevator ride up to her apartment.

The sensation of familiarity as he knew instantly where to go in her room, having seen it a thousand times before on his laptop.

The way she giggled as he peeled off her blazer and held her breasts and bra in his hands.

The kisses that felt warm and soft on his stomach as she slowly made her way down.

The soft squelch of her groin against his, the warm sensation suffusing through his entire system.

The erotic moans, as her arms were splayed across his back, clenching him harder to her as they moved in unison.

Then darkness claimed him.

~

Adam awoke to the sounds of a song that only he could hear:

Think of me
I’ll never break your heart
Think of me
You’re always in the dark
I am your light, your light, your light
Think of me
You’re never in the dark

(Lyrics taken from Kaleida’s Think song)

Snapping upright, Adam looked across and panicked, hoping that the night had turned out differently.

He was instantly proven correct.

He was still in his apartment, all the glided cage luxury suffocating him, the bed empty and cold, no naked gorgeous brunette next to him.

He had imagined the ending.  Everything was true up to a point; when he bought out her favourite wine, she had asked him, suspicious as to how he knew.

His stammering answer roused her instincts and with a cold fury, she stormed out of Daniels and set the hounds on him.

He only barely escaped the numerous lawyers and subsequent scandal through his use of dummy corporations, a private settlement with the Lockwood estate and the promise to erase all footage of her.

All 6 months.

All 24 weeks of footage, research, examination and study …. gone.

But Adam was an obsessive man. He would find another woman. His quest wouldn’t stop.

Not for anyone.

Not for anything.

Eventually … Adam would find his Eve.

Author’s Note:

I struggled with this one.

It was difficult to find a proper twist and revelation for this story. And I originally wanted to create a story about an abusive boyfriend. But the story starting turning into another type. Thus how this narrative ended up going into You (Netflix) territory.

I wanted to make Adam attractive, but destructive. The film The Invisible Man (2020) really kind of helped me establish how an incredibly good looking individual, can still be charming, debonair and intelligent, whilst utterly abusive, and intrusive. Adam was very much based on my first impression of Adrian Griffin in that film, with a splash of Joe Goldberg from the aforementioned Netflix series above.

And of course, David Collins from The Guest, which features one of my all-time favourite synth soundtracks.

However, I suffered from writing block regarding this for a long time. Over a solid week.

But I suspect it’s simply to do with the fact that I do not have a lot of experience or exposure to abusive relationships. A lot of my own personal experience is incredibly benign and loving, with almost nothing unhealthy about them, and all the fiction I expose myself to, are similar.

If I do suffer from writer’s block … I know that I am tackling a challenging topic. A story that I don’t have a lot of clarity and descriptive powers to handle.  It’s a step away from my comfort zone, discussing things military, myself, sappy romance and action scenes.

An important aspect of writing is to attempt these kind of topics that you have no handle on. Even if the product is shitty. And I think this one is.

There are some obvious clues that I struggled.

Sentences become a bit meandering and lack their crispness and I end up letting the narrative peter out and fizzle in a unsatisfactory kind of way, instead of having my hand on the steering wheel and guiding it to a proper conclusion.

Hence, I think my twist in this story, about it being a dream, is, I think, a bit of a flaw. Too reminiscent of Shaymalan twists.

But to make the whole thing a dream, felt even cheaper. So I made it out that Adam was dreaming about the perfect conclusion to his obsessive quest.

There were a lot of things I was attempting here. I wanted to allow you, the reader to experience the songs, so that you have some kind of soundtrack you could play whilst reading.

I was also italicising a lot of brand names to help create the world and instant familiarity, whilst trying to highlight how shallow and narcissistic this world that Adam inhabited really was.

Finally, it’s obvious, but if you arrange letters in Vivienne, you do get the name “Eve” in there. Hence the rather on-the-nose reference. Lockwood, I stole from a Harlan Coben character, but is apt, because he is locked in the woods of his own obsessive nature.

That’s it for now. Expect another few more pieces soon.

~Damocles.

 

 

Arts et Metiers Station in Paris, France. 

The hourglass poured sand through the tiny crevice, the glass bubble trapping the mountain of sand within. 

Grain by grain, it slowly filled up until it reached its zenith and a spiny hand reached out and flipped it, checking it with his timepiece. 

An analogue item, in a digital world, the Clockmaker preferred gears over electronics, the application of physics over the magic of charges.

He liked cranking levers, turning wheels and making tiny adjustments with his precise screws. The colour of bronze was more pleasing than the clean sterile nature of the modern age.

The Observatory where he was working, was a steam-punk haven, of clocks, gears, steam, bronze, copper and wood. The roof was a burnished metallic sphere, that resembled Line 11 platforms of the Parisian Arts et Metiers station.

It arced over the entire spherical workshop, with a singular window cut out in the front, that allowed the Clockmaker to project his large telescope out.

Taking up most of the room, and providing an appropriate shadow under which the Clockmaker did most of his work, the telescope was an incredible feat of engineering, that rotated on large mechanical gears, that interlocked each other and a series of wheels that led all the way up to the viewing platform.

Up there, the Clockmaker had made a small wheel for himself that using minimum effort, could rotate and adjust the large optical telescope for his liking and fine tune the focus.

The base of the telescope was open, an chasm that showcased the intricate engineering and the gleam of all the copper, metal and bronze.

Due to its spherical design and central circular platform, all of the Clockmaker’s workshops were lined along the wall, with a single straight table at the base of the telescope, the precise centre of the entire space. At the bottom was also a large auto-winch, which he used to move the telescope on its axis.

Along every bench were thousands of projects that had been started and all with varying levels of progress. A single large train engine here, an unfinished sewing wheel there, and all type and sizes of screws strewn about, in what seemed like a careless manner, but were actually very precise placements for reference.

A gas stove ran in the rear, and that powered the steam generator that provided gas-light for the workshop, a pale, flickering, yellowing light that burnished the bronze interior.

As he watched the hourglass slowly fill up with sand, the Clockmaker wiped his hands on a rag that hung from his hip, and using his wrist, nudged the large goggles from his eyes, onto his forehead.

He would take a break, briefly and eat something before continuing his greatest project.

Walking away from the central workshop, he stood next to his coat rack and plucked a greatcoat off. Covering his slightly dirty white linen shirt and black waistcoat, he moved to his hat stand, a beautiful mahogany affair, and wrestled the flat cap atop his tousled brown hair.

Opening the large door that featured an enormous combination lock of his own design, he stepped out into a chilly world where green fields had been replaced by white fresh snow and blue skies with grey storm-clouds.

The Clockmaker flipped his lapels up to protect his neck and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of the greatcoat and began trudging his way across the fields, into the nearby town, where life was slowly beginning to accelerate as bakeries sold their goods and half-frozen newsboys shouted at people to collect their papers.

Hunched into the coat, he moved silently through the dirty cobble streets, the industrial sounds of a production revolution surrounding him, as men, covered in soot, flame and coal, banged away at metal and rivets, sweating profusely under their strain.

Belches of fire erupted from warehouses around him, and he reflexively ducked as a police carriage, slowly rattled its way past him. Scanning up and down for any more of the constabulary, he cautiously made his way out of the street and closer to the nicer parts of the town, where he could find nourishment.

Aware of his disheveled appearance, the Clockmaker kept to himself, doing his best to avoid well-to-do couples in their finery, dresses and jewels, and the piles of horse manure on the road alike.

Spying an unobtrusive bakery, he stepped in quickly and ordered himself a loaf of bread and butter, tucking the wrapped goods under his coat and hurriedly passing over the few coins he had.

The bakerwoman, had been too absentminded to notice him properly, but when she saw his figure leave the store, her eyes had widened slightly in recognition of something.

Scurrying away, he deftly made his way back through the industrial area, stopping occasionally to wolf down pieces of the bread that he liberally smeared with butter, using his fingers. Scanning nervously the entire time, he only relaxed his pace when he reached the relative safety of the fields, where hibernating trees, soured the landscape and cast an air of isolation and gloom over everything.

Doing his best to stop his feet from freezing over, the Clockmaker was glad when he reached the front door and unlocking the heavy combination lock with frozen fingers, he stumbled in, just as the wind was beginning to pick up.

Slamming it shut behind him, he looked at the remaining half a loaf he had eaten and touched his stomach. Feeling sated, he settled it down on a round workbench, near the gas stove to keep it warm, and hung up his coat and hat on the racks.

Picking up his goggles once more, the Clockmaker went back to the hourglass and noted that it was nearly empty again.

Waiting patiently, he flipped it as it neared the hour and turned his attention to the large project in front of him.

It was a woman.

To be more accurate, it was a pair of women.

Both were cold and lifeless, one shiny mechanical and the other formerly flesh.

The dead woman, was the Clockmaker’s wife. He had accidentally killed her in a flash of rage and been remorseful ever since. His obsession with her, and the keen loss he felt, had led to a singular night, where gripped with fanatical inspiration, he broke into the town’s graveyard and dug up her corpse.

He left only the funeral veil behind and had laboured under her weight across the field and night, and into his Observatory.

The Clockmaker believed, with the power of the Observatory and genius of his intellect, he could recreate his wife and transfer her essence from her body into the new one he was making.

His greatest project, was hideously intricate and a poor simile for the woman next to it.

Featuring an enormous amount of gears, cogs, and screws, each part of the mechanical body featured a large crank handle, that could allow the limbs to move. Situated at joints, the screw would turn anticlockwise, or clockwise to allow rudimentary movement, left and right, with another handle allowing up and down.

The fingers and toes were frozen in place, but at the wrist and ankles were cranks to allow slight pronation, allowing the feet to adopt a “foot in heels” posture, and the hands to close into a right angle grip.

The body itself was a mass of gears and metal, with copper wiring through it all, that lead to a unit at the back, where the Clockmaker could program the body to bend at the waist, raise her arms and move her head. He had yet to place the bronze plates over her body, to mimic her belly, breasts and buttocks, but they were being cooled in the corner, having been just smelted and caressed into shape.

But it was the head, that drew the imagination. It was here, he was taking the longest time to perfect.

Every detail had been painstakingly recreated. The aquiline nose, the wide eyes, the tiny beauty spot on her left cheek … only in the Clockmaker’s eyes, improved and enhanced by beauty and infinity the gears and the ridges that only clockwork could provide.

Her blue wide eyes had been turned into a quartet of gears that when he cranked them, emitted a pale blue light, that he had fashioned from an old bulb with a sheet of blue plastic.

The nose was awaiting the finishing touches of bronze plating, whilst the lips were a strange mockery, with a mouth that opened and closed, according to the crank situated at the corner of her mouth.

Only her hair had not been replicated, the luscious blonde locks replaced by straight sticks that poked out of the scalp.

Overall, the Clockmaker’s project was a masterful display of engineering, physics and precision, but could only ever be considered beautiful in his eyes.

It was then, in the midst of his concentration, as he was delicately screwing in the breast plate into the side of the body, he heard noises outside his door.

A thunderous banging on the door shook him.

“THIS IS THE POLICE. OPEN UP. WE HAVE A WARRANT FOR YOUR ARREST, FOR MURDER AND THEFT. OPEN UP OR WE WILL FORCE OUR WAY IN.”

The Clockmaker’s eyes widened and he immediately ran to the door and grabbed a workbench, barricading the entrance.

Staring up at the huge telescope, he began the auto-winch, which would generate power and move the instrument. He frantically overturned the hourglass and began to time his process.

Moving quickly, he began to screw in every single finishing touch, as the banging got louder and louder, until the noise was total and echoed endlessly in the room.

Dull thuds could be seen imprinting themselves on metal, as the door shook and heaved under repeated blows from rifle butts. But the hinges were strong and the Clockmaker had reinforced the door with multiple bolts to prevent entry.

Then, a dull, shrill shriek was heard, as the auto-winch reached its capacity and the Clockmaker eyed the completed clockwork body lovingly, before rushing over and allowing the winch to stop.

Taking strands of copper wiring and inserting them into the two bodies, in the heart and the head, the Clockmaker, caressed the clockwork body on the forehead and looking distastefully at the dead corpse, he let the auto winch go.

Gears shrieked and steam bellowed from giant pumps as the telescope moved, spinning in a circle, generating power to the two bodies.

The noise was unholy, unbearable, a deafening envelope of cogs, screws, gears, metal, steam, heat and burning copper that wrapped and shrouded the Clockmaker in dense smoke.

Power surged through the corpse, reanimating it, causing limbs to flail around, and discharge excess gas and waste build-up,  yellow, pale, decomposing liquid and fluid ejecting out the orifices of the body. The hair atop started to burn, through the copper strands inserted and strangely the blue eyes became clear for a second, as the glassy look was replaced by clear pupils that screamed internally.

Shots rang out, as the policemen outside fired their rifles into the Observatory, causing ricocheting bullets to bounce around inside, as they struck metal, after metal structs, fragmenting themselves into sharp pieces of lead.

But the Clockmaker continued, taking over the auto-winch, as he kept manically winding the huge telescope around, and with it the two corpses. Three pieces of shrapnel tore through his chest and arms, but he ignored them, concentrating wholly on the reanimation process.

Then an explosion tore through the Observatory.

The policemen, having had enough, had placed a stick of dynamite in the corner of the door and blown it clean off its hinges, lifting it into the air, where it crushed the Clockmaker and buried him under it.

The policemen ran in, rifles drawn, but any bravado they had immediately was replaced by fear as the smell of putrefaction and burnt copper reached their senses.

Four of the five officers instantly vomited on the floor, the moment they saw what had become of the corpse, burnt and smoking, with foul liquid splattered everywhere.

The last officer, the Captain, instantly reached for his scarf and drew it up to his nose, his eyes wide at the travesty that had occurred.

To his shock, the clockwork body that the man had worked on for so long, for so many sleepless nights was now staring at him, blue lights switched on, its arms outstretched like some kind of woman seeking comfort.

Its mouth was open, in a silent scream, the eyes unblinking in an unending stare, and there was a terrible screeching noise as the gears and bronze plate of the body tore at each other, as it tried to turn its torso towards the Captain.

His men screamed, and fled into the night, whilst the Captain stood, frozen in horror as he watched the Clockmaker desperately crawl out from beneath the door that had killed him, and with a shaking hand, reach up for the abomination he had created.

The Clockmaker failed to grip the frozen hands, and collapsed into a pile at her feet, expiring as the blue lights that were meant to be eyes slowly dimmed and the entire clockwork body shuddered and collapsed under the strain, burying the Clockmaker’s body.

The Captain, mute, and uncomprehending in terror, stared as the hourglass on the table finally stopped pouring sand and without warning, shattered into a thousand pieces of glass.

Author’s Note:  

I admit, the inspiration for this piece came from out of nowhere. I was originally going to write a strange horror story about a good-looking Clockmaker who would kidnap young women and force them to become sacrifices for his telescope, but struck by the period of time that I was writing about and the obvious steam-punk influence, I went for a different Frankenstein route.

Aside from the Frankenstein influence, this was actually inspired by a similar plot, that I loved, in one of my favourite Napoleonic historical fiction series, Matthew Hawkwood – Resurrectionist. In addition, I also stole some elements from a steam-punk young adult series, that I loved reading, known as the The Laws of Magic series.

Keen pop-culture enthusiasts will also probably note the similarities between the clockwork body and the famous robot in the film; Metropolis (1927)

This was one of the stranger attempts I made to write horror and I still think it needs a lot of work.

Still, I liked the overall novelty of the idea and is originality and the conclusion was probably one of the fastest I’ve ever written, the story really gripping me as I wrote it.

~ Damocles 

 

Courtesy of Albert Le, Japan Trip – 2018. 

The smell of takoyaki tickled the salaryman’s nose. 

Sweet with a hint of frying fat, it woke inside of him, a long dormant hunger that was supposed to have been buried under the 4 sake shots he had taken earlier at a bar.

Fumbling around his pant pockets for his wallet, he looked forlornly at the 5000 yen note and the 5 tiny bronze coins. It was all he had for the night.

The smart thing was to head home, and save the money, eat some 2 minute ramen and then sleep the whole night off.

But his stomach rumbled, and the salaryman thought about the lonely dark 6-tatami sized room and the tasteless ramen he would eat. The cold shower he would take and the dirty pajamas that had holes around the elbows and knees.

The inevitable slow login on his tiny laptop and loading of an AV DVD he had borrowed from the nearby adult shop. The sad, unfulfilling sensation, as his hands tried to bring him close to something akin to ecstasy but it would only ever last seconds and fill him with shame.

He thought about the unenviable task of cleaning himself off with a tissue, and discarding it away before falling asleep, unhappy and restless.

This mental film kept playing over and over in his mind, and it finalised his indecision causing him to pause mid-step and nearly bump into a couple strolling behind. He enviously looked at the young man, with his pretty girlfriend, and apologised with a bow, staring at the girl’s feet, perfect in little red heels.

They went around him, smiles on their faces. As he watched them disappear, the tiny clicks the red heels made on the damp concrete, sounded like to him, the hands of a clock counting down the hours he had left to enjoy himself, this very night.

“To hell with it” thought the salaryman, and he stopped walking towards his apartment and turned around in search of the takoyaki stand, following the smell.

The bright neon of Osaka‘s city-scape felt like a thousand pin-prick needles of light into his brain. As far as the eye could see, buildings after buildings, after buildings stretched towards infinity. Most were tired and weather-beaten, the constant hum-drum of millions of people taking its toll, grime and pollution reaching up the walls.

Some were so old, that no one knew what their shiny and clean exterior looked like anymore. During the day, the buildings lost much of their appeal, the shabbiness of it all apparent and creating an ugly concrete jungle.

It was why there were so many neon signs. It was a way to hide the mismatched nature of the buildings, the thousands of strange designs, faded paint and harsh staircases. Osaka, could only ever be appreciated at night, where the lights provided a gloss over the ugliness of the city. A thin mask that disguised the rot beneath.

Everywhere he looked, there was so much happening.

Thousands of people walked the street, many just like him, a lean, average man, in a simple, cheap black and white suit, with ties loose around their necks and hands gripping their precious brown leather briefcase.

In contrast, young carefree teens were in large groups, their colourful, contrasting clothes emblazoned with kanji text, and strange English words.

They laughed, yelled and play-fought on the street, boys one-upping each other to prove themselves worthy to the demure and coy girls, who giggled and whispered to each other, spurring the boys on to greater antics.

Then there were the quiet couples, who strolled arm in arm, the men dressed down casually, with polo shirts and chinos, the women in long, plain skirts with elegant blouses and subtle jewellery. They talked softly to each other, stared longingly, and passionately discussed the film they had just seen and the sushi train they just ate.

Shopkeepers strolled through the crowd, enticing foreigners, holding up colourful menus and chattering away in rapid-fire Japanese, punctuating sentences with accented English. They were bold, friendly and ruthless. Tourists, overwhelmed by the service, smiled and nodded, their eyes wide and mouths agape as they stared at the delicious images on the menu, entering and leaving the shops, full but poorer and the shopkeeper pleased with his outrageous pricing.

The salaryman stared out at this mass of people, as he waited by a lonely takoyaki stand, its lantern shining a yellow light over the tired chef, who looked like he would rather be anywhere else, than making octopus balls on a busy Osaka street.

Having wasted 20 minutes searching for a decently priced stall, the salaryman hoped this would turn out OK. This was the problem with living in a tourist town … nothing was ever right for the locals.

And … nothing tasted as good either. The takoyaki when handed to him, smelt promising. But on the first bite, it was a little cold on the inside, the octopus inside slimy and rubbery, and the coating tasted of flour, instead of a crispy, soft melting sensation.

Disappointed and sad he had lost money on this gamble, he glared at the chef, who pointedly ignore him and began making a new batch for a tourist couple, he ate half of the plate, before tossing the rest away, disgusted and in need of a good drink to wash away the taste.

As he walked a short distance away, he wondered whether the takoyaki was a sign of things to come. Shaking off the disquieting feeling, he saw a red-light hostess bar up ahead, and looking up, he noted it was on the 5th floor, but could still hear the yells of men singing their hearts out, a good sign.

Walking through the gloom, he saw that the elevator was crammed through the narrow hallway and that it was out of service. Sighing, he put his left hand on the staircase, which felt slightly sticky, and began to climb.

The girl that greeted him with a bow, stretched her thin arm over to the manager, who was dressed immaculately in a sharp suit, with a black bow-tie. Pocketing the entry fee, he took out a ring binder and placed it open in front of the salaryman.

Inside were 30 polaroids of varying girls, in a myriad of seductive and coy poses. Most had the peace sign up, were dressed in garish skimpy mini-skirts and resembled dolls more than actual women. Squinting, he stabbed his finger down and chose Mayu.

The polaroid of Mayu showed a young woman, with brown hair in a bob with a part across her forehead, almond eyes and a straight narrow nose. She was the cute girl with cat-like features that made her sexier. Her outfit in the polaroid, a sailor fuku, her head at an angle, revealing a three-quarter profile and her pout with a peace sign was what sealed the deal for the salaryman.

The manager nodded sagely and walked through a curtained doorway with the bar’s logo and a few minutes later walked back out and handed the salaryman a room key.

Walking through, he could smell the pervasive odour of cheap perfume mingling with equally cheap cologne and the sharp acrid smell of cigarettes and alcohol.

The sounds that accompanied the smell were equally provocative, loud phrases of famous enka songs were belted through the walls and doors, and just below the volume of the cacophony, were muted moans and fluttering sighs.

Ignoring it, he opened the door to his room and looked around, the tiny room reminded him strangely of his apartment.

There was a TV next to him, with a pair of microphones attached for karaoke, and in front of the TV was a U-shaped couch that spanned the entire room. There was a small unobtrusive table in the middle, and an Ipad that allowed him to order drinks.

Sitting down, he ordered himself a neat whiskey, and waited for the girl, as he started to pick which song he would sing.

However, he could not make up his mind. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of disquiet. The silence inside the room, was such a stark contrast to the hallway he had just entered and the bustle of Osaka, that he was starting to get uncomfortable when Mayu entered.

Wearing a sheer top, that did little to hide her small breasts, and a mini-skirt that just hid her pert bottom, Mayu cradled the small glass of whiskey and complimentary snacks and saddled up next to him.

Nervous, the salaryman averted his eyes from her breasts and placed his hands in his laps, hiding his excitement. Mayu smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth, and began to hold onto his arm and whisper endearments.

She asked him for his name, promised him he was handsome, and cried out that she wanted to do things to him. The salaryman endured all the ego-stroking, wanting to believe it himself, that he was big, strong and that he could really make pin her to the wall right now, if he desired. But it didn’t work. He was aroused, the body roaring to go, but … the mind was elsewhere.

She tried to coax him to sing, to really relax, after all, this was her job. She knew that if the customer wasn’t happy, she could lose her job. So she kept at it. She tried every trick she knew. She lightly slapped him, pleaded with him, opened her eyes wide, crinkled them, made them doe-eyed and even questioned whether he was a man.

But the salaryman couldn’t respond. Despite his every yearning to do so.

Even when she slid off his pants, and took him into her mouth, the salaryman couldn’t move. He sat there stiffly, shame, pleasure, guilt, confusion diffused through sheer anxiety.

She kept her movements rhythmic, up and down, the tongue lashing this way and that but there was no response. When the salaryman finally came, it was the same anti-climatic response he felt when masturbating at home.

Disgust at himself channeled itself in another way, and found its target with the girl. His face underwent a transformation, one of reluctant pleasure to a cold mask of fury.

Mayu, having seen enough of these episodes in men, ducked away, terrified and quickly ran out the door.

Minutes later, two large yakuza came in, their loud disco-era shirts and flamboyant colourful suits, betraying their occupation. Scowling, they glared at the salaryman and swiftly punched him twice in the stomach. Doubling over, the salaryman vomited out the whiskey, snacks and takoyaki, causing him to hate the taste all over again, and the two yakuza deftly stepped away, their experience showing them what was coming.

They looked at each other, shook their head in scorn and grabbed an arm each before dragging him down the stairs and instead of going through the front entrance, kicked open a side door next to the elevator and tossed him into an array of bins.

Clapping their hands clean from his cheap suit, they yelled at him, and made several threats, the harsh words ringing in his ears. Laughing briefly at the salaryman prone form, the yakuza smoked cigarettes and flicked ash over him before stepping aside and allowing the manager to toss the salaryman’s briefcase on his stomach.

The door slammed shut and after what felt like ages, the salaryman gingerly began to pick himself off the trash. Anger flashed through his mind, but it soon died away, to an depressing emptiness that made him struggle to walk away.

As he moved out of the alleyway and back onto the Osaka street, he remained blind to the occasional stares and whispers, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to bother with them. Most gave him a wide berth, disgusted by what they thought was drunken behaviour.

The salaryman stumbled his way through Osaka, listlessly, aimlessly and carelessly. He didn’t seem to care where he was going anymore. As long as he could still walk, he would continue. He just felt like he had to go somewhere. But his mind couldn’t make a decision.

So on he went.

Until the chime and bells of a nearby arcade pierced through the fog that his mind had created.

The sounds bought him back to his childhood, where things were simpler, more engaging and touched with a mysterious spark that had faded in his adult life.

Struck by the wave of nostalgia and a glimmer of hope, the salaryman went in and found himself lost.

Dimly lit, the arcade was lively and smelt strongly of disinfectant and teenage deodorant. Lights flashed, coins clattered, and loud pop songs blasted through the speakers and cacophony. Attendants moved to and from cabinets and games, spraying down surfaces and occasionally bowing and point to the coin-exchange machine for people. Young boys and girls came in and out of the arcade, hovering over well-known games to peer at each others’ progress, before flitting away to try another cabinet.

Girls laughed at their cute photos in the photo-booth machines, whilst boys sweated away at the dancing and rhythm games, their eyes intent on beating high scores.

All of them ignored him, as he wandered past and tried to find the game he had mastered when he was one of these young men.

It was in the darkest and lonely section of the arcade, close to the toilets where it perpetually smelt like urine and surrounded by older machines. It was also populated by similar people, men wearing work clothes and their eyes glued to the screen.

Depression reared its head inside his mind and as he sat down in front of a fighting game from his youth, he hoped that this session would shoo it away.

Slotting in a 100 yen coin, he found himself engrossed again, in a virtual world where he was the strong one, the one able to defeat villains, rescue pretty girls and everything was problem free, as long as it could be punched and kicked.

But after the completion of the first and easiest chapter, everything went downhill. He started jumping into punches, losing health, buttons were unable to land his combos and he suffered defeat after defeat.

More coins were furiously deposited into the slot, but the string of defeats kept growing, until in despair, he stopped himself from putting in another coin and sat back, staring forlornly at the score and the crimson “DEFEAT” icon flashing humiliatingly at him.

He stayed still, letting every red flash from the icon wash over face. How long he sat there, he didn’t know, but the mellow sleeping music started to fade into his consciousness when he finally shook himself out of his reverie.

Picking up his bag, he shuffled out of the arcade, embarrassed to have stayed so close to closing time, and forcing the attendants to work longer.

The streets were beginning to empty out. Neon shone a little more dimly down on less crowded streets and the sensation of alienation was beginning to creep in.

The salaryman, depressed, saddened and exhausted by the night he had, kept ambling along, until he found the place, that he should have not moved from, from the very beginning … a bar.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he waited at the steps of the basement entrance, to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the bar. There was just a single man working, his hands a blur as he washed, cleaned and polished the huge pile of dirty glasses in the sink. He was dressed casually, with a white shirt and dark suit pants and a pair of half-moon spectacles hung in the vee of his shirt.

Motioning to the salaryman to take a seat, the bartender looked at the sorry soul and wordlessly got out a bottle of cheap sake. When he got the nod, the bartender poured a finer of sake into a small cup and pushed it gently to the salaryman.

Knocking it back, and feeling the alcohol take the edge off his depression just for precious seconds, his eyes began to look around.

It was your standard bar, with a corkboard where the bartender hung pictures of regulars, celebrities and parties who had visited, an A-frame that listed the specials that the kitchen was offering and a large TV hung behind the bartender, showing music videos of idols dancing and preening at the camera.

Everywhere was made of the same coloured dark wood, and weak, faded, yellowing lights created an atmosphere of quiet melancholy.

It was perfect for the salaryman. He just wanted to collapse into a bottle. If he died doing so, so much the better.

There were few patrons, mostly single men like him, drinking alone, wrapped in their own thoughts. No one spoke to each other, no one acknowledge each other.

They were too busy trying to drown their sorrows. The only one who seemed like his life was together, was the bartender.

Raising his hand, the salaryman placed the rest of his money on the table and told the barman to keep the drinks flowing.

As the sake kept disappearing, the salaryman wondered what had all this been for. He was supposed to spend a night out, away from the depressing atmosphere of his tiny room, but everywhere he went, reminded him of the failure he had become.

Food was tasteless and devoid of any comfort.

The arcade showed him him that his skills had faded. He was older, slower, and less vigorous.

The red-light hostess bar turned out to be a reminder of his loneliness, his failure to find steady relationships and how unfulfilling sex and masturbation had become.

It had gotten to the point, where even a real girl, administrating to him, was as soulless and joyless as his hand. He tried to control himself, but he could not help but do it three times a day. He would sneak into bathrooms and open his phone, hands down his pants, craving release.

He briefly wondered he had an addiction to sex, but could it even be called sex, if he did it alone all of the time?

The realisation sunk his spirits even lower, and he chased another sake cup down.

If he could not please himself, what else was there to do? Everything was being robbed from him.

Looking across, he saw another salaryman like him, suddenly collapse into the crook of his arm, asleep and drooling out of his mouth.

Staring at the man, he was reminded of his friend in high school who had the same features, angular features that made him popular with the girls.

He remembered snippets of their conversations, about how his friend used to sneak girls into the locker room, and behind the closed doors of empty classrooms. The time when he managed to get together with one of the girls, and then told his friend who laughed and congratulated him.

His friend who laughed, smiled and had such a casual nature about him … those were the memories he cherished, before the suicide.

It had come as a shock to everyone. He was one of the most popular students in the school, academically and socially, and yet he had taken his own life, suffocating on the fumes of his parent’s Mazda, with a garden hose taped to the exhaust.

He left no clue, or note. No apologies, no sign that he was going to take his own life. He had behaved completely normally, flirtatious and helpful, cracking jokes and teasing friends.

The only sign of something going amiss, was that he didn’t write any notes in class. He just sat up, and looked at the teacher attentively, a warm smile on his face as he looked like he was absorbing information.

The salaryman was crushed when he found out. Insulted and angry, he had gone to the tombstone and angrily stomped around, asking why he had done what he did.

When no answer came, from the stillness of the night, the salaryman had cried and walked home, bereft and saddened that his best friend did not tell him about his plans to kill himself.

But it was only years later, when he became more and more withdrawn that he understood that selfish desire. People didn’t understand him, so why bother trying to understand them?

The salaryman felt that way now, staring at the guy who looked so similar to his best friend of yesteryear. He felt selfish and nihilistic, empty and determined at the same time.

Pushing the chair back, he ignored the briefcase and stumbled out, in a drunken stupor and thought about whether he could make it home.

He too would, copy his friend and craw into the space of a car and slowly die.

He was already halfway down the street, and turning into an alleyway when he realised … he didn’t own a car.

Shaking, he collapsed down on the quiet, dark, Osaka street, and slid himself against a wall.

There he cried and cried and cried. His body shaking and heaving, his breath ragged and dry, the salaryman wept for himself and the darkness inside that didn’t seem to end.

He would remain there for the rest of the night, ignored by thousands who walked past, oblivious.

Author’s Note

A quick exploration into the nihilistic and desperate loneliness that I saw a few times during my trip in Japan, I originally wanted to write this about a sex addict, similar to one of the most influential films I ever saw, as a university student: Shame (2011) by Steve McQueen, starring Michael Fassbender & Carey Mulligan.

I most likely will create a proper story based around the sex addiction, where I will have to practice how I balance erotic and melancholy language. But that film struck a deep cord within me, when I was single and spent a lot more time watching porn and being sucked into that virtual reward cycle.

This story of course, ended up mixing my desire to reference how sex can become meaningless if done too much and for the wrong reason, AND the nihilism I suspect anyone feels once stuck in a routine job, with no one to go home to and that special loneliness you only feel in a huge city. 

I drew heavily on my experiences to describe the city and environments, which I went with my girlfriend, and 3 friends, one of whom was kind enough to let me use one of his photos for this story. 

In a lot of ways, this was an attempt to mix Lost in Translation (2003)’s melancholy reflection on isolation among millions of people and Shame (2011)’s sad, existential crisis around loneliness and how you can be touched, but never felt.

~ Damocles

 

The Wolf’s Den, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (2019)

This is a classic night-op raid. Dress your best, and get evil gentlemen.

Those words echoed in my mind, as I moved to my locker room, where thousands of dollars of gear awaited my selection. It was a featureless room, like so many others on the FOB, with strong, plain wood for walls, and black caged lockers that stored all my various weapons and war-fighting kit. I didn’t bother doing much to decorate the place either, just placing a flag in the corner and a picture of my squad mates on the central locker to greet me when I walked in. In total, I had 10 lockers, all with different equipment to address any situation I was going into. Other elements of the army, navy and air force would kill for this much access to the latest equipment.    

I chose my standard assaulter collection, a dark olive green jacket over my tan BDU, with dark woodland camouflage assault pants, that had a pair of tan knee pads strapped over the top. 

Plucking my body vest off the rack, I tucked in IR strokes, and 4 spare magazines for my primary, as well as checking my first aid kit strapped to the front. I inserted the heavy ceramic plates that would cover my vital organs last, after securing the vest to my chest. 

All operators like myself were OCD about our equipment. We triple checked everything. We never used anything that wasn’t tried and true. All our gear had been through multiple fire-fights and allowed us to survive. We were paranoid about our equipment, because they were the one thing that we could control. 

Next came my war-belt, with 3 spare pistol magazines, an emergency hip reload for my primary and various pouches for radios, miscellaneous notepads and markers. 

For the final piece of kit that fleshed out any decent assaulter’s load-out, I picked up my tried and true helmet and balaclava option. Weighing in at nearly 2 kilograms, the helmet was loaded down with a penlight, spare batteries, IFF strobe, a large headset with a throat mic and the latest quad goggles for night vision. Flicking them down, I checked the battery life in the NODs, and moved my head to ensure they were a tight fit.  

I always left my weapons for last. I looked after them more than I did anything else in this room. This was a classic night op raid. Which meant CQB weapons. 

I took a Sig-Sauer MPX, the latest upgrade on the iconic MP5 platform, and began checking the various attachments: laser, flashlight, suppressor, magazines and optic on the submachine gun. Pleased with the small dot on the small unobtrusive sight, and that the IR laser on the platform was working in conjunction with my NODs, I placed the MPX aside and picked up a pistol. 

The Glock 19 was small, compact and easy to draw. I hadn’t done much tinkering to the gun, just swapping out the sights for night ones, replacing the trigger for a faster, lighter version and adding a flashlight to the bottom. I didn’t bother suppressing the weapon, like I did with my MPX, as I knew if I had to draw my pistol, things were fucked anyway.

Attaching the pistol and holster to my right thigh, I did a few strafing movements in the limited space of my locker room, and satisfied that nothing was loose or needlessly moving around, I clipped in my radio to my headset, slung the MPX around my neck and under my arm, and walked out, several kilograms heavier and deadlier. 

Outside, the FOB, night had already well and truly taken over, so the entire helicopter landing pad was lit up with harsh floodlights, that glinted off the black metal of the four MH-6 Little Birds that taxied up. These small, skinny helicopters were the Lotus Cars of the aviation world, able to turn, in an instant, park in the tiniest places and accelerate away faster than a terrorist could aim a RPG. They had some bite too, with rocket pods and miniguns hanging underneath tiny stabilising flight struts. 

Tonight, I was part of Bravo Squad, so I was to go on the second helicopter, tasked with landing on the roof and assaulting my way down through an abandoned 5 storey building. Alpha would land on the street in front and work their way up. Charlie and Delta would land on neighboring buildings, securing their rooftops for sniper support on the target building.

We were to rescue the hostage, eliminate all hostiles and then radio in the Little Bird for immediate evac. A platoon of U.S. Marines would wait until we finish, then come in and begin securing the area, with intelligence indicating that a HVT would be in the vicinity. Once the hostage was secure, we would fan out if the Marines needed support and slowly begin clearing buildings in the immediate area, extending ourselves out only by a single city block. Otherwise if no support was needed, we would wait for extraction via a BlackHawk. 

The Marines were the drag net, ensuring no one escaped in a 5 block radius, clearing their way in, and be our QRF if any of us got bogged down at any time. The Little Birds would hover around and provide close-air support if need be. 

This was a classic night time raid. 

Checking my watch, I noted the time, 2200, and felt a tap on my shoulder. My buddy, Kyle, was handing me a hot cup of coffee. Nodding my appreciation, I took the hot cup and wrapped my hands around it, pulling my balaclava down to take sips here and there. 

We both stood in silence, watching the flight crews perform refueling on the Little Birds and the pilots going through their flight checks. At precisely 2215, our squad leaders yelled for us to mount up.

Tossing our cups into nearby bins, we dashed under the spinning blades, the rotor wash and strong smell of aviation fuel forcing our heads down. Kyle sat next to me, securing a strap of bungee cord to the hook on my vest, while I did the the same for him. We both gave each other a strong tug and were satisfied the cord would hold, if somehow we fell off the chopper. 

On the other side through my peripheral, I could see Bravo Leader, John, secure the bungee cord to the green new guy, a SEAL named Walt, who was going on his first raid with the SAS. 

In our unit, we didn’t care who or where you were from. As long as you did the work, watched your sectors and had our backs, all was forgotten. 

I, myself had been on secondment to the DEVGRU, the Polish GROM, German KSK (where I was the smallest guy there) and our cousins in Australia, and every time, the moment I had landed, I was treated like any other guy on the Teams. We all did the work and were in the fight together.

Differences in nationality, accents, training, gear … it all faded the moment we were going into combat. 

My feet felt weightless as the Little Bird throttled up and immediately gained speed, lifting off so quickly, it felt like a roller-coaster ride. Little Bird rides were always like this, the roughest, scariest and wildest ride, out of all the military birds we flew on. They loved to go up, down, left, ride, cant 45 degrees to the left, then jinx to the right … the pilots loved being sadistic in their attempt to induce vomiting in us.

But there were no-one we trusted more. American pilots in the Nightstalkers, the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, were the absolute best in the world. They were all master aviators, and the sky was their kingdom. No weather was too rough for these men, no night too dark and no mistakes afforded. 

They could park their helicopters on a street, hover exactly to the metre above a target and rescue us in any conditions. 

Checking my watch again, I settled in for the hour long flight to Jalalabad, where the target building was located. Nicknamed J-Bad, it was one of the larger cities in Afghanistan, due to its proximity to the Torkham border with Pakistan, and a crucial hub for all NATO forces in the region. Despite the heavy military presence, somehow this cluster of buildings was where our hostage was held.

We didn’t like it at all. We had a gut feeling that the entire compound was rigged to blow. Kyle voiced his opinions about all this during the briefing. Command had simply shook its head and told us to do our jobs. 

There were no complaints, despite our foreboding. After all, we were getting paid to take risks. Maybe it would be OK. That somehow the enemy had so much faith in their hiding ability and the balls to risk holding a captured team of 3 Western journalists from CNN, right under our noses. Stranger things had happened in war.

As I pondered about these things, I looked across at the other Little Bird, which had Alpha squad. Squad Leader Murphy saw me and as the Little Birds crested a mountain ridge, that littered the Afghan landscape, gave me the bird. 

I returned the salute with double digits and continued to scan the dark foreboding landscape of ‘Stan, still entranced by the snow, the green and the sand that still came through in the half moonlight, despite my 7th tour here.

Then finally, in the distance, I started to see city lights. Then the pilot’s voice came through the comms. 

“ETA to LZ, 15 mikes out!”

There was a flurry of movement, as we began our final checks. I could hear the clicks of optics being switched on, see hands patting down body armour, pouches and holsters, memorising where everything was placed. PEQ-15 laser units being switched on, and as my NODs were flicked down over my eyes to begin acclimatization, I saw lasers stretch off into the distance, some pointed downwards, and others in front of the helicopters. 

It never got old. 

“5 mikes out.” said the co-pilot in a monotone, the strain in his voice evident as he began his descent. 

My legs flared upwards as the Little Bird began to throttle down and looking inside, I could see the pilots mouths move in unison as they spoke to each other, looking like bug-eyed aliens with their oversized flight helmets and NODs. 

“3 mikes out” 

Kyle undid the bungee strap, as I did the same for him. We both held onto the helicopter bars inside the fuselage as the lights of the city shone through underneath us, blurry and indistinct as the helicopter sped past and my NODs were unable to keep up. 

We were flying extremely low and fast now, my feet almost brushing antennas of houses and buildings below, the pilots bobbing and weaving the Little Birds up and down to avoid any potential locks from missiles. 

“1 mike out, approaching LZ now.”

The target building was exactly as the satellite imagery had presented. A squat, rectangular building that was 5 storey tall. It was dilapidated, old, ugly and reminiscent of many poor construction sites that were abandoned after the Taliban occupation. What windows were left, were dusty, grimy and mostly smashed in. It was a structure devoid of any personality, war had stripped it of any unique features, because it was never completed. The only decorative element was crude Arabic graffiti protesting NATO occupation. 

Another abandoned dream, in a land that had seen combat since prehistoric times. 

Afghanistan, the graveyard of empires …  

My gloved hands wrapped around the barrel of the MPX, as I thumbed the pressure switch and activated the PEQ-15 laser and gripped the small hand-stop underneath. My heart rate was going up, the fear spiking a little, but discipline, training and experience snuffing it out instantly. 

My trigger hand gripped the helo’s hand-bar hard and I braced myself as the Little Bird came to an sickeningly abrupt stop, flared up and to the side and in the span of 5 seconds dropped atop the target rooftop and the landing skids made a imperceptible thud.

Kyle and I immediately jumped off and within nanoseconds of us disembarking, the pilot was heaving on the flight stick and throttling away into the night, disappearing into the gloom. 

As we had rehearsed, the four of us immediately made for the rooftop door, a tiny shack like entrance atop the roof. To our left, we saw the Alpha Little Bird rise from the street, and spray dust everywhere as it begun its chase after its sister, Bravo, into the dark. 

We stacked up to the door and John whispered “Bravo 1, going dark” over the radio. Hearing the call, a tech at J-Bad’s NATO base, triggered an EMP blackout on the surrounding area of the target building.  

Immediately all lights, electricity and power got cut, granting us total darkness for 2 minutes. Kyle took out a sledgehammer from the pouch on his back and smashed the door in, my MPX’s stubby can taking point. 

As I aimed the weapon down the flight of stairs, I moved slowly and cautiously, my concern about booby traps paying off, when I saw a thin wire run across the open doorway that would lead to the 5th floor. 

Lifting my support hand in a fist, I waited a second for the squad to acknowledge with a squeeze on my shoulder before kneeling and taking out my multitool from my body vest. Running a finger along the wire, I saw that it was attached crudely to a grenade. 

Relieved that it wasn’t some huge building explosive, I snipped the wire, and resumed my point man duties, pocketing the grenade. 

The hallway ahead mocked us. There were about 5 rooms on each side. It would take at least a few minutes to clear. 

John and Walt peeled off to the right. I moved left. Kyle covered the hallway from the booby trapped door on the North side. 

Testing the knob, and seeing it was unlocked, I swept the MPX inside and checked every corner. Empty but for a few pieces of trash. It was devoid of furniture. Thankfully the rooms, if all were similar, were not multi-room issues. We were already stretched thin as it was. If we had to do multiple room clears for one hallway door, we risked losing the element of surprise. We were doing things quietly for a reason. 

As I came back out, throwing an IR beacon behind, I whispered into my throat mike “Bravo 2, room clear.” Kyle, hearing this, moved forwards and cleared the next left-side room. He encountered no resistance: “Bravo 3, room clear.” We continued to leap-frog each other to the end, each search turning up empty rooms. 

But John had heard from the support squads, Charlie and Delta who were covering the North and West side of the building that there was movement on the floor below. 

Motioning for me to take point, I moved to the South side staircase, as John relayed to the sniper teams our position. 

Peering around the corner, my laser coincidentally landed on a bearded face, the man climbing the staircase who was mirroring my action, his AKM sweeping up to me. 

I placed two shots into his face, the MPX spitting flashes in my green-tinted world, and he crumpled. 

I moved onward, ignoring the pool of blood that began to run down the stairs, moving a bit quicker now, our element of surprise nearly gone. Walt, who was the rear guard, spiked the AKM, by removing the magazine and emptying the chamber. 

We stacked up at the door to the 4th floor, and heard the slow whine from below as power was slowly beginning to be restored to the building, the generator working hard to get juice back into its system. But just as the whine started, it died, and Alpha team leader, Murphy, reported their charge had been blown, still leaving the building in the dark. They were moving onto the second floor now and reported they had 6 KIA, all of them MAMs (Military Aged Males), most were sleeping when they had been shot. 

That many dead, meant that there was a good chance the hostages were in this building. Charlie and Delta continued to report the most movement was on the 4th floor. 

I cracked open the door and swept it to the side. The 4th floor hallway was still empty.

John whispered to us over the comms as we copied our movement on the 5th floor, Kyle covering the hallway, Walt moving right, myself going left and John on the heels of Walt. 

“Charlie and Delta report they had movement in the rooms on the left. Wait for us, Bravo 2.”

As I paused outside the door, Walt and John cleared the room behind me, and noted with grim satisfaction that there were sleeping cots on the floor and that they were still warm. 

“Charlie 1, Delta 1, Bravo squad will clear west side first, please pull security on east side of target building Hotel. Good copy?”

“Check, Bravo 1.”

“WILCO, Bravo 1.”

“Bravo 2, Bravo 3, take this door, Bravo 1 and Bravo 4 will take next one. Go loud.” 

Reaching down, as Kyle grabbed his sledgehammer, I primed a flashbang as behind me, Walt did the same for his door, whilst John primed his bolt cutters against the door knob. 

Holding up three fingers, I closed them down, in a countdown, as Kyle swung the sledge, smashed open the lock and I threw in the stun grenade. 

A deafening sound reverberated through the air, and through a door an intense light shone through, a light-show we both missed, as we had our heads down and eyes slammed shut. 

The MPX swept left, as Kyle’s MP7 swept right, and we both slotted two men who were keeled over, trying to rub their eyes. I paused in the furthest left corner of the room, as I saw two hooded figures prone on the floor. Resisting the urge to stop, I continued to sweep left, making sure the room was absolutely clear, before heading over to the hostages. 

Kyle had found the last one in his corner and we both disarmed the AKMs that the two X-Rays held, before radioing it in. 

“2 X-Rays down. 3 Hostages found. Confirming their status now.”

Over the comms, we heard HQ relay the information to the other squads, as well as the bark from John, as he reported 

“3 X-Rays down, 1 HVT secured, alive. Bravo 4 and Bravo 2, secure the rest of the floor.”

I squeezed Kyle’s shoulder as he was kneeling over the hostages and he tapped my hand twice to confirm, before I moved out into the hallway and linked up with Walt. 

Walt gave me a terse smile of congratulations, and I picked up Kyle’s sledge and motioned to the east side doors opposing the ones we had just cleared. There were still 6 rooms to clear, 3 on each side.  

As we moved towards them, a west side door down the hallway opened and a voice issued a challenge in Arabic, a call to arms that was swiftly silenced as a sniper from Delta squad shot him square in the face. 

Moving more quickly now, I smashed open the door with the sledge and Walt, not bothering with a flash-bang, charged through with his distinct MK18 carbine, my own MPX hot on his heels and we shot dead two young men, who were nervously aiming their rifles at the door, but were unprepared and forgot to engage their safeties. Walt mercilessly strafed the head of his target, to ensure he was dead and I pulled the trigger twice into the torso of mine, dispassionately noting the lack of movement. 

Moving out in unison, we cleared the next west side room, adjacent to the HVT one, where we found just one guy who had his hands up. Walt looked at me, indecisive about what to do and in that instant, the man snapped his hands down. The MPX spat through the chest 5 times in response and Walt kicked the body over to reveal he had a grenade between his legs. Looking at me in gratitude, Walt rendered the grenade impotent, and we moved on. 

In the next east room, second to last of this hallway, the two men must have saw or heard us coming through the door and shot blindly through the  wooden door. 

Walt moving quickly, ducked to the side, whilst I prepped the grenade I had found from the booby trap earlier. Walt flicked the selector switch and fired short bursts from his MK18, the suppressing weapon making dull thudding noises as it opened up the door, and created a hole for me to throw the grenade in. The explosion blew out all the windows in the room and the internal organs of the two men who tried to make a stand. We didn’t bother checking the room. Frag would have turned everything into a mush.    

The west side door, where the hallway man had been shot dead by a sniper, remained opened and we heard the sounds of a woman crying and screaming in Arabic. As we entered, she looked up at us and wailed harder. 

I whispered in Arabic for her to calm down, but instead she wailed louder and scrabbled over the dead man, whose brains were all over the floor and smeared across her smock. Finishing our room clear, noting its emptiness, Walt bodily moved the woman across the other side of the room, and cable-tied her to a bedpost. 

There were still 2 more rooms. Over the comms, I could hear John and Kyle radioing in the Little Birds for immediate evac of the hostages and HVT. Kyle was reporting 2 were in a bad way, a male and female journalist who had suffered extreme torture and abuse, while the final journalist had not made it, an expected result, as he had been the victim of the militants’ abuse in online videos. The videos of the dead journalist that had been produced and circulated online were obscene. 

Walt and I chose the final west side room first, and found it empty, except for the corpse of an abandoned woman. Looking her over, it was clear, she was one of those poor captive women who were shared among men. Death had probably been a relief for her. 

Breaching the final east side, we saw three men cowering, their bodies prostate on the floor. The one closest to us, begged in broken English.

“No shoot. No shoot. Geneva. Geneva. You, no shoot.”

Walt looked over the men in disgust, his MK18’s laser hovering over their heads, and I shared his disgust, as the spokesperson kept repeating his broken phrase with a wide grin on his face. 

The guy even had the nerve to get up from his position, and adopt a more regular kneeling pose. Each and every MAM in that room had on combat webbing, a brace of grenades and magazines. But their weapons were piled in a corner and there was nothing we could do. 

Slamming the butt of the MPX into the spokesperson’s stomach, so he keeled over, I roughly slammed his face onto the floor and cable-tied his wrists, so tightly he squealed a little. Throughout he kept yelling “No shoot. You no shoot!” until I cuffed him in the side of the head, knocking him out. 

Getting up, I motioned for Walt to secure the rest, whilst my laser hovered over their eyes, ready to drop them if they did anything. 

“Bravo 1, this is Bravo 2. 4th floor secure. 3 MAMs secured, North-East corner.”

“Check Bravo 2. RV on the roof for extrac. Alpha squad will secure those 3 and the HVT. QRF is inbound.”

“WILCO. Bravo 1.”

Making a hand gesture to Walt, we filed out and climbed to the roof, to see a large UH-60 BlackHawk do the same manoeuvre as the Little Birds from earlier, flaring up and moving horizontally in the air to touch down on the roof in seconds.

It was still awe-inspiring, seeing this venerable workhorse doing what it did best, getting guys like us in and out of trouble time and time again. 

As we placed the body of the dead journalist on the floor of the BlackHawk, we saw our Bravo Little Bird fly over and provide close-air cover. Simultaneously, the Alpha squad’s Little Bird swept around, hovering like an angry bird of prey and kept an eye on Alpha, as they awaited a convoy from the U.S Marine platoon to escort the HVT and 3 captured MAMs, before they too would board their Little Bird and fly back to the FOB. 

Their overwatch mission complete, Charlie and Delta squads had elected to stay behind and assist the Marines, who were now doing their sweep through the city for more HVTs.    

Ignoring the military hardware on display, we gently guided the two journalists and strapped them to the hard seats in the back, before stepping in ourselves and providing the thumbs-up to the door gunners. 

The door gunners yelled the all-clear to the pilots and the BlackHawk vibrated as it took off the roof and hauled itself into the dark of the night. Our Little Bird escorted us, flying in tandem. 

I checked my watch. The digital readout read: 0015. The entire operation had taken an hour.  

Knocking my helmet back against the hard chair, I looked over the hostages, where a pair of Pararescue troopers were looking over them, busy trying to get IV drips into their arms and stabilise their patients. 

One of the PJs looked over at me and gave me the thumbs up. They would make it. 

Nodding back, I returned the gesture and slept the rest of the trip back to the FOB. 

I opened my eyes as I felt the rotors throttle down. We were finally back to the FOB, nearly an hour and a half later, due to severe headwinds. Paramedics greeted the journalists, wheeling them onto stretchers and straight into a medical bay, whilst the dead hostage was covered up with a body bag. Tired, and silent, we filed back to our lockers. 

I placed my dirty gear away, hung up the helmet, the vest and the war-belt and put the MPX and Glock 19 aside for cleaning later. Changing into shorts and a T-shirt and sandals, I grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and sat in the debriefing room. 

In terms of a raid, it was a textbook operation. No injuries, all objectives completed. But we didn’t get to where we were by slapping each other on the back and congratulating ourselves. 

So instead, we poured over every detail of the operation, gave each other feedback on how smooth our room clearing procedures were and what could be tightened up and wished we could have mounted this operation sooner to rescue the dead guy. 

But at the end of the day, we knew that was out of our control. HQ made the call to go in. Not us. 

Retreating to the mess, and cracking open a cold lemonade, I clinked glasses with John, Kyle and Walt and we stayed up till 5am, waiting to hear that the entire squadron had made it back, no injuries were reported and the entire raid was a success before heading off. 

I stayed up a tiny bit longer, watching the dawn rise over the mountain tops and wondering when this would all end before committing myself to another cycle of vampire hours where I would wake at 9pm and stay up to 5am. 

Getting evil. Doing good. It was all blurred.  

Author’s Note:

A request from a friend who wanted something militaristic. This is my first time writing an actual squad doing work. Before I had mostly written stories about lone wolves doing the business, but it wasn’t that realistic. 

I mostly wrote this from all the books I’ve read recently about standard operations held by Special Forces solders in Afghanistan and in other theatres of war. I think it’s a lot better than my earlier work, a lot more grounded. I also chose to lessen the details of gun accessories, which don’t really mean much to a lot of people, except other gun-nerds like me. 

Instead, I focused on more descriptions about actions, scenery and I think it flowed a lot better narrative-wise than what I’ve done before. It was fun writing this.   

Here is a quick guide to all the acronyms and mil-slang in this short story, since I used a lot of them: 

• AKM – The most common assault rifle in the world. 
• BDU – Battle Dress Uniform 
• CQB – Close Quarters Battle
• DEVGRU – DEVlopment GRoUp or SEAL Team Six is the elite unit within the U.S. Navy SEALs
• EMP – Electro Magnetic Pulse – A shot burst of energy that has the ability to knock out all power and electronics in an area. 
• ETA – Estimated Time to Arrival
• FOB – Forward Operating Base
• GROM –Grupa Reagowania Operacyjno-Manewrowego. Poland’s elite Special Forces Unit, similar to the SEALs or the SAS 
• HVT – High Value Target 
• IFF – Identification Friend or Foe – A system used to ID friendly forces in an area.
• IR – Infra-Red. IR Lasers are used by Special Forces in conjunction with NODs to lase enemies, as IR are beyond visible spectrum. 
• J-Bad – Jalalabad, an important military base in Afghanistan.
• KIA – Killed in Action
• KSK – Kommando Spezialkrafte. Germany’s elite Special Forces Unit, similar to the SEALs or the SAS. 
• LZ – Landing Zone
• MAM – Military Aged Males. Used in battlefield reports to describe enemies. 
• Mikes – slang for minutes
• MK18 – A short barreled AR-15 weapon, commonly used by U.S. Special Forces for CQB (Close Quarters Battle)
• MPX – Sig Sauer’s label for their latest submachine gun, a successor to the HK’s MP5. 
• MP5 – Heckler & Koch’s submachine gun, many consider to be the best of its class. 
• MP7 – Heckler & Koch’s personal defence weapon. 
• NATO – North Atlantic Treaty Organisation
• NODs – Night Observation Devices or NVG – Night Vision Goggles are equipment used by military units to operate in the dark
• OCD – Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
• PEQ-15 – A device mounted on guns to beam IR lasers 
• PJ – slang for Pararescue troopers, soldiers who specialise in parachute jumping and medical care in combat
• QRF – Quick Reaction Force, a convoy or support unit designed to help any soldiers during a mission. 
• RPG – Rocket Propelled Grenade – a common weapon used by insurgents to down any type of vehicle. 
• SAS – Special Air Service, Britain’s elite Special Forces Unit, commonly regarded as the best soldiers in the world. 
• SEAL – SEa, Air and Land, America’s elite Special Forces Unit, commonly regarded as the best soldiers in the U.S. Armed Forces. 
• ‘Stan – slang for Afghanistan
• WILCO – WILl COmply. 

~ Damocles

 

 

 

The Girlfriend Experience (2009)

4/01/2020

Dear Diary, 

This is a new year. Which means a new diary for me. I’m still in the same job, and I admit the thrill of it has been getting a little stale for me. As you know, I signed up mid last year and has been at it ever since. 

I don’t think I’ve ever really had a job like this before, where the highs are always … kind of sad. And the lows are always constant. I mean, I worked in a call centre before this job, and that was always depressing. The stories I heard then, are kind of similar to the ones I hear now, except these guys actually have money. 

But that job was always consistent in how depressing it was. 

This one?

It really goes up and down a lot. One day I might be in total control, and then the next day, I’m lying down face first and completely at the mercy of another. 

I also don’t think I was ready for the therapy either. So many guys spill everything to me. They tell me some of the craziest stuff I’ve ever heard, and then there are the normal stuff about how much they love me, and how I’m different to all the other girls they’ve met. 

I guess being naked and vulnerable in front of a stranger really opens you up. 

At first, I was also scared. But after my first client, I slowly started to embrace it. I’m not the prettiest girl, or the skinniest, but people always say I got that “girl next door” look, and that my body is “comfortable, and soft”. 

I guess you could say I’m like the softest pillow that moans when squeezed.

I’m complaining a lot aren’t I, diary? A lot of people would love to earn 90 thousand a year, and I know heaps of my girlfriends are working a lot harder than me, to earn a lot less. 

Sometimes though, I get jealous. They can say what their job is so easily. I’m always dodging the question, and lying, pretending I work at retail and that my boss is a real dick, when really she doesn’t have one and is always looking out for me and the other girls. 

I created 3 personas since I stated working, diary. Three! I got one where I’m a struggling retail worker at Sportsgirl, during hours I know my friends can’t see me at work. 

Then there’s Eve. She’s the sweetest girl you’ll ever find in a brothel, and will make you feel like you’re making love to the softest cloud, and feel nostalgic for some crush you had in the past. 

Finally, there’s me, here, in this diary, raw and unfiltered. I don’t hold anything back to you diary, because if I did, I’m scared I might lose myself. 

I’m tired though, of lying to my friends. Of lying to potential boyfriends. I’m so scared everyone will judge me, really harshly for the job I have. 

And yet … whenever I think about quitting, I look at my payslip, my apartment, all the things I’ve managed to get, all the stuff I wanted for so long, but now have … and I don’t really want to quit either. 

I’m living a really good life with all the money I’m making. Plus I’ve met all the other girls now, girls just like me, who got attracted to the job because the money was good, and they heard from someone already working. 

I just wished I didn’t feel so much shame. 

What do you think diary? Do you think this shame will fade away? Do I just need to tough it out a bit longer? 

Maybe one day, I’ll be able to tell my friends and family the truth. I don’t have my normal girlfriends over, because who would believe me, that I can have all this luxury, on a retail worker wage? What if they look into my wardrobe? There’s just too much lingerie and silk robes to explain away.

Unless of course I made up another story. But God, I am tired of making up more. 

Do you want to hear a funny irony, diary? 

I tried going on a date the other day. Just before new years, because it’s been more than 6 months since I tried dating. I tried out Tinder, and managed to get several likes. One them dm’ed me and I agreed to go out. 

I put on my favourite dress, and he took me out for Spanish tapas. 

I promised myself I would be honest if he asked me what I did for a living. I mean, he was a stranger, and I had nothing to lose. What was he going to do? I was tired about lying about myself. I had to stand up for myself somehow. Plus it wouldn’t be right for the guy if I lied from the beginning. 

I was dead wrong of course. He walked out on me and I was forced to pick up the bill. He said he wanted a real girl to marry, not some, and I quote, “skank that opened up for dollars.” 

That hurt me so much, because even though it was true, I mean … I am one, right, diary? I thought myself as something more than that. I thought back then, I was just providing a service, that the job wouldn’t really affect my personal life. That I can separate the two. 

The funny irony, is that despite having more sex, more fun, and more guys than any of my girlfriends ever had, I’m still lonelier than they are. 

Weird isn’t it, diary? 

I would be really sad about this, if it weren’t for my other girlfriends. They’re the new ones that I invite to my house a lot. We’re all sisters. We’re the ones who have to fight against the stigma other women hold against us and the sexism that men harbour for us.

I won’t lie, diary, when I’m around them, I’m not as sour as I am here. I’m more fun. I laugh a little easier, because I’m around people the same as me. 

I’m not really alone, as long as I got these girls. but I just wished I didn’t have to cut off all ties with my old life. I’m still so attached to my high school mates, the friends I made in uni and at my book club.

So many of my new friends, they were forced to abandon their old friends. They always tell me, that their old friends weren’t really friends because they couldn’t accept and love the new version of them. That being a prostitute, a sex worker is an empowering thing, and that anyone who can’t handle that, isn’t really their friend or ally. 

I’m not sure I can really do that diary. I love my friends too much to just say that they’re assholes who won’t support my new career. 

But yet I still feel like shit whenever I lie to them.  

I guess, at the end of the day, I got to make a choice don’t I, diary? 

Embrace the new me and try and reconcile the old me with it, or abandon all of this. 

All of this reminds me, diary, of one client. He was the tenderest lover, all about trying to make me feel good and soft strokes down my back and waist. He was really slow, and unbelievably gentle and I swear we must have made slow love for half an hour.

He was so radically different to everyone I had before, who loved to smack my ass, and ram me furiously and be done in 5 minutes before rolling off me and I had to really reassure them that it was OK, that their performance was really amazing, baby.

This gentle guy had me booked for a full 2 hours and he made slow love to me twice, and I admit, it felt amazing, one of the only times where I actually came on the job. 

But what struck me, was the conversation we had those two sessions. He told me that I reminded him on his first girlfriend who had died of cancer, and that while he was dating another girl, he had to come here and book me, after seeing me on a website that his friends had been sharing around in their discord chat. 

He wanted me, because he felt it was the only way making peace with the ghosts in his past. He knew it wrong, because he was dating another girl, a girl he was really fond of, but he couldn’t shake me and his ex out of his mind. He said he was in love with his current girlfriend, but just could not resist. 

He cried into my chest, and I cried with him. I didn’t know what else to say. What could I do in that situation, diary? When I saw him out, I knew he was going to tell his girlfriend about what happened between us. I could read his mind. He had that guilty but resolute expression that some men wear when they walk out of our brothel. 

It was the face of men who had their cake, but knew they couldn’t eat it too and were now ready to atone for their mistakes. We rarely ever see those men come back. Out of all the clients type we have, those are the ones I feel most sorry for. 

That gentle client chose to abandon the new life he had built, for one more taste of the past, through a surrogate that was me. 

I wonder whether I’ll have the courage to make such a choice. 

I guess that’s enough heaviness for tonight, diary. I better go have a shower and get ready for another night of work.  

Write to you soon, diary. 

~Eve 

 Author’s Note:

I’ve always had a long obsession with working girls, even back when I was in high school, burning through crime novels. Something about how beautiful, yet sad and tragic these workers can be, always appealed to my empathy and sympathy.

They are one of the oldest and most stigmatised professions in the world, yet there is a unique strength and character to a lot of these women who work day in and out, trying to earn a living. 

A lot of inspiration for this, came from The Girlfriend Experience, a film that I think is only enhanced by Soderbergh’s unique cinematography and direction, that always suited ground-level intimacy issues like prostitution. I love the unique lighting, the close ups and the fascinating ways he filmed the story. It’s not the best movie, but it’s definitely interesting, considering the main star’s fame as a porn actress and the subsequent TV series based off the film. 

However, I also drew heavily on a fascinating series published by Lot’s Wife, The Secret Diary of a Melbourne Call Girl, as well as my own personal experience with brothels and sex workers, which included a tour of one of Melbourne’s brothels and many conversations I used to have over Tumblr, with a Melbourne sex worker who detailed her experiences and struggles. 

I also wanted to practice writing as a female protagonist, as I feel a lot of my writing is very logical and too male driven. I tried to use softer language and get attuned to the emotions of what Eve was feeling. 

I think I still got a long way to go. 

Until the next one

~Damocles