I SUGGEST YOU READ IV AND IV:In The Red BEFORE YOU READ THIS
WONLAY
The fact that Wonlay was quarter past tipsy did not help his situation at all. A very dangerous man was making an attempt on his life and he had been ill prepared. Perhaps he should have taken that caller with the voice distortion seriously. ‘Regardless,’ he thought, ‘people that choose to mask their voices are spineless and cowardly’.
The bullets from the unidentified man's vicious attacks echoed through the church hall, chanting their unholy hymn of death. Wonlay had to think fast. ‘What could stop or at least slow down this relentless attacker?’ He looked around for some clue or inspiration. The candles-the ones not desecrated at least-gave him an idea. He felt his jaIVcket for his old liquor canister and his lighter. Wonlay knew nothing about being a bartender, but he could make one hell of a Molotov cocktail. The contents of the old canister he kept in his breast pocket at all times were quite flammable. It was a something he cooked up himself in the makeshift lab/mini distillery he had in a backroom at home. Whenever he felt his spirits dip to low levels or needed something with ‘kick’; Wonlay sought his pocket-size metallic friend. He hurriedly pulled out the canister, his lighter and a handkerchief. He then let out a little lighter fluid onto the white piece of cloth and then poured more into the canister. He shook the canister a little to blend the alcohol with the lighter fluid. Wonlay left just enough fluid to light the handkerchief, and then stuffed it into the canister.
Wonlay waited a little for the flame to reach the opening of the metal bottle and thrust it hard across the middle of the church floor. It slid almost perfectly to where his assailant stood. The man with the barking weapon did exactly as Wonlay had predicted and dove behind a pew. Wonlay quickly moved to the front of the column of pews the assassin was behind, and pushed them with admirable might. His manoeuvre caught the man off guard and allowed him to run outside the church. But he was not fleeing, no.
Wonlay never thought they would ever be of use, but on that day, the two Match pistols he had hidden behind the tank of the unused toilet in the gents; would probably save his life. He was reminded of Michael Corleone from The Godfather as he felt for his guns behind the cistern of the toilet.
The assassin kicked the door in and fired a number of rounds into the men’s room, shattering the old tiles on the walls and plywood doors. Though the gent’s was small, the man did not immediately see Wonlay standing just beside the entrance. But he did see him using his peripherals just in time to hit Wonlay’s arm and make him miss his shot. The pistol in the hand that the attacker struck dropped to the floor and Wonlay quickly fired a shot with his other gun. He missed again but only by mere inches, and because the man had moved out of his range of fire. Wonlay counted himself lucky because the man could not properly swing his rifle around and fire owing to the close quarters. This allowed Wonlay to elbow his assailant in the face and follow it up with a knee to his diaphragm.
The man staggered back, giving Wonlay a clear shot. Just as he was about to fire, his mind began to scream and he was paralysed.
JUGBEH
The blood poured profusely from Jugbeh’s pinky and ring fingers. If the amphetamines had not kicked in by then, Jugbeh would have been in great pain. He hurriedly tore a large portion of the lower part of his t-shirt and improvised a bandage. He had locked eyes with the small Asian man, building up even more animosity toward the man that had just severed his fingers. Jugbeh was going to kill him.
Each punch hurled seemed more powerful than the last, and if he had caught his target with any of them; Jugbeh would have caved the man's face in. It had become evident that the little man had underestimated Jugbeh and his strength, and was now toying with him. Jugbeh observed that he had almost cornered the little man and counted on him to move in closer to cut him-and he did. As soon as the blade struck him, Jugbeh grabbed a hold of his Asian foe and flung him backwards, falling with him and raising up dust and the old prescription papers that lay on the floor. Jugbeh quickly got up, grabbed an old wooden chair that and broke it over his enemy's head before he could recover from the suplex, splitting the chair into pieces. Jugbeh's fighting moves had always been largely influenced by professional wrestling and he was getting excited by this 'hardcore match'. The amphetamines induced images of a ring and a packed arena chanting Jugbeh's name. He raised his arms in celebration to the imaginary crowd and then bowed his head.
His bleeding had not slowed down and so Jugbeh's improvised bandage was now drenched in crimson blood. Even with the drugs, his stubs began to send shots of excruciating pain through his arm. He decided it would be better to use his legs to stomp the life out of the little guy. He did deserve to die like the little bug that he was after all. The little man could not fight much after the heavy blows he had received and took his beating like bitter medicine.
"Cut my fingers, will you!?" shouted Jugbeh as he attempted to leave shoe prints of his boot on the little man's face and body.
Shots of blood spattered from the man's face and stained Jugbeh's boot in his efforts to payback the small man for cutting his fingers. Had it not been for the deafening sound that suddenly pierced the room, Jugbeh would have continued his drug fueled onslaught. The sound was so powerful that it dropped Jugbeh to the ground causing him to try and protect his ears even with his bloody hand. He curled up next to his Asian enemy, whose pain had now multiplied twofold.
GOMA
Goma moved with haste and caught a glimpse of the prayerful assassin just as he turned a corner and disappeared to the side of the church. He was trying to maintain his cool and still move fast enough to catch his prey. He moved like one of the speed walkers that flooded the streets and parks in the early mornings; frantically shuffling his feet and thrusting his legs forward without exactly running.
When he kicked the door to the men's room in and fired his weapon, Goma quickly realised that he should have not been so careless and should have expected a surprise from his mark. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, the man in the suit stretched his arm out just in time for Goma to disturb his shot. The report of the gunshot left a ringing in Goma’s ear, like a mischievous child had just popped a giant fire cracker beside it. Goma soon confirmed that his foe was indeed formidable when he quickly retaliated with another shot. Thank goodness he missed, Goma thought. He tried to bring his gun around so he could fire, but the weapon was too large to easily maneuver in the small space.
Goma had resolved long ago to never feel inadequate or stupid, but this tussle with a man he thought was ill prepared brought those feelings rushing up from within the depths of his belly. But they were quickly stopped by a knee to his stomach area.
Goma stumbled back and shook his head to regain his focus. What he saw almost made him wish he had not. The barrel of the gun held by his foe stared him down like a towering bully. But the pain that shot through his head was not one of a bullet wound, no, it was something else. Something that caused even his enemy pain. They both fell to the ground and howled in anguish.
Goma was now grappling with consciousness and when he managed to open his eyes in all the pain he was experiencing, Goma saw a man in a suit come into the gents and stand over them.
BADUK
Pain. Excruciating pain. Pain was all Baduk had ever known. He had received so much in his agonising existence that he had decided to embrace the pain. He made it a part of him, let it mold him, and then he spread its agonising gospel indiscriminately. Pain cleanses the soul. Without pain, how can one know joy? Baduk dispensed pain for survival, he dispensed pain for money and Baduk dispensed pain for pleasure. Pain was all Baduk had ever known.
Taming the pain though, sometimes proved to be a difficult task. The sonic frequency that had invaded the room like a screaming bat from hell had Baduk and his foe incapacitated. He was trying his best to concentrate and make out where exactly the paralysing noise was coming from. Though he probably would not be able to drink it under the circumstances, Baduk was wishing he had a can of Amp. Energy drinks had their own way of soothing his pain. The big man he was meant to kill was barking out obscenities in between his cries of pain. A can of Amp would have done him some good too.
The banshee-like noise left the room as suddenly as it had come, but there was still a steady ringing in Baduk’s ears. He mustered the little strength he had in him and got on one shaky knee. The ringing in his ear faded out and a distant clacking of shoes on the floor gradually replaced it. When he looked up, Baduk saw a figure standing by the big man that had tried to stomp the life out of him. He was wearing a fine black suit and shades. The man in black pulled out a cloth and what looked like chloroform before he covered his mouth and drowned the mumbles of the big one. Baduk did not need to be told he was next and so he crawled across the floor in an effort to reach the exit. His world soon went black.
Baduk came to for what seemed like a fraction of a second, maybe more. He had no sense of time, everything felt so surreal and dream-like. Next to him was the big man he was sent to kill. He was out cold. There were two other men with them, one in a suit and the other in plain clothes. Both out cold. There was a slit of blinding light coming from the corner of Baduk’s eye. When he looked to see what it was, he saw the chloroform man in the suit and shades closing a door. Baduk gave way to the weight of his eyelids and let the unconsciousness consume him. He could hear a distant hum of a car engine, and for a moment, it drove away the pain.
****
IV
“Ah, I see you are all awake,” said the deep voice, “I really must apologise for my crude methods of bringing you all here, but you must understand, you lot are the four most dangerous men on the planet.”
The cloaked voice coming from the intercom on the table was the very same one that had called each of the men sitting at the table and rousing to consciousness. There really was no way of determining this for sure, but it really was doubtful whether the quota for deep disguised voice phone calls goes above one in a day.
“Wha--wha--Who the hell are you?” blurted Jugbeh. His hand had been stitched and wrapped neatly in fresh bandages.
“All you need to know for now is that I represent a large and wealthy organisation that is interested in maintaining an order and balance in the world,” replied the voice.
“You the Illuminati, aren’t you?” said Jugbeh.
“Ha ha, hardly Mister Jugbeh. But I wouldn't rule that out completely heh heh.”
“How dare you kidnap me!” Goma shouted into the intercom, “I will have your head for this!!”
“Mister Goma, you would have to know where I am or what I look like for you to have my head. Idle threats are not necessary here. However, I feel it is necessary that I apologise for what I put you all through. You should receive a small peace offering from me in shortly.”
The phones of the four men at the table vibrated and/or rang at intervals. They each pulled them out from their pockets and found they had received text messages from their respective banks telling them their accounts had been credited.
“$500,000 should be sufficient for now. Oh, and Mister Jugbeh, terribly sorry about your hand. Surgery will be fully paid for and you will receive the best medical attention money can buy,” the deep voice went on, “Of course, that is just a small fraction of what you could be receiving should you choose to stay on and work with our organisation.”
“I don't need your tainted money. What do you want with us?” asked Wonlay.
“Oh please Mister Wonlay, do not be so self righteous! EVERYBODY needs money! You now have enough to pay your debts and fund your binges! All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. If it does not whet your appetite, you may leave. You are all free men after all, even you Mister Baduk.” Baduk only grunted his approval.
A large automated metal door opened in the corner.
“The door is open.”
The four men looked at each other undecidedly. Each one was waiting on another to make the first move. A pinch of greed and a dash of curiosity; they had all tasted the broth of the deep voiced man, and they yearned for more.
Illustrations by Lo. Follow him on twitter @inkerblood
You can follow me on twitter @Benny_blow
WONLAY
The fact that Wonlay was quarter past tipsy did not help his situation at all. A very dangerous man was making an attempt on his life and he had been ill prepared. Perhaps he should have taken that caller with the voice distortion seriously. ‘Regardless,’ he thought, ‘people that choose to mask their voices are spineless and cowardly’.
The bullets from the unidentified man's vicious attacks echoed through the church hall, chanting their unholy hymn of death. Wonlay had to think fast. ‘What could stop or at least slow down this relentless attacker?’ He looked around for some clue or inspiration. The candles-the ones not desecrated at least-gave him an idea. He felt his jaIVcket for his old liquor canister and his lighter. Wonlay knew nothing about being a bartender, but he could make one hell of a Molotov cocktail. The contents of the old canister he kept in his breast pocket at all times were quite flammable. It was a something he cooked up himself in the makeshift lab/mini distillery he had in a backroom at home. Whenever he felt his spirits dip to low levels or needed something with ‘kick’; Wonlay sought his pocket-size metallic friend. He hurriedly pulled out the canister, his lighter and a handkerchief. He then let out a little lighter fluid onto the white piece of cloth and then poured more into the canister. He shook the canister a little to blend the alcohol with the lighter fluid. Wonlay left just enough fluid to light the handkerchief, and then stuffed it into the canister.
Wonlay waited a little for the flame to reach the opening of the metal bottle and thrust it hard across the middle of the church floor. It slid almost perfectly to where his assailant stood. The man with the barking weapon did exactly as Wonlay had predicted and dove behind a pew. Wonlay quickly moved to the front of the column of pews the assassin was behind, and pushed them with admirable might. His manoeuvre caught the man off guard and allowed him to run outside the church. But he was not fleeing, no.
Wonlay never thought they would ever be of use, but on that day, the two Match pistols he had hidden behind the tank of the unused toilet in the gents; would probably save his life. He was reminded of Michael Corleone from The Godfather as he felt for his guns behind the cistern of the toilet.
The assassin kicked the door in and fired a number of rounds into the men’s room, shattering the old tiles on the walls and plywood doors. Though the gent’s was small, the man did not immediately see Wonlay standing just beside the entrance. But he did see him using his peripherals just in time to hit Wonlay’s arm and make him miss his shot. The pistol in the hand that the attacker struck dropped to the floor and Wonlay quickly fired a shot with his other gun. He missed again but only by mere inches, and because the man had moved out of his range of fire. Wonlay counted himself lucky because the man could not properly swing his rifle around and fire owing to the close quarters. This allowed Wonlay to elbow his assailant in the face and follow it up with a knee to his diaphragm.
The man staggered back, giving Wonlay a clear shot. Just as he was about to fire, his mind began to scream and he was paralysed.
JUGBEH
The blood poured profusely from Jugbeh’s pinky and ring fingers. If the amphetamines had not kicked in by then, Jugbeh would have been in great pain. He hurriedly tore a large portion of the lower part of his t-shirt and improvised a bandage. He had locked eyes with the small Asian man, building up even more animosity toward the man that had just severed his fingers. Jugbeh was going to kill him.
Each punch hurled seemed more powerful than the last, and if he had caught his target with any of them; Jugbeh would have caved the man's face in. It had become evident that the little man had underestimated Jugbeh and his strength, and was now toying with him. Jugbeh observed that he had almost cornered the little man and counted on him to move in closer to cut him-and he did. As soon as the blade struck him, Jugbeh grabbed a hold of his Asian foe and flung him backwards, falling with him and raising up dust and the old prescription papers that lay on the floor. Jugbeh quickly got up, grabbed an old wooden chair that and broke it over his enemy's head before he could recover from the suplex, splitting the chair into pieces. Jugbeh's fighting moves had always been largely influenced by professional wrestling and he was getting excited by this 'hardcore match'. The amphetamines induced images of a ring and a packed arena chanting Jugbeh's name. He raised his arms in celebration to the imaginary crowd and then bowed his head.
His bleeding had not slowed down and so Jugbeh's improvised bandage was now drenched in crimson blood. Even with the drugs, his stubs began to send shots of excruciating pain through his arm. He decided it would be better to use his legs to stomp the life out of the little guy. He did deserve to die like the little bug that he was after all. The little man could not fight much after the heavy blows he had received and took his beating like bitter medicine.
"Cut my fingers, will you!?" shouted Jugbeh as he attempted to leave shoe prints of his boot on the little man's face and body.
Shots of blood spattered from the man's face and stained Jugbeh's boot in his efforts to payback the small man for cutting his fingers. Had it not been for the deafening sound that suddenly pierced the room, Jugbeh would have continued his drug fueled onslaught. The sound was so powerful that it dropped Jugbeh to the ground causing him to try and protect his ears even with his bloody hand. He curled up next to his Asian enemy, whose pain had now multiplied twofold.
GOMA
Goma moved with haste and caught a glimpse of the prayerful assassin just as he turned a corner and disappeared to the side of the church. He was trying to maintain his cool and still move fast enough to catch his prey. He moved like one of the speed walkers that flooded the streets and parks in the early mornings; frantically shuffling his feet and thrusting his legs forward without exactly running.
When he kicked the door to the men's room in and fired his weapon, Goma quickly realised that he should have not been so careless and should have expected a surprise from his mark. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, the man in the suit stretched his arm out just in time for Goma to disturb his shot. The report of the gunshot left a ringing in Goma’s ear, like a mischievous child had just popped a giant fire cracker beside it. Goma soon confirmed that his foe was indeed formidable when he quickly retaliated with another shot. Thank goodness he missed, Goma thought. He tried to bring his gun around so he could fire, but the weapon was too large to easily maneuver in the small space.
Goma had resolved long ago to never feel inadequate or stupid, but this tussle with a man he thought was ill prepared brought those feelings rushing up from within the depths of his belly. But they were quickly stopped by a knee to his stomach area.
Goma stumbled back and shook his head to regain his focus. What he saw almost made him wish he had not. The barrel of the gun held by his foe stared him down like a towering bully. But the pain that shot through his head was not one of a bullet wound, no, it was something else. Something that caused even his enemy pain. They both fell to the ground and howled in anguish.
Goma was now grappling with consciousness and when he managed to open his eyes in all the pain he was experiencing, Goma saw a man in a suit come into the gents and stand over them.
BADUK
Pain. Excruciating pain. Pain was all Baduk had ever known. He had received so much in his agonising existence that he had decided to embrace the pain. He made it a part of him, let it mold him, and then he spread its agonising gospel indiscriminately. Pain cleanses the soul. Without pain, how can one know joy? Baduk dispensed pain for survival, he dispensed pain for money and Baduk dispensed pain for pleasure. Pain was all Baduk had ever known.
Taming the pain though, sometimes proved to be a difficult task. The sonic frequency that had invaded the room like a screaming bat from hell had Baduk and his foe incapacitated. He was trying his best to concentrate and make out where exactly the paralysing noise was coming from. Though he probably would not be able to drink it under the circumstances, Baduk was wishing he had a can of Amp. Energy drinks had their own way of soothing his pain. The big man he was meant to kill was barking out obscenities in between his cries of pain. A can of Amp would have done him some good too.
The banshee-like noise left the room as suddenly as it had come, but there was still a steady ringing in Baduk’s ears. He mustered the little strength he had in him and got on one shaky knee. The ringing in his ear faded out and a distant clacking of shoes on the floor gradually replaced it. When he looked up, Baduk saw a figure standing by the big man that had tried to stomp the life out of him. He was wearing a fine black suit and shades. The man in black pulled out a cloth and what looked like chloroform before he covered his mouth and drowned the mumbles of the big one. Baduk did not need to be told he was next and so he crawled across the floor in an effort to reach the exit. His world soon went black.
Baduk came to for what seemed like a fraction of a second, maybe more. He had no sense of time, everything felt so surreal and dream-like. Next to him was the big man he was sent to kill. He was out cold. There were two other men with them, one in a suit and the other in plain clothes. Both out cold. There was a slit of blinding light coming from the corner of Baduk’s eye. When he looked to see what it was, he saw the chloroform man in the suit and shades closing a door. Baduk gave way to the weight of his eyelids and let the unconsciousness consume him. He could hear a distant hum of a car engine, and for a moment, it drove away the pain.
****
IV
“Ah, I see you are all awake,” said the deep voice, “I really must apologise for my crude methods of bringing you all here, but you must understand, you lot are the four most dangerous men on the planet.”
The cloaked voice coming from the intercom on the table was the very same one that had called each of the men sitting at the table and rousing to consciousness. There really was no way of determining this for sure, but it really was doubtful whether the quota for deep disguised voice phone calls goes above one in a day.
“Wha--wha--Who the hell are you?” blurted Jugbeh. His hand had been stitched and wrapped neatly in fresh bandages.
“All you need to know for now is that I represent a large and wealthy organisation that is interested in maintaining an order and balance in the world,” replied the voice.
“You the Illuminati, aren’t you?” said Jugbeh.
“Ha ha, hardly Mister Jugbeh. But I wouldn't rule that out completely heh heh.”
“How dare you kidnap me!” Goma shouted into the intercom, “I will have your head for this!!”
“Mister Goma, you would have to know where I am or what I look like for you to have my head. Idle threats are not necessary here. However, I feel it is necessary that I apologise for what I put you all through. You should receive a small peace offering from me in shortly.”
The phones of the four men at the table vibrated and/or rang at intervals. They each pulled them out from their pockets and found they had received text messages from their respective banks telling them their accounts had been credited.
“$500,000 should be sufficient for now. Oh, and Mister Jugbeh, terribly sorry about your hand. Surgery will be fully paid for and you will receive the best medical attention money can buy,” the deep voice went on, “Of course, that is just a small fraction of what you could be receiving should you choose to stay on and work with our organisation.”
“I don't need your tainted money. What do you want with us?” asked Wonlay.
“Oh please Mister Wonlay, do not be so self righteous! EVERYBODY needs money! You now have enough to pay your debts and fund your binges! All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. If it does not whet your appetite, you may leave. You are all free men after all, even you Mister Baduk.” Baduk only grunted his approval.
A large automated metal door opened in the corner.
“The door is open.”
The four men looked at each other undecidedly. Each one was waiting on another to make the first move. A pinch of greed and a dash of curiosity; they had all tasted the broth of the deep voiced man, and they yearned for more.
Illustrations by Lo. Follow him on twitter @inkerblood
You can follow me on twitter @Benny_blow
