[Sodium_noir] A saturday in Darktown

[eagandigh]

The car drove through the dirty and garbage packed streets of outer
Darktown. It was a car that had seen better times and only rust seemed
to hold it together. Ragga music droned out of it and the driver
casually let his arm stick out of the window as if he was driving in
sunny Florida instead of a cold and wet Gotham. There were four guys in
the car, three of them dressed like voodoo punks from hell. They had all
thick rasta locks and instead of the gold chains sported by most of the
more affluent gang members of Darktown, they wore amulets of chicken
feet and other even more disgusting things. The fourth, bald and broad
and mean-looking wore none of these paraphernalia except an amulet
looking like a ghostcatcher. He sat in the rear of the car, a giant Colt
Anaconda casually tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He looked out
of the window, brooding.
The last week had been quite eventful. After the slaughtering of the
Colombians’ last remaining contacts and acquaintances, and the roughing
up of some of the gangs in Darktown loyal to the Family, things only had
become worse. Onitt, the big bald guy, remembered hazy days filled with
Chinese tongs flooding Darktown in search of the Sharks and the pushing
back of the former, while the latter got practically wiped out or
arrested as even the police seemed to have taken a dim view of the
Sharks. Onitt hoped that the fucking Cops would stay out of his turf for
a while now. Well, those Sharks that got screwed by the police had been
luckier than those, who he and his boys had gotten their hands on. Well,
a few of them were still living, even if only barely. As if that hadn’t
been enough, the Mexican Snake Bitches from Some Fucked Up Hell and
their cronies had made some good entertainment in the last couple of
days. For now the whorehouses and the dealers and pushers seemed to be
clean again. Clean from the Snake Bitches taint. Where the Snake Bitches
themselves slithered to, was anyone’s guess. 
Although usually this sort of crap was to Onitt’s liking, he hadn’t been
as enthusiastic as usual. The gang, les filles de la nuit, had covered
up some very bad thing throughout the ruckus – the Bêtenoir had been
missing. Antoine, who had more or less taken over leadership of them,
had even used some dressed-as-Maurice gang members and had them show up
here and there across Darktown. But the fact had remained. During one of
the toughest times for the filles the leader was gone. On Tuesday, Papa
Saturday had arrived with some strange guy and since then Maurice was
away. Onitt was one of the few who knew where he was and had a vague
idea what was going on, but that didn’t make things better or easier.
He looked at his shaking hand. No, not easier at all. The craving had
begun at the end of the week and now he had gone cold turkey. Onitt
looked at the rotten streets of Darktown, rotten streets that belonged
to the filles now, out of bloodshot eyes. He didn’t see the streets,
everywhere he looked he saw only one thing – blood. Every thought was
occupied by one thing – blood. Hell, he even would refrain from fucking
some stupid whore forever, if he would get it. He even would stop to
breathe. If only he could get the blood. And not just some blood, but
the blood of the Loa. If just some blood would suffice, he would gladly
kill the three other guys in this car and drink them dry.
A cell phone beeped and Onitt fiddled at his pocket until he got it out.
“Yeah?” he said. At the other end a croaky voice answered. Antoine was
having difficulties, too. “It ends tonight. Get les filles down to the
Den tonight. All of them. Everyone should be there for the ceremony
tonight.”

[to be continued]







Antoine and Mbango
Lieutenant & Ghoul and strange voudun priest
The Den of Ogoun


"Mes filles de la nuit," he said, speaking in French, "today we fought a
great battle and won. We can be proud of our prowess, we can be proud of
our strength, we can be proud of our resilience, because TONIGHT
DARKTOWN IS OURS!" A great cheer erupted, emphasized by rattles and
drums. It died down again. "Tonight we can rejoice and feast, because
our struggles, which began 10 years ago, have now come to fruition. But
we must not get complacent now. Out there are still enemies, who right
now are plotting against us. Out there, they hide like rats in the
crooks and crannies of Darktown. Out there, they look at their bloody
noses and will conspire against us. But we will stand strong and alert
and won't let ourselves be brought low by the actions of hiding rats and
cockroaches!" Again a cheer. "Right now, we get information about our
enemy's face, and tonight they will show themselves, emerging from their
dark holes, wondering what hit them today. And they will tremble with
fear when they realize that the might of the loas is arrayed against
them. And when we fight them, we will take their heads and decorate out
temple with their remains! Let us call on the loas, let us call on
mighty Ogoun and on mighty Danballah to give us strength for the war to
come!"

Maurice’s words, spoken not a week ago, echoed in Antoine’s mind as he
entered the petit temple in the basement of the Den of Ogoun. It had
been a week of war. Of bloodshed, death and strange fights with strange
fellows. And he had to coordinate everything, to keep the gang together
and victorious. Now he was as tired as having walked to Hell and back
three times. A blur of faces appeared in his mind’s eye; niggers, who
still sided with the Mexican bitches, even after their cause was doomed.
Then the damned Chinese fuck-ups, who had streamed into Darktown. They
had actually been a blessing, as they had torn into the Sharks with
abandon. Great Danballah knew why, but sometimes it’s better not to
question your luck. Even the damn Cops came crashing down on the Sharks.
Well, he knew that somehow the Houngan had been responsible for that. In
his mind he counted his allies and his enemies. Not many of the latter
were standing and the former had multiplied. All in all it had been a
good week. The only glitch being, that they were a gang without a head.
Antoine had tried to fill in as good as he could and the fighting had
actually helped. The filles had been to busy to question him or wonder
where the loa that walked, where the bêtenoir, had been. He sat on one
of the stools in the temple trying to still the trembling of his hands
and the craving in his heart. All his thoughts were tinted with the
desire for the Godsblood. He knew he couldn’t hold out much longer,
before he would snap. He looked at the column in the middle of the room,
at that which lay underneath. 
On a stool not far away from it sat a man. His skin was the darkest
black imaginable. Ritual scars marked his cheek and his thick black
dreadlocked hair was streaming down his back, bundled up in a tail. He
wore a white suit contrasting his skin, which was impeccably neat and
suited his form perfectly. His hands were folded around a cane, with
which he slowly tapped a strange rhythm on the floor. Mbango was the
name he had given. He had arrived with the Houngan Tuesday night. He had
escorted Maurice down into the secret haven underneath the column. He
had waited here since then, humming words and incantations, or directing
when the captives should be brought down. Antoine had obeyed all the
orders of this strange houngan. He had come with the authority of the
Papa behind him. Antoine had heard the screams coming up from down there
yesterday in the night. Some of the whores, who had sold out to the
Mexican Snake Bitches, had been brought down there before. Last
sacrifices, Mbango had said. Antoine still shuddered when he remembered
those screams. He had seen the bêtenoir feeding, but never had his
victims screamed like that. “Tonight. The ritual ‘as come to an end.
Prepare les filles. There will be a great ceremony tonight to celebrate
the shedding of the old skin and the resurrection of the Bête.” Mbango
looked at Antoine and showed his perfectly white teeth in a grin that
was neither friendly nor comforting. Antoine just nodded. “And you will
again taste that which you so desperately crave.” He added with a
chuckle as Antoine left the Temple to give the orders for celebration.
Mbango turned back to the column and began to chant in rhythm to the
tapping of his cane.

[to be continued]


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