[Sodium_noir] A saturday in Darktown

[eagandigh]

Maurice
A serpent shedding ist skin
Darktown


After the ceremony, after he had basked in the adulation of his
children, after he had given his blood to his two lieutenants, he had
gone up to the highest floor of the Den, where his daily abode were. He
had taken a shower, washing the blood from his body and he had put on a
robe. Then he had called for Antoine, who had given him an account of
events in Darktown during his absence. There was a lot missing to get a
complete picture. Why had the tongs invaded Darktown? Where had the
rattlesnakes slithered to? Was the battle over and the war been won? No,
he needed more answers. Clearly, something had happened in Chinatown.
Antoine knew about rumours that the Khan was dead. This was a surprise.

He settled on his bed and turned the lights out. Darkness engulfed him,
calmed him. His thoughts raced. He had strange memories about the time
he was away. Memories of meeting the Warrior. And memories of the
Serpent. Had they been drug-induced hallucinations? No, he didn’t
believe so. He had been to the other side and had met the loas
themselves. And he had been found wanting. “See, Maurice Bêtenoir, the
gangleader of the filles de la nuit in Darktown in Gotham on Earth is
just a form, just an idea. He is not you; he is just the form you
decided to wear when you took shape in reality. It is your duty to
realise your true self. This is the only way to escape the chains and be
your true self.” The words of Ogoun, and he believed that they were
exactly that, echoed in his mind. Who was Maurice?

He remembered the little boy growing up on the filthy streets of the
ghetto. The mother of the boy had left the family early, never to
return. So he was alone with his father, an alcoholic bastard. He had
beaten the boy, when he wasn’t statisfied with him, which was more often
than not. The little Maurice had learned a lesson there. The father he
had hated throughout his life had been his best teacher. Power means
everything. The power you have over others mattered, everything else
came second. The little Maurice had sworn never to let others have power
over him as this bastard had once. The best route to power on the
streets of Darktown had been to join one of the gangs. And in the
quartier hatienne there was only one gang – les filles de la nuit. He
officially joined the gang when he had been 15. He had risen through the
ranks thanks to his icy determination and his will to do anything
necessary to never be the slave again. He had lost contact with the
drunken wreck that called himself his father and he had found a new one.
The Houngan had noticed the boy and as he grew older their meetings and
discussions had become more frequent. Sure, he had been a serviteur, an
adherent to voudoun. Everyone in the quartier paid at least lip service
to it. Just like his father had, but that bastard really believed only
in the bottle. But the young Maurice listened to the Houngan and
believed. At least insofar that he realised that voudoun meant power.
That was enough for him.

And so he had risen to the top of the gang in a few years, groomed by
the Papa for this position. Maurice had not then, nor now, known what
had drawn the big leader of the quartier to this fierce boy, who had
fought every kind of authority until he had met the Papa.
Then there was his first death. The gang had been embroiled in a war
with one of the gangs of Darktown. They tried to infringe on the
quartier. In the end they had lost, completely taken by surprise by the
savagery les filles were capable of. They not only shot a few of the
punks, every death had been a statement. A statement of the loas to the
other gangs in Darktown. Touch us and you will know fear not only for
your bodies, but for your souls. During that turf war les filles had
gained their dark reputation throughout the hood. But Maurice had been
fatally wounded during one of the last clashes. Some punk had a machete
and used it on Maurice’s face.

Maurice touched the scar that began under his left eye. He traced it
down his face right to his collarbone. That machete had killed him and
taught him the lesson of failure. But then came the blood and the face
of the Papa. He had been reborn. He had been sure that with that event,
the old Maurice had died and the new Maurice, Maurice Bêtenoir, had been
born. The merciless leader of the children. The feared loa that walked
in the flesh. Maurice laughed. The risen messiah, he thought. What
bullshit. The old Maurice was still in there. The one who wouldn’t allow
anyone to master him again. Now he had the means to gain true power and
he had shed everything that he considered weak. He had become a monster.
Maurice chuckled. Well, that wouldn’t change, would it? But the Bêtenoir
had one failing, which he realised now. He was only in the game for
power. Power had been the be all and end all of his being. There had
been no purpose in his ‘life’. He let the events of the past weeks move
past his inner eye. He had come more than once just nearly to blows with
Titus Bane. He didn’t know who would have won such a clash, but the
truth was that such a fight was pointless, only driven by his will never
to loose and never to back down, never to loose power. But there were
different kinds of power and purposes that were more important than
power.
He had to change, to adapt. This useless quest for power must come to an
end. It had been important before, but now it needed to be shed like a
useless skin, replaced by a purpose. He still would need the power, but
as a tool for something else. And hadn’t he already got that new skin?
Hadn’t he shed that old skin during his ordeal in the ritual?
Maurice didn’t realise it, but his eyes had turned golden and slit. His
tongue flickered unconsciously out of his mouth and tasted the darkness
around him. Things needed to change.

A short while later a dressed Maurice Bêtenoir descended the stairs. On
the third floor he met Ninive, who came slowly up the stairs. When she
saw him she smiled seductively and unconsciously stuck out her chest to
give a view of her ample breasts. “I wanted to come up to meet you.” She
said in a husky voice. Maurice stopped and looked at her. “Do you like
what you see?” He mustered her. “I ‘ave to go now. No time for little
gamess.” He said as he touched her on her cheek and slowly let his
fingers trace down her body. She shuddered. Oh yes, little bitch, you
are drawn to my power, aren’t you. Antoine isn’t good enough for your
ambition anymore. Now you want the blood for yourself. She sunk against
him, melted into him. “But maybe later?” He slowly pushed her back and
stared into her eyes. “Ssere iss alwayss a later, mon fleur. When sse
night ‘ass nearly passsed and your lover’ss assleep, come up and knock.”
With that he left her standing and went down. As he reached the ground
floor he heard that heavy things were drawn across the floor in the
basement and people cursing down there. He left the building. A few boys
were lounging outside keeping an eye on the street. A van parked before
the entrance and Jaleel was standing before the open doors at its back.
He couldn’t meet Maurice’s eyes. Maurice smiled, passed the van and
ignored the three blue plastic bags already laying in it. He didn’t
bother to say anything to his goon and went to his motorcycle, started
it and drove away into the night of Darktown.

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