[Sodium_noir] A saturday in Darktown

[eagandigh]

Maurice
Gangleader
Darktown to the Chaste Dragon
 

Maurice took a roundabout route through Darktown, speeding on his bike.
As he expected things were quiet in the quartier hatienne. Some of his
boys were lounging around in the streets, but after the ceremony they
were more relaxed than in the past week. When he left the quartier
things were a little tenser. The gangs who lounged in the streets were
tenser, unsure. And when he passed them their smell of fear was
palpable. Things had changed a lot for them. Those that had survived the
turf war now looked towards the quartier and wondered what the freaks
that now pulled the strings would do. 

 

He stopped for a short time in Corona’s Street. On one side was one of
the filles’ whorehouses, on the other the battle site. There he had
fought against one of the Bitches and, well, won would be to
enthusiastic a word. He let the memories of that fight creep in. The
street itself was deserted, since the clash of gangs here, people tended
to avoid the street at night. Which wasn’t a good prospect for the
whorehouse, he mused. It needed to be moved soon.

 

He continued driving through the streets. He left Darktown behind and
stopped at a traffic light. To the left he would get back into Darktown
and eventually, over the river, to little italy. To the right was
Lowrentsville and, incidentally, his goal. He turned right and speeded
down the street until he saw the ‘hotel’ called ‘The Chaste Dragon’. He
pulled up in front of it and parked his motorcycle. He took his cane and
walked between the palm trees up to the Bordello’ big double doors. He
pushed them open, entered the place and slowly walked up to the bar,
taking the scene in. For a Saturday night it seemed quite calm, but most
of the guests wouldn’t lounge in the reception area anyway. He glanced
up at the balcony, scrutinizing the whores presenting themselves there,
then turned to the bar and took a seat. “’ello, mon amour. I wass
wondering, if sse essteemed owner of ssiss esstablishment might be ‘ere?
I would like to talk to ‘im.” He said to the girl tending the bar. A
glimmer arose in his eyes as he laid the cane across the bar.

 
[Tag Spikey]
 

>-----Original Message-----
>From: Sodium_noir-bounces at elsinore.net
>[ <mailto:Sodium_noir-bounces at elsinore.net>
mailto:Sodium_noir-bounces at elsinore.net] On Behalf Of eagandigh
>Sent: Sunday, April 30, 2006 2:15 AM
>To: sodium_noir at elsinore.net
>Subject: Re: [Sodium_noir] A saturday in Darktown
>
>
>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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