Assume the Throne
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
Whipping and winding to other end of their dominion, the jeerer coils its massive body, ascending higher in the darkened expanse. Craning its gargantuan head low, the celestial examines the pack. Heavy clouds shift and move. Pumping hearts and warm blood before a terrible glare, the maleficent sneers. Derision spewed at Matsi and his pack. Insults and contempt intensify. Snarls and clinched jowls acknowledge the jeerer. Angled at the canthus, glowing eyes keep tabs on the hostile. Teeth bared. Matsi lets out a high-pitch whistle reaching nearby pack members. Erect ears. They book it down Douglass from Hoyt. Lookout, Chime gives a yelp signaling the coast is clear. Turning onto Bond, Fable transforms, followed by Nine. Chime gathers their shredded clothing, stuffing them into his bookbag. He tosses the bag between two cars before himself shifting. A voice rumbles from behind thick clouds.
"Must be nice to have all that authority and power young prince."
"Nothing's 'nice' about this! 'This' came at a heavy price!"
"Yes, yes! Heavy is the head who wears the crown, yet, you desire it!"
Jaw tightened, Matsi's response, a paradoxical chuckle.
"Happy to amuse south Brooklyn's liege. However, you have not crown nor kingdom. Shall I speak to where you are heading and are going to lead your pack?
"Engaging a fork-tongue is a foolish thing!"
"There may be hope for you yet young prince - so glad you know not to even consider getting entangled with me! Your father did..."
Flashes of light from deep in the heavens blind the jeerer and BrookNaw Canines. Gusts rolling in from the west nearly knocking over Matsi and his pack. The winds strengthen, blowing away members. In vain Matsi reaches for his pack. Caught up, they spiral to and fro. Frantic, Matsi muscles his way through the tempest. "Fable, Zoo, grab my hand! Redd! Grab the side of that building! Hold on! I'm comin'!" A second wave of strong winds take away the BrookNaw Canines. Wild eyes saturated with panic search for the pack. Matsi launches a high-pitch whistle into the storm. Silence. Another aerial wave hits Matsi. Digging his claws into asphalt, Matsi braces himself. Stillness. Visions appear before him. Matsi's father agonizing in a large barn. His mother lying in a forest dead. Silver bullet to the heart. A rubble of scales. New York City in flames - the stench of death. Blood flowing. Shrieks and wails. A cloaked figure materializes in the midst of the chaos, surrounded by obscenities and wickedness. His eyes fixed on Matsi. A familiar melody disrupts the ethereal slumber. Still fixed on Matsi, the figure bares a grin before being washed away, along with the other visions into a basin. Dense fog impairs sight within a few feet. A friendly scent. Shoes click-clack to Matsi.
"CeCe?"
"Yes. Are you ready?"
Fable attempts to wake Matsi. CeCe barks out, staying his hand. "Leave him! Let him slumber." Fable pulls back his hand with a low growl. Mumbling a lullaby, CeCe tends to his tea, stirring round and round; gently tapping a 24-karat gold spoon on the side of a decorated teacup.
"Hakim used to dream dreams, so it is with his son."
Zoo presses further into the room. Nine, Redd and Quake follow suit. Chime trails behind, but stays at the threshold bewildered. He looks on. Opened eyes wildly scan the bedroom. Guttural growls. Veins bulging. Leaping from his bed and navigating his way out to the hall before an ornate curtain of crimson, amber, and black stitch, Matsi stands fixed. His eyes examine the tapestry, touching, feeling; connecting with every story of the rich fabric. Exhale. Claws protract. Pulling away the drapery, revealing a red wall, Matsi takes his hand, running it down the wall, inflicting deep gashes to the façade.
Business as Usual
Rats scrap along Bond Street over an unidentified meal. Shifting shadows hide and seek with the change of every traffic light, and from vehicles eager and anxious to get home or to another party. A Black Mercedes-Benz S-Class waits at a stoplight. Excited conversation heard from the street.
"I know what time it is, and I know what day it is! In the world somewhere, it is 8AM - 4PM, and someone has had success or has failed because "they" either allowed the time of day and day of the week to determine if they were going put in work or not. The latter... is not the person whom you hired to manage your portfolio."
A glance in the rear view mirror by the driver alerts the professional. He extends his index finger to the wheelman, mouthing "in a minute." They turn onto Douglass. Another turn, and they're on Smith. The S-Class fills with odors of sauerkraut, gym socks, and funk. Wall Street gags. Garbage trucks make their circuit, lifting and hurling trash into the mobile dumpster. The luxury car passes.
Thick mist strolls in from the Atlantic, hovering over Gowanus. A Black Dodge Mustang cruises along Third Street, stopping within a few feet of Third Street Bridge. POP! The trunk flies open. A burly man gets out the car, making his way to the trunk. Reaching into the vehicle's cavity, he extracts a lifeless body. Hoisting it up and over his shoulders, the goon maneuvers to the Gowanus Canal, contemptuously launching the "unlucky fellow" onto the canal's bank. THUD.
"You idiot!" exclaims a voice from the passenger's seat. A similarly dressed man exits the Mustang. "In the water - the water! You and your got damn fantastical bullsh*t!"
"Remember me," mutters the brawny hood looking down into the canal.
A Black 1964 Cadillac DeVille pulls up just behind the muscle car.
"Sh*t! The boss is here! You didn't listen about the car, and now... you didn't do what you were supposed to with the body... we're f#ckin' dead!"
A distinguished gentleman emerges from the vintage automobile baring a twisted smirk, saddled with distain. "Fellas, did you do what was asked of you?" Nervous chuckles. "Boss... eh... isn't too happy wit yous." The window of the classic ride rolls down, revealing a middle finger. "See!" Window rolls up. Passenger thug stammers as the brolic hooligan steps forward. "Yes, we dumped it." A slap across the back of the bruiser's head from his partner startles the suit. "Ayo, what was that for? You have no authority here to be slappin' people up!"
"Sorry."
"Not to me, to your partner."
"Sorry I slapped you."
Movement in the water draws the attention of the trio. The Ace studies both men. He pulls a Glock, quickly attaching the silencer. "Looks like yous both are next in the canal." Another hood exits the Cadillac. Gun in tote. "Watch 'em! Make sure there's no funny business." Walking to the edge of the bridge, the Ace peers into the canal. No body. "Got damn sewer rats. Ech! They're good. No need to off em! Let's go - place gives me the creeps!" The men pack into the Cadillac, driving off, leaving the burly thug and his partner.
"Told ya!"
"Let's get the f#ck outta here, you wit all your mumbo-jumbo. The body slid into the water because of the condensation on the rocks that's all."
Joining its brethren, more mist congregates around the Gowanus Canal. Clop, clop. Clop. Hooves against cobblestone puzzles the duo. They look at each other before racing to the Mustang.
What's in the water?