Meanwhile, over in Jaxon City, Roberts, usually keen to get out and enjoy the cold, crisp air of the city, had placed his hood atop his head to stop himself from getting absolutely soaked. He stood outside the window of some mom and pop electronics store, and stared past what would’ve been his reflection as he looked at the news channels on the televisions in the display. Most were on the same channel, but all were reporting on the same thing. Cherry lipstick flapped to no audio as a bright red banner appeared at the bottom of the program, and spelled out an announcement. China had orchestrated some kind of school shooting or something. Roberts paid it little mind, he had little to spare.

  Of what he still possessed, he had set upon extracting the precise arrangement of words he’d need to use to explain to His Dutiful’s the current predicament. Part of him considered going over His head entirely, and going straight to the Bishop with the news, but he’d rather not push his luck. The man’s nephew was just murdered by some new faced mortal that is now set to be wed to Opal Sanchez. To keep things behind his back any further would be suicide. And so back it was to trying to find the best way to tell him. Either way, he wasn’t going to be happy, and if this was going to play out anything like last time, this wedding was going to be an absolute catastrophe, one that he was kind of looking forward to seeing once again. He wondered if Varin was too.

  A couple raindrops wet the tip of his cigarette twice on his walk to HQ, and each time he answered with the same action. He slid a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a 1933 Zippo with special engraving, and flicked the flint and made quick work of the flame. He thought of the statistical probability of this happening a third time, and decided he liked his odds. He weaved in and out of crowds of traffic. He always enjoyed going on long, rushed walks through the city. When it was busy like this. The only time he preferred going out for a walk more was around the lunch hour, when everyone was making a fast dash to wherever they were stuffing their faces. It was like a dance he did with everyone around him, but none knew they were his partners. He danced the tango and weaved his way through the maranga with at least 200 hundred people before he reached HQ. Don stood at the entrance, dressed in a three piece suit and eyes covered by LeBlanc sunglasses. He nodded at Roberts as he opened the door for him, and Roberts shook his head in return.

  “Bad news?” Don asked.

  “Afraid so,” Roberts replied. He took his hood off as he entered the lobby, and booked it towards the back right corner of the room, where it was difficult, but not impossible, to notice a hallway peeling off. Inside it was an elevator that Roberts entered and pressed the 41st floor. Quaint music accompanied him on his ascent, and he even found himself nodding along to the horrid shit before the elevator came to its final stop, and he stopped off into the room. The rank of cigarette smoke hit him, and he turned his head to see Ernesto, Diego, and a bunch of other clowns playing poker outside the entrance to His Dutiful’s.

  Ernesto was the first to notice Roberts as he walked up, and gave him a head nod. Roberts, shocked at the audacity decided to pepper him a little bit, “All the Sanchez’s taken care of?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, what the fuck are you guys doing here?”

  Diego looked up from his cards and tossed a couple chips onto the table, “He called the dogs off for the night. We’re on guard duty.”

  Roberts nodded, and continued on into the room. He opened the twin set of mahogany doors and closed them carefully behind him, already feeling the stray licks of heat from His Dutiful’s fireplace. His Dutiful’s, Jesus, I really fucking hate saying this shit. Anyway, His Dutiful’s fireplace was casting this real eerie haze about the room. One that stretched all the way to the fucker’s desk. And he had a mean one, this desk. It was this horrid dark walnut stained monstrosity that was dented and cracked and horrid, and each notch told a different story. The one Roberts could see most clearly was this deep divot right dead center. The one that looked like someone just went and took a chomp out of the thing. That was a night that Roberts remembered well. His Dutiful was so pissed he could have filled a lake. The entire Syndicate had gathered after a productive day of fucking everything up, and all the emptiness that the room found itself in now, was completely unheard of back those days. His Dutiful maintained an open door policy, and so no one thought anything of it when His Dutiful called most of the higher ups to his office for a performance review.

  After His Dutiful’s opening statement, and Roberts and the rest of them were keyed into just how pissed off he truly was, Roberts watched as everyone else got themselves busy. Busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest, busier than a bee on the first day of spring, busier than a ghost with one coin for the ferry. Busy as all hell to blame all of this nonsense on someone else. They were still pretty fresh in the Bloodtox business, and they hadn’t worked past all of the mistakes and ill-thought-out ideas, and their most recent one had put them in a particularly negative light, with potential legal repercussions. In short, His Dutiful was looking for who to be pissed with, and the rest were fighting tooth and nail to prop one of them up as the fall guy.

  They settled on this scrappy little bag of nonsense called Diego. Diego was a good kid, however bold, and although Roberts himself didn’t throw his own words into the fray, and help put Diego on that macabre pedestal, he certainly didn’t have any words to offer in his defense either, and after a very short trial, His Dutiful found Diego Garcia guilty of having put the entire operation and by extension The Syndicate in serious jeopardy. And it was Roberts and company that watched on, completely oblivious that Diego would be facing his sentencing all too soon when His Dutiful stood from his chair, and walked over to Diego, placing the palm of his hand against the back of Diego’s head in a plea to comfort him in his folly. Then, he launched Diego’s head against the edge of the desk, square and opulent, as the entire room fell so silent you could hear Diego’s scattered teeth landing about the room.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Roberts rubbed at his forehead as he looked over all the other dings and scratches and gouges that existed in the desk. His Dutiful had never said so explicitly, but Roberts knew that even after all these years and after so much money he kept this exact same desk because with just a glance it told you exactly the story you needed to hear before you even think about opening your mouth in turn.

  Roberts, once he was within an arms length of the twisted thing, took a knee to bow and announced, “Your Dutiful. I have returned.”

  The chair spun around slowly. Another new one. His Dutiful didn’t share the same sentimentality for the chair. This one was especially foreboding, and the size and shadow it cast was only compounded by the slowness with which it spun, and after a time Roberts wished his head would just fall off, rather than continue feeding this anticipatory conversation that could very well mean the end off Roberts’ life.

  “And?”

  “And, I’ve got some updates for you. Wilbur is dead. Opal is alive. And wed.” Roberts rose from the floor and took a seat in the chair perfectly across from him.

  His Dutiful’s hands left the nook of his chin and went flat against the desk. A slow breath whistled out through his mustache, and Roberts crossed his arms, “Yeah. Things got shitty. About as shitty as we could expect.”

  “Who knows?”

  “I imagine news has spread around quite a ways by now. This is nothing save for their last saving grace. I haven’t heard from the ArchBishop just yet.”

  “But there is a chance that he doesn’t know?”

  Roberts shrugged, “Perhaps, but they did this to buy themselves more time. To have not informed the ArchBishop by now makes no sense, sir.”

  His Dutiful leaned back in his chair again, his eyes darting arounnd as he tried to think of the next best move. None of them seemed any good. Most of His Dutiful’s mind expanding strategic implements actually consisted of him simply choosing the amount of people that were required to handle a certain task. He’d gotten quite good at it over the years, and those years had taught him that no problem is too big, sometimes your manpower is simply too small. But, this wasn’t a problem that could be fixed by manpower. What Opal fucking Sanchez just did had absolutely curbed his plans for world domination, and he wasn’t too happy about it. He had already made a real fuss with attacking Opal’s family with the ferocity that he had been, and the Council, though effectively compliant in the atrocity, made sure that he heard from all of Hell and everywhere else how displeased they were with what he was doing. That, he could handle. His seat would still be secured, but to keep the violence going in spite of the wedding. The archbishop himself would find quite a big problem with that, and if His Dutiful kept his rampage going in spite of it, The Council would have enough votes to cast him out, and all of this would be for naught.

  “We hold off. For now. The second that wedding is over they’re fucking dead. Who’s the poor shmuck she married? I’m guessing it ain’t Jakob.”

  “It’s some muggle. Name’s Dante, and he kind of maybe killed Wilbur. Wilbur challenged him. This Dante won.”

  Roberts listened as the armrest of His Dutiful’s chair strained under the grip before ultimately cracking. “Wilbur was killed by some muggle? A muggle that is now set to marry Opal Sanchez?”

  Roberts wished he had a drink to sip, “That’s about right, sir.”

  His Dutiful stood from his chair, and looked down at Roberts. His Dutiful’s hands slid across the juts and nicks in the desk as he walked towards the end of it, and then traipsed across the floor to his window and pulled the curtains back like a showman. Neon spilled in through the windows. It looked like an abstract painting. Something you’d see in a “watch if you’re high” compilation. Different shapes of neon hidden behind a downpour of rain. His Dutiful glanced at the fireplace before returning his view to the city.

  “Whatever. Dead. The both of ‘em. Speak with the ArchBishop immediately. I want this wedding soon.”

  Roberts nodded and rose from his chair. He turned to exit and walked towards those foreboding doors, trying to guess how many times he was going to have to walk through them again in the coming days, and he pulled out another Newport and flipped his zippo out before sitting down at the poker table. Diego and Ernesto, though surprised, made room for Roberts and dealt him his chips. They couldn’t remember the last time that Roberts had joined them for a game. Roberts couldn’t remember the last time that he had enjoyed playing poker, but they all sat together and shared a couple laughs and Ernesto’s filthy mouth shared the odd punch or two, all of them watching in this pure bittersweet marigold vexation as Roberts won more and more hands. The exquisite stoic marble he’d carved into a poker face out bluffed their best and told no lies when all cards came down. When he first put on the mask they thought it was some kind of joke. His cheeks widespread and teeth aglistening and his eyebrows sent as high as they’ll go and every muscle in his face stretched in an array odd enough to make this (and most other) reality’s Jim Carrey proud. And he kept that face throughout every single game that night, and betwixt each shot of tequila, like he was holding back a secret hand so powerful, he dare not mention it at all. And the others, their laughs, and each laugh following, growing ever more tainted with a malignant anxiety. One that, once nested, really grew into this dreadful thing. A dreadful thing that really had no place at what was a really nice poker game. Shame too. For many of them, it was their last.