Man's Best Friend

Is it odd that I never had pets growing up? I knew several others who did have pets, and they treated them as parts of the family. I guess since my family life was not normal in any way, I never felt the need to have companionship like that of a dog. Even though I have that now, in a really weird and twisted way.


We'll call him Mike. He can be quite a frisky fellow. He's got that really cool mottled fur you see on boxers or pit bulls, and his coat is very shiny lately. Mike's great, even when he misbehaves. But I don't get to see him all too often, especially when he's traveling or doing whatever illegal scam or gun run.


What? Your canine pal doesn't engage in illicit sales of magical artifacts? He doesn't keep a fully stocked armory in the trunk of his expensive car? He doesn't own a car? Well then, I guess you've never met someone like Mike.


In reality, he's a Cyno (aka cynocephali). Dog-headed man. Not like a werewolf, no. Those are lycanthropes. Think more like Anubis. This he tells me in an ancestor of his, and that he had no special powers, he was just a long lived undertaker and mortician. You can see where the mix up happens. Mike himself is apparently one-hundred and twelve, and the youngest of 7, most of which apparently are still alive.


I met Mike about 3 years ago, in Boston, in a ship yard in which I had been stuffed by some real nasty guys. They didn't know who I was, and thought that putting me in there would be a good idea. When I called for backup, in rolled this dogman Southie. Literally; he slammed his SUV right into the container and tore open the door for me. He took the brutes out with a shotgun while I gathered myself and work my way out of the container. I got the package I was there for in the first place, and Mike got em out of there.


Going back to his place was not what I had intended, though that's what was ordered. He lived in a rather quaint apartment, in the second story of a warehouse. He worked as a Procurer for us; he found things and people for us when we were either too lazy or too busy to deal with them. He apparently read a lot, practiced his culinary skills, and had some mean Xbox skills. I had a good mean, some fun blowing up and screaming at kids online, and a good nights sleep. I hadn't felt that safe to sleep in a long time. I spent a good week hanging out; nice little vacation.


Jump ahead 3 years to last month. I get a docket full of mission briefings. I've been tasked with hunting down this woman who specializes in looting reliquary. She got a hold of something that belonged to us, and though we were able to buy it back, the higher ups wanted her "captured, dead, or worse". I learned the hard way a few times to never go in on one of these alone. I have a handful of people i trust though, so it can make it a little hard at time to get things done. But this was the perfect op to bring Mike along on. He's a good tracker, a good shot, has nerves of steel, and can pick an expensive antique out of a room full of junk.


We worked the case for three months, following leads from one city to the next. She was quite the stealthy quarry, and to this day I think she knew someone was a step behind. It was almost month four when we finally gained some leverage, and cut to the head of the line. It was in Chechnya, at a cathedral about an hour outside of Grozny. It was said there was an entrance to some undocumented (or lost) catacombs which may contain the remains of an apostle. As you know, bones of dead holy-men can bring in a good amount in the right black market. For me, this mission could have a twofold reward.


Mike had time to get hidden away, just in case things went south; I wanted to bring her in alive. This is never an easy task, especially with someone who's known to carry a Tec-9 and doesn't even ask questions after shooting. Live catches lead to better interrogations, especially since I hate dealing with they whinyness of the recently-deceased. There was risks to be had, and the payout was good. It was a chance I took.


After about 15 minutes of adding bullet holes all over the courtyard, the front of the church, and my rental car, we finally had her pinned down, and she was out of ammo. I tried to give her an out, but she called my bluff; I was out of ammo too. But who needs ammo when you have a partner who can outrun any human? When she bolted for the tree line, it took Mike all of five bounds from where he was at to tackle her. He had her hog-tied with zippies before I arrived.


We not only get her alive, but she had written noted on the catacombs. Bonus! I checked them out while Mike secured her in the SUV. Easy Peasy; the door was where it was supposed to be, and the stale air inside the hall said no one used the entrance in decades, if not more. I dropped a GPS transmitter for the collections team, closed the door back up, and headed out. Mike has had sedated in the back of the car, and had put one of those large floppy hats on her to hide her, just incase any locals wondered who as driving by in a bullet ridden Lincoln. We didn't even need to unload her from the car, we drove right up into the perfectly timed C-130, and off we were.


She would've got away if it wasn't for Mike, and I wouldn't have been able to get in good with my boss. I've talked to him since, and was a bit surprised when he told me he was to be married. It was arranged, as is customary with his people. Selective breeding has kept their numbers manageable, but far from dangerously low. I'm invited. It's in Monaco this summer. I just have to do my research for gifts; I don't think matching diamond-studded collars & tags would be in good taste.

Random thoughts, and a little story.

No one likes to find out  that everything they've ever been told may have been a half-truth or a complete lie. It was like that for me, but much earlier on in life. I wasn't able to "go back to sleep". And from that fateful day, it's been one wild ride.


In recent months, dear reader, I've been quiet. It's not due to anything other than I've been brow-deep in It. Don't ask what "It" is. Doing so will either drive you mad, or get you dead. Never ask questions. There's no point in questions anymore. The answer to almost all of them is an emphatic "yes". That wasn't your imagination, there really is something there in the corners of your room. But knowing all is true isn't just enough. Not by a long shot.


So there was a huge part of last year I was in exile. It's an interesting place to be. Not sure if friends are enemies, and if your enemies can be used as friends. It forces you to use everything you've ever learned in your life that weighs anything. I was pushed to my limits, and found they weren't limits at all, but fucking spiky and razor sharp hurdles in a really fucked up race. I still have my smooth and supple thighs, just so you know. A few scars, but those are inside.


While in exile, I met some interesting people, and saw some interesting things. Did you know that the slums of Brazil is a hotbed for, not only a refuse of society, but also the host? Yup, being not of this Earth live in the gutters, some just as poor and downtrodden as the kids who play soccer with a ball made of rubber-bands.


On the other hand, some seem to proliferate in that situation. Like Miska Sievalth, who works as an assassin for various Bratva groups that setup in Brazil. She's not really Russian at all, not that they would care, she's a beast. They don't know that she's really a blood descendant of Mictecacihuatl, who was some old Aztec god of the underworld. Miska's old, like 320 years old, but she looks 30. I still think it's her diet and workout routine. They age slower, these "demi-gods". There's math in there somewhere, I guess like 10x slower than us.


Anyways, she's real buddy buddy with me, ever since I saved her ass from a very large group of thugs. She may have the genes of a deity in her blood, but she makes mistakes like the rest of us. Ends up, her mark wasn't what she was told, and had lots of friends in the bar. Extraction is my game, so getting her out was a snap, except for the 1/2 mile dash through slummy side streets and into the hills. I helped her out a few days later, cleaning up the mess; she got her mark. And she had me accompany her on her collection, where she got to again "get her mark". You don't fuck with being of a higher plane, even if they only have one foot in.


Anyways, I wonder. Debt. It's not just for money. It's for favors. I have my own White Book; my book of debts. Who owes me, and who thinks I owe them. I never really do, but when they think that I do, well, I like to write a little "lol" next to their name.

Let me distract you with music.

No, I'm not dead. Just spent most of the year in the Amazon. Don't ask, I'll explain soon. Dirty deeds were done dirt cheap, and I was the one left with mud on the boot.

Almost Halloween, which we all know is a busy time for me and my ilk. I can't wait. I've been in need of some action. They're letting me out of the archives; no more musty books.

Yea, it's been a weird year. Glad to be back and vocal.

But for now, click here and listen: RoninGeisha on 8Tracks

Shakedown

Demons; it’s so hard to find one that will keep its end of a deal.

Depending on where they come from, some demons just are too shifty for their own good. Case in point; I know a guy, who’s not really a guy, who runs a “bait & switch” operation in a pawn shop near Chinatown. He’s generally harmless, except he likes to sell corrupted, cursed, and haunted items, some of which are of his own creation. Now and then, I go and shake him down. Rules are rules, and as long as he doesn’t break the simple one, he can run his artifact trafficking business all he wants, as long as me and my people get notified and first dibs on anything that may be useful.

So I stop by Chan’s earlier today, since things have been a little quiet from him. As I’m walking in, he’s shoving a little girl out the back door, slipping something into her backpack. A glance from me, and my wingman slips back out the front and does his thing. I hate sneaky shit, and Chan is notorious for it. So I follow him over the back room, throwing down my usually front-room banter, just in case anyone is watching. Once in the back though, I shoulder into Chan, knocking him into a chair, and I land a swift heel to his jaw.

Chan is not a powerful Yaoguai. He may not even be full blooded. I don’t remember his true name, but I think he may have been a dragon at some point. Anyways, he’s a wimp, but he’s smart; real smart. So smart that he knew to take my deal when I offered it to him as an alternative to being flayed open on a dissection table. But sometimes, he tries to pull one over on me, and the boy forgets that I hate that shit.

So after getting my boot to his face, Chan tries to act surprised by my actions, saying they are unwarranted. I ask him he slipped into the girl’s bag was, but he tries to by sly and play it off that she’s his mortal granddaughter, and he was giving her something to give to her mother. Of course, my phone alerts me to an incoming SMS, and it’s Jackson; he’s heading back to the shop with the girl, who isn’t acting normal. I get right up into Chan’s face and let him know I may be collecting an arm, again, if the girl is under any magic. He gulped, loudly.

Though he can regenerate, it’s bad for him to lose a limb. Chan doesn’t lose any power or anything, but it opens him up to be influenced by the holder of said flesh. I had the damn thing cremated, then had the ashes compressed into a cute little fake diamond, which I wear on a charm bracelet. Is it irony that my charm bracelet really is covered in magical charms? Anyways, it still takes him a year or so to grow a new arm back, and it’s weird for customers to see this little arm, and if they ever come back, to his a normal arm in its place. He uses the twin excuse.

So Jackson brings the little girl into the backroom, and from the start I can tell things are fucked. We sit her down, and Jackson gives her a once-over; drooly, eyes pitch-black w/ no whites, ice cold, and forlorn looking. We look into her pack, and find nothing but an old vase. I pulled it out and swung it over to Chan, why reared back from it. It had a slight vibration, a hum, a resonance. I had a clue what it was, but wasn’t positive. Chan looked worried as I opened the seal on it and peered inside. Eggs. Chan’s eggs.

I knew what it meant; I knew exactly what these little eggs are for. There are 4 of them, but only one will hatch. Only one had the chance to grant Chan a new offspring; maybe even one to reincarnate into. I’ve done this twice before, stopped poor old Chan from pulling a phoenix. If he does, I lose my power over him, which I think is his immediate goal. I’m sure other reasons include his bad arthritis, IBS, and lazy eye. I think his current form is in its 90s. Old fucker, but still has demonic blood in its veins.

With an “oops”, I drop the vase and let it shatter. I know Chan watched it fall and break in slow-mo, his demeanor erupting slowly into sadness. He just looked up from it to me with this sad puppy face, like I just kicked a kitten. He knew I did it on purpose, just as well as I knew why he had them in the first place.

It took Chan about 5 minutes of vocalizing in old Cantonese to break his puppet curse on the girl, who was in fact actually his granddaughter. What a sick fuck, controlling your own blood to go and hide your demon eggs in the sewers for you.

Before I left, I bought some of his special inventory, and I even waived my discount and paid full price for them. I may be a cold-hearted bitch some times, but I’m not going to rob the man.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

100˚ in my head

I think music has been the only thing keeping me sane the past 3 days. I hate being sick. Holed up in my apartment, getting bad delivery food from 3rd rate restaurants. I may have to bribe someone to go get me something better. I'm tired of sitting here watching movies and reading books and just being a lump. I want to go outside. But the medtech said I need to let this run its course. Which means I may not be able to make it into work tonight.

It makes me look weak. I hate looking weak.

Guns Are A Girl's Best Friend

I am a gun enthusiast, to say the least. Like the sword, they can become part of you. Like the arrow, they can exact pinpoint and accurate damage. Like fire, they can destroy everything.

My love of guns started at a young age, when my father purchased for me a target pistol at age 12. It was a Ruger Mk. II, and I still have it to this day. I don't think it's been fired in about 6 months. I fire all my guns at least once a year, after a good cleaning of course.

I learned gun safety, maintenance, sighting, and milling of my own ammunition. This was normally my favorite part of any given weekend with my father, as he was a genius when it came to creating speciality ammo. We went over close range and marksman skills, as well as some trickshot and duelist moves. He was an amazing gunsmith as well, but I never had the chance to learn those skills.

Before being shipped off the school, I was given my first "real" guns. Up until this point, I owned only my own .22 w/ the Ruger. This was bittersweet gift, as I was 16, and had recently realized they were terrible and distant parents. Hormones, they suck. Anyways, for my Sweet 16 I was bequeathed a Heckler & Koch PSG-1, and a Smith & Wesson 910. I still own the PSG-1, and she is actively used. The 910 however, there's a story behind the loss of that pistol. A long one not being iterated now. Short of it is, it saved my life by its destruction when I did something stupid.

While at school, my parents were killed. My father in the line of duty, so to speak, and my mother shortly after, for being in the right place but at the wrong time. Had she arrived a mere 15 minutes earlier, my father would have only suffered serious injury, and not the same fate as her, which was to be blown to kingdom come.

At that time, when I inherited a disgusting fortune and their estates, I also learned about who my father was, what he did, and what I would become. Which is not what I am today, again, due to my own stupidity. There are a few of those stories. Maybe some other time. But, I now owned a massive gun collection.

At least 200 pistols, rifles, SMGs, and a few prototypes and antiques were now mine. I spent day cataloging, inspecting, and choosing which would stay, and which would be liquidated with most of everything else. I may have missed them, but I did not miss how they lived. But in the end, I kept about 14 guns. But two of them in particular were my prize choices.

They were haunted.

Guns, like any other object, can be imbued with the energies, or spirit, of an owner. When an object, lets say a car, is held in high regard or given special affection by an owner, that "rubs" off, and can stick. These two guns, which I have on me at all times, were my parents' sidearms, and they were present at their deaths. Not just present, but used, to defend themselves, to take down enemies, and were in-hand when they died. Wether willing it to happen or not, my parents live on in these metal shells.

The first of these is a Glock 22c, I jokingly call "Senior Glock". I pronounce it as Señor, but i mean Senior. Like old. This was my father's sidearm of choice. Never asked why, but he always had it on him. There is an inscription down the right side of the slide that reads "Power means many things, but weak is not one of them." He had said this to me many times, like a mantra, and it is ingrained into my being.

The second is an S&W 908, which was my mothers, dubbed "The bitch who's idea it was to send me to -that- crazy private school for a few years so she could go tour europe.". I realized shortly after it was easier to use "Priss". My mother was many things, a mother was not one of them. I was closer to my father, and that was more like a teacher/student relationship as it was. My mother was more like an apathetic nanny, except I had a nanny who was more caring. As a gun, she's a much better person. At least she's apologized and admitted to treating me badly.

Recently, I've added some new members to the family, though none of them are haunted. There's the HK416 D10RS, which is mostly for field work, and I am babysitting a DSR-50 for some testing, though i -really really- like it, and may just keep it. I can do that. I checked it out properly with a no-limit form from work. Yes, it's an AM rifle, but have you seen some of the shit I have to shoot at? HUGE THINGS!

So that's why I have gun love. And anyone who doesn't love their gun is just asking for it to jam on them.

I am trying not to recoil in my own skin as I type. Blogging; meh. This is something someone of my "status" does not do. It's a taboo, so to speak.

But I've gone out of my way to make sure I'm being discrete. I know better than to use real names, except maybe my own, which is really just a line of code in a database. Just like everyone else. Information is what defines us, information is what controls us. And information is power. I digress.

A small, tiny peephole into my existence has been opened, and if you wish, you can peer through. But don't be shocked and awed by what you may see, it's really just a portal into the truth of things.