Munch

    It is considered the second worst sin to our people to break bread with your father’s murderer. But it was part of the plan -- the culmination of my life's purpose was to be at this very table in order to enact vengeance. I had to break a few eggs for this omelette, so to speak; coincidentally, one was sitting quite coquettishly on the edge of the plate in front of me, still steaming with it's content's aromas alluringly playing with my olfactory senses. Peppers, mushrooms, cheeses, onion, garlic, all dancing in an orchestra of promising taste -- oh yes, this revenge is going to be delicious. 

I surveyed the other attendees at this dinner party. It contained the heads of all the important warring clans, gathered for the purpose of discussing territorial disputes and distribution of “taxes” amongst each other. Gangsters, the lot of them. They’ve got my city in their grip, and for the most part they keep things from getting out of hand. So long as they get theirs, at least. 

The head of the table, the last to be served, was the unofficial president of this little nation. Nobody knew his real name, only the misnomer nickname Dirty. He looked like he least belonged to this collection of brigands; custom-fit three piece suit, neatly pressed, fresh haircut, and the gentlemanliness befitting only the high born. The way he’d carefully selected his meal specific to his diet (steamed asparagus and a small chunk of blandly cooked chicken, flanked by a small glass of wine, filled to exactly 100mL), with exacted portions, spoke to the manner in which he conducted his entire life. It was all a numbers game to Dirty -- it’s probably what got him so far ahead of the rest of the party. The careful, exacting control he had over his food intake is only the beginning of this complex man; he was the mediator, and he’s damn good at it. Don’t let the etiquette confuse you, though. Numbers were his life, and numbers were cold and ruthless.

But he wasn’t my father’s killer. That title belongs to someone else here, someone I know by name but not by face. I get to meet him tonight.

The chief who called this meeting had become less and less of a threat over time; the number of bodies loyal to him had been dwindling over the years, and he had kept up appearances through the last decade on shadow boxing alone; pretending to defend important bits of territory, or stealing a block or two that might’ve seemed important, but were undefended and worth very little. It was paper shuffling, and the chief to his east had finally called his bluff. 

Jayne Wyland was his name, and he was very tetchy about the first part of it. Everyone who feared him called him Mr Wyland, but the list of people that counted him as someone to fear was growing smaller day by day. Only Dirty would use Mr with him, but it’s probably because it’s the polite thing to do. Mr Wyland was currently keeping his face buried in what I suspected was his comfort meal; grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, just like someone plucked Mom out from forty years ago and informed her that her son just had a bad day at school. He was stirring the soup with a spoon, pointedly making eye-contact with nobody.

This kind of feast was really only called when one party or another is, well, losing ground -- too much ground to continue to maintain status. It’s the death throes of a chieftain, looking to find a way to wriggle out of the predicament they’d found themselves in, or blackmail the others into defending their territory. It’s a messy game, being a warlord.

Seated directly across from Mr Wyland, and next to me, was his adversary, and my target, Hunter Hideo. That wasn’t a title; Hideo’s the family name. Some poor, well-meaning parents thought Hunter was an exotic name, and it seemed to stick. This one wasn’t a misnomer, however; Hunter was a notorious assassin. It wouldn’t be fair to call him a merc, or a hitman. “Assassin” had a sort of pride associated with the namesake that the others didn’t. He tended to knock off the more influential of the city’s populace by organizing fortuitous accidents. But that was in his younger years, when he needed the money; he certainly didn’t now.

His selection for a meal was an emperor’s feast of the finest sushi known to mankind. It… it was served on a boat. A miniature wooden replica of the HMS Albion. Sushi rolls adorned the decks in the most disrespectful manner possible. Her Majesty’s Ship was reduced to cargo duty, which was being forced into the gullet of the most gluttonous man at the table. I noted that the Albion was without its complement of lifeboats. This captain will go down with his ship.

Thus, the rest of the party were seated as well, but I paid them little mind. There was Lilith, who was sort of a maniacal facsimile of a human. She wore pigtails in her bleached hair, which was meant to give her a youthful appearance. The whole image was ruined, slightly, from all the chemical burns running up and down her body. She loved home-made explosives. So much so, that she frequently spilled some on her. She was shoveling a garbage plate into her mouth with ferocity; it was difficult to watch. It was more difficult to dodge bits of spittle.

Judit sat my counterpart, looking ever graceful. She looked as if she were cosplaying Elvyra. Daily. She was smoking a cigarette through some sort of long straw, as if she were disgusted by the thought of it and kept it as far at bay as she possibly could. She wore a matronly demeanor, most of the time. Now she adopted the mannerisms of a fussy toddler, and was picking around at her salad. It was interesting; she could’ve ordered any meal she’d like, but chose a simple garden salad. She stabbed a tomato, and stuck it whole in her mouth. Her face betrayed any love or hate for the fruit.

The others, I did not know. They must’ve been recent promotions from within their gangs. Weaker chiefs sometimes die of natural causes. In this city, getting thrown in the river with concrete shoes for a chance at promotion counted as natural causes. It even says so on the police reports.

For my part, I was Althea. Althea owned territory in the northern section of the city, ranging from 11 o’clock to 1:30 -- it was a sizable chunk, far away from the feud between Mr Wyland and Hunter. Althea did not die of natural causes; she was safely tucked away, having a nice holiday at my expense at some ski resort somewhere far off. In exchange, she’d taught me the appropriate mannerisms and etiquette I’d need to be successful tonight. Typically, this type of favor wouldn’t ever be granted, but a blood sister is a blood sister. I lucked into running with her on the streets as kids, and she lucked into becoming the third-most powerful gangster in the city. Althea was just as interested in making sure it went off without a hitch as I was since, technically, it was her butt that was sitting at this table. I was damn proud of the makeup job I'd done; I couldn't have told us apart.

And so proceedings began. It was in everyone’s best interest to attend these meetings, because information is everything. If any of them were to find out too late that Hunter now owned Mr Wyland’s territory, he might become too powerful before they were ready for his first attack. Thus, we settled in for a night of negotiations. They were not going so well.

    “Why should I give you territory back? I earned it, fair by our rules,” Hunter was arguing. He’d taken several districts out of Mr Wyland’s control, and Mr Wyland was relying on those territories. They were quite expensive. “You called this meeting, Jayne. You tell me why you deserve more than a consolation prize.” Hunter picked up a delicious-looking roll of sushi. The crab would be good; fishing went well this year. He ate it in one, and then began arranging the cannons on the HMS Sushi to point towards Mr Wyland.

    Mr Wyland was still stirring his tomato soup. He hadn’t made eye contact, but he had noticed the fake miniature cannons being aimed at him. He pretended not to mind. He felt scared. He was helpless. He began wondering if it was too late to ask the waitress to divide his grilled cheese sandwiches into strips so he could dip them easier.

    “Mr Wyland has no safety net, Hunter,” Dirty chided. Where had he gotten that ridiculous nickname? “You know very well that stripping him of his territory will leave him destitute.”

    “Is that such a bad thing?” one of the unknown faces asked.

    Nobody knew who they were. They had only recently come into their power, and had skipped the class on Not Talking Out of Turn. Eight stares from the rest of us transformed him into a ball of shame, which he remained fetal in for the remainder of discussion.

    “Is that such a bad thing?” repeated Lilith, with a sly look at the shrinking teenager who was suddenly so out of his element. She shoveled another spoonful of whatever abomination was desecrating her plate into her mouth, making a small but noticeable mess.

    Mr Wyland shot a worried glance at Lilith that wasn’t warranted when the new kid made the statement. Lilith had the command of a large crew of sociopaths, he knew. She had power. Influence. With him gone, she only stood to benefit.

    Dirty calmly took a sip from his glass as he considered her words. “Mr Wyland has been a long-standing member of this council. Certainly, he could have done more to mitigate the fall of his empire, but surely he is not entirely to blame.”

    “Right!” Mr Wyland jumped on this opportunity. “Althea’s been poaching my crew for years now. And Hunter, too,” he said, full of defiance. I did not return the accusation; for one, Althea kept everything close to the vest, and only spoke when necessary. For two, he was right -- Althea knew Mr Wyland’s grip on his crew had been slipping, and took advantage of it. She didn’t become the third-most powerful person at this table by playing fair.

    Hunter, however, was the type to strike back. “Your people stole from my territories since long ago. It is only right that I took what belongs to me rightfully. And when they were caught, they could either willingly join me, or die a dog’s death. Perhaps if you paid them better, they wouldn’t flip so easily. Pass the soy sauce?” I was fiddling with the top. The omelette had long ago fallen in battle to my knife and fork, and I was busying my hands at the time. I handed him the bottle.

    Dirty was allowing the asparagus to savor in his mouth, looking thoughtful. He swallowed, seemingly coming to a conclusion.

    “Well, it appears you have no advocates here, Mr Wyland. Let us cast our votes now and see what your options are.”

    The tallying of ayes to nays needn’t be recorded. Everyone already knew the results; I knew it, Mr Wyland knew it, the waitress knew it. 

    The tomato soup grew cold and untouched.

    “I’ve been doing your guys’ dirty work for decades,” he exclaimed in retaliation. “Dirty, you wouldn’t be where you are without me! We carved our way into this city together!” He pointed a finger at Lilith, next. “You’ve been out to get me since I stopped your little bomb from going off in my neighborhood!”

    “It was just a prank…” Lilith retorted, sulkily. “There was no need to get so mad about it.”

    “And you, Judit!” The remaining named one hadn’t spoken at all; she’d been trying to get the exact amount of dressing on her fork, and hadn’t really been concentrating.

    “What did I do?” she asked innocently. She returned to her salad.

    “There is no need for this behavior, Mr Wyland. Your expulsion need not be unpleasant. You will be given a sizable pension, for consideration of past services. It will be a lovely retirement, I assure you,” Dirty was not an unkind man, I judged. 

“And you, Hunter!” he shouted at last, pointing his finger. “You are the worst. None of this would have ever happened if you’d just taken some losses. This is all your fault! And I will have my revenge, mark my words!”

The timing could not have been more perfect. Hunter’s face had become pale and his breathing had shallowed during this tirade, and he finally succumbed to the call of death. He toppled forward, destroying the HMS Albion with his skull. There were no survivors, although something was definitely fishy. 

It is only the second greatest sin to break bread with your father’s murderer. The first greatest sin is to attack an enemy under a banner of peace. 

    I concealed my grin. I was afraid there would be an investigation into his death later on, but Mr Wyland had acted in precisely the way we predicted. Instead of patting myself on the back, I joined the others with accusatory glares in Mr Wyland’s direction. His ending, and my vengeance, were coming to fruition.

    He stammered. “I, I, uhmm…”

    Dirty would have none of this. He stood then, enraged, knocking dishes off the table and scaring the dinner guests. “You dare disrespect me in my house?” he screamed.

    Jayne, and I would now forevermore think of him, stood dumbfounded. He uttered no more sounds. I could not be sure he was even still breathing. I rejoiced in my head, silently. There was going to be no end to his suffering.

    “Althea, you have full control over Mr Wyland’s territories until further notice. Leave, now, and let his chain of command know of his dishonor.”

    I stood politely and did as he bade. I wondered why he would give Althea the territory, since it was on the other side of the city and difficult to defend. It was only after I left the building that I realized why he was in charge -- I doubted then that I was as clever as I thought I was. Perhaps Dirty was more clever than I.

    Regardless, I found that revenge was a dish left cold. That tomato soup would never be touched.