Richard.

I began writing this story almost a year ago. I write it in moreso small, isolated parts, like short stories, but it's my hope one day to actually put them all together. I think, it'll shape up to be something fairly interesting. Richard was a new character for me in that I was tired of my heroes wanting to right wrongs, or put and end to their pain and angst. Richard wants, among most things to be alive at the end of the day, and preferably somewhere with alcohol. I must say it was a fun change. And also, I feel I must warn that it contains language of a slightly questionable nature. Not to make any kind of a statement, it's just simply that most people do swear. But without futher foreward rambling:

Richard

The human imagination is a beautiful thing. It is a veritable plethora of possibilities, it’s twisting corridors and passages hiding things that mankind can, literally, only dream of. Similarly, the run-down streets and alleyways in cities are places where the imagination can thrive. The dead areas, abandoned by the constant urban growth, which are closed off by chain fences and locks, and known to few. Not often do the polished loafers of the modern day businessman touch the worn pavement of the slums. His pinstripe suits and briefcase are better left to the flashy streets, where neon signs, honking taxis, and reflective buildings reign.

If one became so accustomed to these alleys of wonder, one might not find it so difficult to imagine a very large man, dressed in patchwork, old, stretched clothing, complete with overalls, and a with an undersized piper's cap crowning his brow. He looks simple, but not simple in the way that a piece of loose-leaf is simple, but more in the way that Rhinoceroses are simple. Simple, and might as well be hewn from granite. His companion is a curious contrast. He is shady, and sports a long, black coloured duster coat, and an oversized dark grey fedora. A snake of grey smoke can be seen trailing from a glowing ember somewhere beneath the shadow of the hat. The two walk in unison, and with definite purpose.

"’Ey." Says the large man, in a gluttoral voice like a tractor’s engine. "We gonna’ get the guy?" The smaller man stops, and peers up at the mountainous visage that just spoke. He throws his cigarette to the ground, not bothering to step it out, and produces a new one from an unknown source, and lights it, curiously, with a snap of his fingers.

"Yeah." He says. This man’s voice rings of cold winters, shadows, and sharp edges. He coughs.

"Those can kill ya you know," Says his large companion knowledgably, eyeballing the smoke. He stops and thinks for a moment, and then continues; "well, could kill someone, anyways. 'Dat second-hand smoke is dan.. dange... er," His vocabulary surrendered. "It's deadly." He grunted.
The smaller man accepts this comment without response, and then blows a huge puff of the smoke into the air, and lights a second cigarette, fitting it between his lips with the first, and smiles wickedly.
"Well, it's a shame no-one told me sooner. I could be doing alot more than one pack a day."

They continue walking for a short period of time, and arrive at a fenced off dead end. A big, mahogany-coloured grin can be seen from beneath the mountain man’s nose. He walks up to the fence, and as if lifting a feather, he lifts the fence, and gently places against a building. They stand still for a while, skulking in the shadows of the alley, watching intently across the busy street...
On the other side of the street in question, a busy sidewalk on Main Street beckons. A man swaggers out of a pub across the bustling highway, his faded old brown leather jacket and cheap brand blue jeans making him seem a rather unremarkable person from the flashy eccentrics often found in downtown Winnipeg. His hair is jet black, his eyes much the same, a deep hazel in hue. His face is slightly angular, stubble-ridden, troubled, and although most women would call it handsome, he just called it something he had to look after out of obligation. A sharp eye would catch the gold Cross hanging from a chain around his neck. He appears to be swearing at something clutched in his fist.

"God damn piece of god damn shit!" Yelled Richard Harper, his vehement curses directed at the object in his palm, which was a common motorola pager. This action drew curious and cautious stares from other motley assortment of people occupying the sidewalk who took care to step around the shouting figure.

I’m not surprised. Another goddamn call. He thought. And I was enjoying that chat with rob, too. He stood still for a few moments, gazing at the most hated pager, as if expecting it to apologize. It didn’t, so he swore at it again and threw it at a nearby wall, where it shattered into a plethora of electronic bits. "Serves you right, you rat bastard." He spat at the corpse of the device, and continued walking.

It was well into the evening, and Richard simply strolled through the busy downtown, unafraid of anything, because he simply knew that no one would bother him, save for the odd beggar seeking a resolution to his monetary problems, or prostitute inquiring about a transaction. It was not really because he knew he could handle most situations; quite the contrary; Richard had a deep-rooted fear of being stabbed, beaten, shot, mauled, eviscerated, or even being pointed at. He was allergic to it, so he told others. It was because he knew that They wouldn’t let anything happen to their special delivery boy.

There was an almost silent beeping coming from below his waist somewhere, and he stopped walking and closed his eyes. His lips synched the movements of someone counting to 10 very quietly, and he reached down to his belt. "Fuck." Said Richard. On his belt rested a black, unremarkable, ad quite familiar pager. "Beep." the pager said one last time in quiet defiance. The flashing red name on the pager screen read; "Paul." Which was written in unexplainably fine handwriting, which was uncommon for a pager. "Well, I guess I’d better go then, hm?" He said to himself with a scowl, and began dialing the number for a taxi. A few moments later, he sat down on the old seats of the cab which had fortunately pulled up in relatively good time. "That one big office building, the one made all of glass. Im afriad I can't give you the exact address, but it's on Portage."

Richard silently cursed the constantly changing address of the building. He was becoming very tired of these ackward conversations... and he also made a mental note to buy his own car, when he could afford it. The middle-eastern man in the front seat turned around and gave Richard a curious look.

"There are many different office buildings that are made all of glass on the Portage, sir." The driver said in a thick accent. Richard sighed.

"But there’s only one with a statue of an angel outside. You'll know it, trust me."

Simon Myers had spent his most of his adolescent years sitting in his basement on his computer playing Everquest and watching re-runs of Hercules & Xena. His mother nurtured him, and his father scorned him. The children at school made unspoken jokes about his collared shits and ties, and spent a fair sum of time pestering him about whether the pen he was using was a +2 pen of Calligraphy, and throwing things at him. One might think a person of this calibre would be academically oriented; quite the contrary, Simon was a sharp as a billiard ball. His teachers sighed and groaned over his inability to understand the simplest of vertices or compound fractions, and his somewhat lethal approach to grammar and punctuation. His spelling could kill at fifteen paces. At one point or another, Simon decided it was time to be cool. He dyed his hair green, and bought a large quantity of metal bits and stuck them on or in chosen parts of himself. He started calling himself Iguana, because having a reptilian nickname was "dope", as the other kids said. He wanted a name like Snake, or Viper, but those names were already taken.

Months passed, and Iguana became a name to fear, in the same way you fear meeting an Ex-lover and having to start up an ackward conversation. He began to fight people, seemingly at random, with no real pattern, and would have his ass thoroughly kicked by pretty much everybody. He then stopped using his allowance money to purchase upgraded Dungeons and Dragons Books, and used it to bribe people into becoming his "Krew." He used the letter K because, the way he saw it, K was pointier than C, and so it was cooler and more imposing. Iguana and his posse became known for attempting to smoke anything green, regardless of its narcotic value. Some examples would be houseplants, grass, green chalk, and the carpet in the teachers lounge. He also decided, that he should run away from home. So now, he christened himself Iguanator: ruler of the alleys, regent of the darkest lane, and other such pointless honorifics.

It was possibly by chance, or possibly by providence, that Iguana happened upon two curious figures standing at the mouth of one of his alleyways. They were arguing over something that he really could care less about. The way he saw it; these two were easy marks, which had foolishly strayed into his territory. The conversation that echoed from the alley entrance proceeded as such:

"I told you, you imbecile, NOT to let him out of your sight!" Said the smaller figure.

"Well you ‘din’t have to go off and get a coffee, you coulda’ stayed here." Said the large one. He could be trouble, Iguana thought.

"Shit!" Said the smaller guy, as he punted the larger man in the shin, who promptly groaned. The smaller figure paced a few times, and sighed, cupping his chin in his hands. "I know it’s not like we can’t find him again, but the boss is going to be right fucking livid that we have been delayed again, Mr. Smith. The deadline was for 10, sharp. And we've just missed it." He glared up at the larger figure from under his hat.

"M’ sorry, Mister Wesson." The booming voice said from beneath the straw hat-like object, as he wiping his nose with a hand that would be better described as a paw.

"Never mind, Smith, never mind… let us just-" It was at this point that Iguana and his counterparts leapt from their hiding places behind rubbish bins and dumpsters.

"All right you pricks, hand over your G’s or my boys here will have to mess you up!" Needless to say, Iguana’s men, in their motley assortment of rags and un-matched clothing looked more equipped to dance around, not mess anybody up.

Mr. Wesson scowled. "Oh look, Mr. Smith." His gold-flecked grin was visible beneath the tilt of his smoke-wreathed hat. "It’s the Cirque-du-fucking-soleil. Seriously my lad, piss off while I’m in the mood to let you. Smith, we have places to be, people to inhume." Mr. Wesson made to turn around, but Iguana, who was ill experienced in sizing up possibly lethal situations, wasn’t about to give up so easily.

"I’m Iguana, and nobody tells Iguana to piss off. Your gonna’ get hurt old man, unless you fork over your fucking wallets!" He huffed his chest with pride. Mr Wesson simply looked amused.

"Oh, so it’s a real honest mugging? Say, Mr. Smith, when was the last time we carried wallets, hmm?" The towering mound of a man grunted, and then the plodding silence of someone thinking very hard.

"Never." said a voice like tectonic motion.

Mr Wesson nodded. "Indeed. Vacate yourself off son, while im in the temperment to let you." He said, in a low voice, his face showing mild amusement. All the while Iguana, to any outside party, would’ve looked like he was trying to disclose a mystery wrapped in an enigma. His face was screwed up in an awkward mixture of rage, and bewilderment. He took a step forward.

"Enough of this." He spat, and swung a fist at thin air, which was, up until a second prior, was the space the man in the coat was occupying. "The hell?" He heard one of his boys say something about the wall, and he slowly looked to his left, dread growing like weeds in a garden in his gut.

"I’m thinking," Said a voice like death from the general area, "That Skink here needs a lesson in humility." Iguana scowled.

"It’s Iguana." He said instinctively. Now, what followed happened very fast, possibly within the span of thirteen or fifteen seconds, and was a blur to Iguana. Mr. Smith had picked up one of Iguana’s lackeys with apparent ease and lobbed him straight at the congealment of the others, which comically scattered like bowling pins and flew into the walls with loud cracks. Mr. Wesson had also begun to violently beat Iguana into submission, starting at the kidneys and working his way up with a rapid succession of precisely aimed jabs and kicks, ending with a solid punch that launched Iguana against the far alley wall, where he cracked the masonry when he hit. Wesson calmly readjusted his hat, and strutted over to where Smith was vehemently swearing and kicking a downed gangster.

"Fuckin' little sod son o' a—" Wesson coughed, and Smith stopped and looked sheepishly at his counterpart. "Oh. Right. Sorry." He stopped kicking, and the man groaned and writhed around. "Can we? Just this once? I mean, who’d know? ‘Onestly, it’s just a bunch of scummy ‘lil urchins-" Wesson plucked the still lit smoke-fuming cigarette from his hidden maw, and bent over and put it out on an unconscious Iguana’s forehead, who woke with a howl and slowly backed up against the wall, quaking in fear.

"Didn’t mean to be so rough on you lads." His grin could have caused a mountain of earth to shy away and hide. He tilted his hat back, to reveal a face out of a nightmare, pale yet ashen at the same time, entirely hair free save for the tiny french moustache that adorned his upper lip, and with eyes like bloody kitchen knives, with deep crimson pupils. A cruel scar cut across the entirety of the face at a 45-degree angle. Iguana gulped, and turned away. So did Mr. Wesson, who faced Smith again. "No dice, my large friend. Arganoth said, no one until He is dead." He responded to Smith earlier comment, and produced another smoke from under his hat, and one again lit it with a flick of his hand. "When he’s dealt with, we can have all the fun we like. A hundred years on the surface. Why, we can finally go see Monaco, Mr. Smith!" He cackled, which was a terribly unpleasant sound. To the battered Iguana’s ears, it sounded like windblown hail on a glass pane. Which is not a normal laugh, he noted.

"Don’t wanna’ see fuckin’ Monaco. Wanna' Burger." The enormous man replied. He stopped for a moment. "Fuck." He added, seemingly as an afterthought. And as they began to walk away, chuckling at an unheard joke amongst themselves, Iguana saw the smaller man, named Wesson, pull a long object that he might have sworn was a sword, which glinted and shone in the streetlight and glowed and flickered like it was on fire, and spun it around in his hands as he walked.

Iguana realized, for the first time in a while, as he cupped the blood leaking from his nose, that he was curious as to what his mother was making for supper.

"This one, ‘s this one! Stop tha’ fucking cab!" Screamed Richard as the driver screeched to a halt. The East-Indian man turned around, his face sporting a comic and brown-toothed grin, and reached out a hand toward the currently pale-faced Richard.

"Forty-eight eighteen. I hope you enjoy the ride, I see you again soon!" Said the cabbie cheerfully. Richard snarled and threw a red-coloured fifty into the front of the cab.

"Keep the change… damn maniac…" He grumbled, as he hauled his carsick-self out of the vehicle. No cabs, ever again, he told himself. Stick to busses. Then he vomited in a nearby shrubbery. The building was large, to say the least. It was a new building, four or five years old only, and the Winnipeg contractors had been put on all-out orders to make this huge mirrored behemoth possible in only seven months. Apparently they had succeeded, as the structure in front of Richard stood. Practically a tower, the building was ovular, almost a circle, in diameter, and n the front, above the doorway almost 60 stories up near the top was a large golden ornamental plaque depicting a man dressed in a nonchalant robe, plunging a sword through a dragon’s head. There was absolutely nothing to comment on about the building, aside from that. It was completely covered in that new fancy reflective glass all office buildings seemed to be made of these days. The sign above the door read:

Apostle Industries, ltd.
Making your miracles, today!

Subtle, thought Richard, and, cursing the mid-east, cars, alcohol, and pretty much everything else, he sauntered up the walk, and then made a haphazard attempt at the stairs, and failed a good three times before his sensibilities told him that his inebriated self wasn’t prepared to tackle such an obstacle. A few minutes of searching rewarded Richard with the wheelchair ramp, which he manage to scale with the help of the railing. He looked up, and the beautifully crafted Ivory face of the Angel statue gazed down at him. He stood there silently for a moment.

"I must be dead-" He began, in a slurred voice. "Because I’m seeing an angels! Ha!" He laughed at his own joke, which was in really bad taste, then fell over. He took one last look at the shining building that was towering above him, and pulled himself up, and pushed open the front doors.
The interior of the building was nothing to comment on, either. Well-polished marble floors, modernized décor consisted of brass poles, sleek grey chrome and varnished wooden walls, a few soft couches and an out of place pop machine, that was doing it’s best to fit in with its neighbours. The lobby also came complete with all the important little touches: potted plants, classy fixtures and lighting, and the ever-present over weight security guard, snoring with his face glued to his desk via his own saliva.

Richard walked in gingerly, and cleared his throat. No response. He tried again, louder this time. Still nothing. He walked over, and rapped on the desk softly with his knuckles. The guard jumped, and shook his head around violently, obviously horribly disoriented.

"Wha… who? I--I’m sorry, we’re c—" Large yawn. "Awwmm… closed." He rubbed his eyes, and squinted at Richard.

"I work here." The guard gawked at him blankly. "Richard Harper? Senior field Marshal?" The guard simply yawned again, and grunted his way over to the PC on the opposite side of his desk, and began pecking at the keys vigorously. A few minutes had obviously produced a result, as he wheeled his way back over to Richard.

"Oh… yeah, Mr. Harper… I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in past hours without clearance. Security you know… never can tell, these days." Richard sighed. And scribbled an unrcognizable sigil on the black electronic pad the man passed him. All of a sudden, it glowed with a bright orange ferocity, and then died, just a quickly. The guard nodded to Richard, who began making his way over to the elevator. Richard wasn't really upset. Just curious (and still drunk). All his years working here, and he’d never once been asked to see The Director. The capital letters were importiant.

Come to think of it, he though, Do I even know what the Director looks like? Mr. Paul, or, as he was simply known to most, The Director, was an unseen figure who held most of the firm in terror. People whispered and speculated over what the Director looked like, whether he stayed shut up in his top-floor office due to some sort of horrible disfigurement, or maybe someone had locked him in there and he could never leave. Richard never really thought about it very much, his mind usually concerned with far more trivial matters, like which brand of coffee filter was the most efficient, how many toothpicks it would take to build a working replica of a steam train, or if his housekeeper was slowly trying to exterminate him by slipping in 18 more grains of salt than he requested in his evening bowl of mushroom soup. "Mushroom soup," he always commented to her after she handed him the bowl. "A harsh mistress indeed, Louisa. The harshest of them all." He would always say the last bit staring her in the eyes. His understanding was that if she thought he was crazy, she would quit her job, as no one likes to work for a lunatic. Rob often asked him: "Why not simply fire her, Rich?" Richard would then nervously shift about, and reply with: "Well. She’s a sweet girl; I’d feel bad if I put her out of a job, you know? And don’t call me Rich." He’d add. Such thoughts weren't too uncommon.

Richard completed his plodding journey over to the elevator, and impatiently tapped his foot waiting for the left car to slowly skulk down the shaft. There was a "ding" and the doors slid open, revealing the shiny chrome interior. He stepped inside, hitting one of the buttons absentmindedly. It should be said at this point that Richard Harper, is not the most stable person. No one in his profession would be. What is his profession to be exact? He's a Geneva inspector in the middle of world war 3, to be metaphorical. He makes sure people play by the rules. And by people, I really don't mean people at all. Demons, Vampires, the forces of hell in general, and then, there's the more human realms of the Fairie Courts, the Unseelie, the last of the Dragons... well, you get the picture. It takes a lot of training to see things the human mind isn't programmed to see by default. But someone had to do it. Humans weren't subject to alot of the rules that affected... what Richard liked to call the management. And so Richard drifted unsteadly through life in a state of perpetual irritation, caution, and in many cases, drunkeness.
He really liked that last option.

There was no accompanyment in the elevator save for the weary drone of cables hoisting the metal box skywards. What am I doing? He thought to himself. It's a saturday night. I should be at home, watching reruns of CSI, drinking myself into a stupor, and eating week-old borsht. Not going to see my damn boss. THE damn boss, his mind added respectfully. Then, a curious thing happened. Richard staggered to the floor, wheezing. He wondered if this was tonights drinking escapades catching up with him, but changed his mind when the telltale bursts of searing pain began shooting up and down his spine, and purple lights flashed behind his eyes.

"Urrk." he said with defiantly, eyes watering from the pain. He managed to pull himself upright and leaned against the wall. Richard fumbled in his pockets and after a few seconds produced a small, transparent, red vial. Closer inspection of the vial would yeild a label written in characters you'd most commonly find on menhir rings in Scandinavia. He uncorked the stopper and glared at the vial, much in the same way one would glare at a deliquent dog after leaving a plate of sirloins on the table. He then put it to his lips and took a short draught. He gasped loudly, and the pain slowly subsided. Fuck. He thought. That was the worst attack i've had in a long time.. it's getting worse. The biggest concern, for almost any human, is his or her own mortality, and Richard was no different. Richard knew he was going to die. The doctors told him, his grandmother told him. They never really could tell what was wrong with him, but they weren't the only ones who knew.

"You're going to die, Richard." Said the Angel that one night a month before his first hospital visit, as he lay half-concious in the field, bleeding a strange black fluid from a large gash on his hip. "You've been touched by that which man was never meant to touch-" The angel had the courtesy to look a little sympathetic. "You were not meant to be here... yet here you are. And we are sorry. You're going to die." But he'd told them, he thought smugly. Self-satisfaction was the best reward in the universe. Richard had hoisted himself up, his face drained of colour, blood trickling from his lips. He waved the angel to come closer, opened his mouth, and said;
"Blow that."

And he'd made it his own personal mission to stay alive. Life was, he argued, very much like money. Those who had it liked it, those who didn't were generally unimpressed, (the ones he met, anyways.) and you could never have enough of it. But mainly, he didn't really feel like giving death the satisfaction. Ding. floor 10. Richard sighed. For such a new building, the elevators took forever. He had just pulled out his pocket book and was flipping through a few notes of events of late, except that then, the lights went out.

"Fuck." He grunted.

The dim red emergency light suddenly flickered into life, washing the car in a sickly crimson glow. He hammered the red emergency button. This was -not- improving his mood. The light pain at the back of his head was starting to grow again, pinching his nerves and making him wince. In the realization he was getting nowhere with the buttons, he took a step back, and a deep breath. It might be said at this point that Richard Harper, no Pan-am athelte or olympiad, was generally against exercise in general. He was in fairly good shape- people in his profession who couldn't run quickly didn't tend to hold the position for very long. But he spend time each week-grudgingly-on the weight machine in his vast apartment, and jogging. His physique, while not anything like chiseled, was definately slightly honed.

He took another deep breath, and threw his leg at the door. There was a resoundingly loud "clonging" noise, and all Richard did, in his opinion, was bust his foot. "Jesus christ!" he growled. He slumped against the walls, defeated. It's just a power outage. His inner monologue said. But you have this little sick feeling at the back of me, that you -know- it's not. Don't deny it.
"Okay, I wont." He said simply. The problem with a powerful mind is that sometimes it wanted a different vote in the mental congress. He sat for a few minutes in the relative silence of the elevator shaft, the occasional creaks and whining of metal his only companion. And he sighed. "I really rather would not have had to do this..." he muttered, and reached around his neck and grasped the cross dangling from his neck. If one listened closely, one just might hear Richard whispering a Psalm under his breath. With his other hand, he then folded his middle and ring fingers inwards amd spoke one loud word. "VENAS!" There was a blinding flash of white, and the creaking of metal, and the doors slid open.

Richard groaned and clutched his head with one hand, and used his other to hoist himself into the crack between the floor and roof of the elevator. Tight fight. He thought. He stood up shakily. Using the power of... those above him always made him a little sick. Probably because the power knew he wasn't exactly a preist himself. And so he made a good effort to avoid using it. Although Richard made a good effort to avoid effort in general. He opened his eyes, to see what there was to be seen. He was somewhere in the mid 40's floors.. all cubicles and fax machines and little boxed in offices, yet still bathed in the sicking red glow of the backup generator lights.

He began to stalk his way across the halls, occasionally knocking over stationary and swearing at the noise, not really caring his voice carried much farther than the stapler or holepunch had. His thoughts turned eventually as to why he was paged by the "big" boss he'd never even met face to face. And he felt a tingle. He'd felt that tingle before, and usually it occurred a moment before he was thuroughly beaten and/or assaulted. He ducked, and felt the air of whatever it was pass milimetres above his head. Boy was that lucky. He turned around.

"Not lucky enough there mate." Said Mr. Wesson, and punched him in the face.