Post by Shamino Warhen Ph.D on Jul 1, 2008 6:51:51 GMT 1
"Pour me another."
Reluctantly, the man opened the bottle of liquor, struggling slightly due to the sweet liquids drying after years of sitting on the mouth of the bottle. "Thanks." Shamino said, holding out his glass. The ice, nearly melted, cracked their last and split into near-water when the warm liquor splashed into the glass. He took it to his lips, drained the contents, and muzzled a cough with his gloved hand, his other hand busy caressing the gun that sat on his thigh.
"This is no place to have a gun..." The man across the table said, looking to their surroundings. San Francisco, mid day, a deli and coffee shop. People walked by, many people stared. The bloody and tattered Shamino Warhen shook his glass lightly.
"One more."
"Alright."
He drained the glass again, and turned the chair somewhat to face the man who had supplied him the poison, hauling the gun up heavily onto the table. "This is a place of business..." Shamino mumbled, looking past the rims of his glasses and up to the old Asian man who looked back at him with a glimmer of curiosity. "What better place to settle business, than at a place of one..."
* * *
"I've called this meeting..." Shamino began, sitting atop the rest at his private table, on his private ship, in the private section of the casino. "To discuss a troubling issue."
The room was thickened with cigar smoke from a dozen different third world countries, and were inhaled by men wearing first world suits. A few scratched their chins, others rubbed their beards- a select few played with their mustaches. "You see," Shamino began, dousing his cigarette in his near-empty glass. Pushing it to the side, an attendant picked up the glass and replaced it with a glass half full of whiskey, given to him by Kazuki Shinato, a man who had died. As promised, the glass was chilled, with no ice polluting the drink. He brought it to his lips, inhaled the scent, and put a trace amount to his mouth. He swallowed, gasped, and continued. "There was a syndicate in town, the other day."
Two men behind Shamino shifted restlessly in their wide-cut suits, hands itching to remove the Mac-11's that rested under their blazers. Shamino looked over his shoulder as he spoke, to idle them once more. "They ransacked an apartment down the street from me, took two innocent teenagers out of their homes, came down to my docks, and attempted to rape them. From what I gather, it's over drug money. Not a lot of drug money, mind you- but enough. What I want to ask is..." He looked to each and every man and woman in the room, which took several minutes. "Who authorized a foreign syndicate to travel to the other side of the continent, to see the other ocean, and beat the ever loving fuck out of these girls?" He stood then, pushing the glass aside, and resting his hands on the table. "And who the fuck forgot to tell me?"
Everyone in the room turned to look at their most trusted partners, then to their least trusted. The room suddenly had a grim air mixed in with the tobacco smoke, and a single man raised his hand. The last of the Yakuza invasion to San Francisco, Kazuma. The thirty-something lowered his hand when the murmuring stopped. "They were ill informed about the war that happened last year, and were unaware that your group had overtaken the economical reigns of the area... They approached me, I said I didn't care either way. They took it as a yes."
"And why wasn't I informed when you spoke to them?" Shamino asked, raising the glass to take an unhealthy swig.
"Because..." The Yakuza removed a Belomorkanal cigarette from his sterling silver case, lit it with a lighter made in Japan, with Japanese lighter fluids, and inhaled the Russian cigarette (Owned by a Japanese corportion) then promptly exhaled. "I don't like you."
Shamino sat then, nodding. There was pure silence other than heaving breaths from cigarettes and casual drinking. "I'm romantically involved with one of the two women who were beaten and nearly raped, then presumably to be murdered."
"You said they were teenagers, correct?" An Irishman asked, who had been eying the whiskey from the start of the meeting. "You're what, in your twenties?"
"Does that have anything to do with the situation at hand?" Shamino inquired. The Irishman shrugged, leaned back in his seat, and looked to his left towards his associates. To the older families, being young and dating younger was a sign of desperation and weakness. Shamino clenched his fist at this realization.
"Guess not." The Irishman said, giving a shrug.
"Kazuma. That was quite... Unprofessional of you. A man from a family who claims unrivaled honor and tradition..." Shamino raised a brow, lacing his fingers together as his elbows propped themselves up on the table. "...Coming into a foreign country and being the Gaijin that you bitch about day and night. I suppose America has poisoned your sense of respect."
"And a filthy Anglo has the ability to say that?" Kazuma flicked his cigarette towards Shamino from his front table. Shamino, taking a drag off of one of his attendants cigarettes, flicked the butt towards Kazuma. The two cigarette butts collided in mid air, sparking before falling to the floor. Shamino raised his drink to his lips with a smile, draining the contents as Kazuma dumped his drink to the floor- tossing the glass in Shamino's direction. Shamino, with his empty glass, made a harsh overhand throw. The two glasses collided in the air- shattering into a temporary rainfall of shards.
"I do. And when the leaders of that Syndicate come to town to question the person who murdered their underboss..." Shamino raised a gloved hand, pointing to an irate Kazuma. "Though I put the bullets in his head, you're the one that signed his death warrant. I'll send them after you... As will everyone else."
Despite the men in the room despised Shamino Warhen, the ambitious and insanely young Swede who had taken gun running by storm; they would be unable to ignore his demand. In the room were men and women who had built their families off of respect and honor. Shamino had called the meeting, it was his lover in danger, Kazuma had technically allowed a foreign power into play without alerting the largest boss. Kazuma looked around with an air of desperation, and was met back with several dozen harsh stares. An African American in a crimson suit wearing a large feathered hat shook his head as he played with his platnium and oak cane. "Ice cold, man..." He mumbled towards Kazuma. "That shit was weak."
"To hell with this." Kazuma stood, his associates raised from their tables with him. "And to hell with you, Shamino Warhen. I'm just sad that her head didn't show up in your god damned mail box." Kazuma spat onto the candle at his table, extinguishing it. Shamino's attendants opened the double doors that lead to the main lobby for Kazuma, and promptly closed them when he left.
"Anyone object to my next, obvious course of action?" Shamino asked, looking across the room. Not a single raised hand or brow. "Good." Shamino removed his Five-SeveN from his chest holster, pulling the slide back and promptly catching the bullet mid-flight from the chamber. "Meeting adjourned."
* * *
"You need any back up?" Alex asked, rubbing a cloth along the wooden handle of his Kalashnikov.
"No." Shamino responded, fitting the last bullet into another magazine, before moving onto the next.
"Do you want any back up?"
"No." Shamino thumbed in another bullet, then placed it into his jacket. "Just lock down the city block. Let the chief of police know. If i'm not out in twenty minutes... Cleanse the block of every Jap you see."
"You got it, boss." Alexander slammed the rounded magazine into his rifle, cocking a 7.62MM Round into the chamber with an inhuman smile. Shamino stared down at the incense that burned on his desk, and stood only when the last length of ash hit the lacquered oak. He grabbed his knapsack from the table, gave a curt wave to his associate, and made his way down the stairs.
* * *
His Cadillac CTS was nothing like a Porsche or a Mercedes. For one, it weighed several thousand pounds more, ate far more gas, was far more clunky to drive, and had far more steel in it. It was perfect for taking hails of gunfire. Turning the corner onto a particular strip of street that was Asian-themed, he saw four men in suits at each corner. One of them spat something out of their mouth, and gave a gentle underhand toss to the Ramen stand that Shamino drove past. With a violent step on the gas, the Cadillac accelerated just fast enough to miss the explosion of shrapnel. He swirved the vehicle harshly, kicking the driver door open and grabbing his first weapon from the passenger seat, an H&K MPL sub machine gun. Resting it on the roof of his vehicle, the gun spat out several short bursts of gunfire that ended the lives of four individuals. Four more to go, he turned the gun to the side lightly and emptied the rest of the .40 Caliber rounds into the second group of four. Slipping back in the car, he slammed the drivers door in time for it to catch a hail of nine millimeter bullets. He kicked the passenger side door open, taking the spare magazine off of the dashboard and reassuming his firing on a new group of opponents.
Once the car had been riddled with too many bullets, Shamino took his bag and began his systematic killing of any man with a gun that was in his way between him and the small office building where Kazuma did his daily work. Upon not seeing the vehicle in its designated parking area, Shamino assumed he was at his place of leisure. It was a calm and bullet riddled walk down the road to the Deli, and as Shamino reloaded, he felt a mild stinging at his hip- a bullet grazed though his suit and hit the flesh. Raising his weapon he fired several blind shots towards a small store, and grinned when gunfire was returned from the shattered windows. He grabbed a passerby- an Asian man with ingredients he had promised to pick up for his daughter, and wrapped his spare arm around the mans neck. He turned violently, putting the man in the way of the next hail of bullets. The screams were cut short when a bullet grazed the mans main artery in his neck, and they became gurgles. Shamino threw the body towards the store, rolling quickly and bringing the gun up to fire two shots at each gunman in the store- killing them shortly after a bullet stuck him in the chest, against his light kevlar vest.
The Swede fell to the floor, gasping for breath as the bullet managed to knock all the wind out of his lungs. He desperately felt for his gun, and let out a cry of agony when he felt two bullets slam into his thigh. He felt the gun- felt the slide cocked back to signal a lack of ammo. His other arm ripped open the backpack, removing a Glock 17 with an extended, fully automatic magazine and firing pin. He sprayed and prayed in the direction that the bullets had hit him in, and gave out a cry of joy when he heard screams of pain. He brought himself up to a sitting position, emptying the last of the magazine into an innocent woman caught in the crossfire and two suited men who continued to twitch after they were hit. Shamino's hand fished around in the backpack, finding only an extra magazine for his Five-SeveN. Tossing the Glock to the side, he reloaded his Five-SeveN and managed to get back up onto his feet. He walked by a restaurant, grabbing a mans glass of Jack Daniels and splashing it into the holes of his dress pants, exhaling sharply as he turned the corner towards the Deli.
Kazuma sat alone, a Katana resting against the wall behind him and a .357 magnum resting beside his sandwich. Shamino hobbled his way to the seat opposite of Kazuma, and rested his gun on his unscathed thigh. Kazuma beckoned the waiter, and mumbled for a bottle of Tequila. Upon receiving it, Kazuma poured his strength into opening the bottle, pouring the bloody, broken, and bruised Shamino a small glass on already melting ice. He drained it in several moments.
"Pour me another."
Reluctantly, the man opened the bottle of liquor, struggling slightly due to the sweet liquids drying after years of sitting on the mouth of the bottle. "Thanks." Shamino said, holding out his glass. The ice, nearly melted, cracked their last and split into near-water when the warm liquor splashed into the glass. He took it to his lips, drained the contents, and muzzled a cough with his gloved hand, his other hand busy caressing the gun that sat on his thigh.
"This is no place to have a gun..." The man across the table said, looking to their surroundings. San Francisco, mid day, a deli and coffee shop. People walked by, many people stared. The bloody and tattered Shamino Warhen shook his glass lightly.
"One more."
"Alright."
He drained the glass again, and turned the chair somewhat to face the man who had supplied him the poison, hauling the gun up heavily onto the table. "This is a place of business..." Shamino mumbled, looking past the rims of his glasses and up to the old Asian man who looked back at him with a glimmer of curiosity. "What better place to settle business, than at a place of one..."
Kazuma's hand went for the magnum, and Shamino's bloody knee slammed into the table, shooting it upwards and causing the guns to fly back into the cafe. Both of them standing, Kazuma's hand turned to a fist as he attempted to swing at the gut of the bloody Swede. Shamino's left hand gripped Kazuma's fist, and contrary to his fighting style, forced the fist back towards the owner, while throwing a fist of his own. Kazuma's free hand caught Shamino's, and they squeezed each others knuckles for a moment.
Kazuma threw his weight against Shamino, and he couldn't help but stumble back, tossing a light kick to Kazuma's side. Another, another, and Kazuma released his grip to send a palm straight to Shamino's chin. He stumbled back a few more paces and saw a single star in the afternoon sky when the palm forced his jaw back. Sensing a second one coming, without adjusting his craned back neck, Shamino's right hand caught the wrist of Kazuma and threw it to the side. Kazuma spun, and Shamino gripped his opponent's other arm by the wrist, and drove his palm against the elbow. A sickening crunch and a groan was heard when Shamino broke the Yakuza's arm. Booting the Asian onto the street, his head smashed painfully against a curb, drawing blood at the temple.
Without a single moment of hesitation, Shamino drove his foot into the back of the Asians skull, putting it between a cement block and a hard place. He did this twice, until he could see blood and teeth leak from the mouth of the man. It was then, with some of Shamino's last strength, he raised the Asian man back up to his feet and groggily showed him the corpses of innocents mere meters down the road. "Your hands, Kazuma." Shamino whispered. "Your hands, my bullets." Shamino dragged the man towards the Deli, picking up his Five SeveN from a nearby table it had landed on, and threw Kazuma into the glass of the deli display, which sent glass in every direction. Shamino felt several shards of glass cut deeply into his cheeks, and looked down to his trigger finger to see his glove had been sliced, almost surgically, in half from a bullet.
With Kazuma's face full of uncooked meat, Shamino emptied the magazine brutally into Kazuma's back and skull. Blood mixed with the blood of animals, and the body twitched and shook with every bullet that passed through it. When the gun was finally empty, he placed the smoking hit barrel to the back of Kazuma's corpse, branding a small circle into the back of the body's neck.
A Cadillac pulled up in front of the shop as people dashed and ran every which way, some holding the bodies of their loved ones and screaming, others dialing emergency numbers that, thanks to kickbacks, stayed unanswered. "This one is for the history books, my friend." Alex called through the window of the vehicle. "The San Francisco butcher, they'll call you. You're a hero to every Jap-Hater this side of the Pacific!"
The Swede hobbled to the passenger side of the vehicle. Opening the door, he tossed his gun towards Alex and fell into the seat, slumping. His arm, numb but not pained due to his adrenaline, fished out a bent cigarette from his breast pocket. He nodded lightly when Alex placed the car-lighter to the tip of his smoke, and let out a shaky exhale. "Bring me to the hospital..." He mumbled, rubbing his bleeding side.
"And what do I tell them at emergency?" Alex asked, turning the car around and aiming his AK-47 out the window with one hand, scaring away any vengeful citizens from approaching the vehicle.
"Tell them..." Shamino closed his eyes, and with the last ounce of strength, reclined the chair back all the way. The reflection off of his lense displayed a burning Ramen stand, corpses, blood, sweat, and tears. His lips twitched to a smile. "Tell them I had a long day at work."
Reluctantly, the man opened the bottle of liquor, struggling slightly due to the sweet liquids drying after years of sitting on the mouth of the bottle. "Thanks." Shamino said, holding out his glass. The ice, nearly melted, cracked their last and split into near-water when the warm liquor splashed into the glass. He took it to his lips, drained the contents, and muzzled a cough with his gloved hand, his other hand busy caressing the gun that sat on his thigh.
"This is no place to have a gun..." The man across the table said, looking to their surroundings. San Francisco, mid day, a deli and coffee shop. People walked by, many people stared. The bloody and tattered Shamino Warhen shook his glass lightly.
"One more."
"Alright."
He drained the glass again, and turned the chair somewhat to face the man who had supplied him the poison, hauling the gun up heavily onto the table. "This is a place of business..." Shamino mumbled, looking past the rims of his glasses and up to the old Asian man who looked back at him with a glimmer of curiosity. "What better place to settle business, than at a place of one..."
* * *
"I've called this meeting..." Shamino began, sitting atop the rest at his private table, on his private ship, in the private section of the casino. "To discuss a troubling issue."
The room was thickened with cigar smoke from a dozen different third world countries, and were inhaled by men wearing first world suits. A few scratched their chins, others rubbed their beards- a select few played with their mustaches. "You see," Shamino began, dousing his cigarette in his near-empty glass. Pushing it to the side, an attendant picked up the glass and replaced it with a glass half full of whiskey, given to him by Kazuki Shinato, a man who had died. As promised, the glass was chilled, with no ice polluting the drink. He brought it to his lips, inhaled the scent, and put a trace amount to his mouth. He swallowed, gasped, and continued. "There was a syndicate in town, the other day."
Two men behind Shamino shifted restlessly in their wide-cut suits, hands itching to remove the Mac-11's that rested under their blazers. Shamino looked over his shoulder as he spoke, to idle them once more. "They ransacked an apartment down the street from me, took two innocent teenagers out of their homes, came down to my docks, and attempted to rape them. From what I gather, it's over drug money. Not a lot of drug money, mind you- but enough. What I want to ask is..." He looked to each and every man and woman in the room, which took several minutes. "Who authorized a foreign syndicate to travel to the other side of the continent, to see the other ocean, and beat the ever loving fuck out of these girls?" He stood then, pushing the glass aside, and resting his hands on the table. "And who the fuck forgot to tell me?"
Everyone in the room turned to look at their most trusted partners, then to their least trusted. The room suddenly had a grim air mixed in with the tobacco smoke, and a single man raised his hand. The last of the Yakuza invasion to San Francisco, Kazuma. The thirty-something lowered his hand when the murmuring stopped. "They were ill informed about the war that happened last year, and were unaware that your group had overtaken the economical reigns of the area... They approached me, I said I didn't care either way. They took it as a yes."
"And why wasn't I informed when you spoke to them?" Shamino asked, raising the glass to take an unhealthy swig.
"Because..." The Yakuza removed a Belomorkanal cigarette from his sterling silver case, lit it with a lighter made in Japan, with Japanese lighter fluids, and inhaled the Russian cigarette (Owned by a Japanese corportion) then promptly exhaled. "I don't like you."
Shamino sat then, nodding. There was pure silence other than heaving breaths from cigarettes and casual drinking. "I'm romantically involved with one of the two women who were beaten and nearly raped, then presumably to be murdered."
"You said they were teenagers, correct?" An Irishman asked, who had been eying the whiskey from the start of the meeting. "You're what, in your twenties?"
"Does that have anything to do with the situation at hand?" Shamino inquired. The Irishman shrugged, leaned back in his seat, and looked to his left towards his associates. To the older families, being young and dating younger was a sign of desperation and weakness. Shamino clenched his fist at this realization.
"Guess not." The Irishman said, giving a shrug.
"Kazuma. That was quite... Unprofessional of you. A man from a family who claims unrivaled honor and tradition..." Shamino raised a brow, lacing his fingers together as his elbows propped themselves up on the table. "...Coming into a foreign country and being the Gaijin that you bitch about day and night. I suppose America has poisoned your sense of respect."
"And a filthy Anglo has the ability to say that?" Kazuma flicked his cigarette towards Shamino from his front table. Shamino, taking a drag off of one of his attendants cigarettes, flicked the butt towards Kazuma. The two cigarette butts collided in mid air, sparking before falling to the floor. Shamino raised his drink to his lips with a smile, draining the contents as Kazuma dumped his drink to the floor- tossing the glass in Shamino's direction. Shamino, with his empty glass, made a harsh overhand throw. The two glasses collided in the air- shattering into a temporary rainfall of shards.
"I do. And when the leaders of that Syndicate come to town to question the person who murdered their underboss..." Shamino raised a gloved hand, pointing to an irate Kazuma. "Though I put the bullets in his head, you're the one that signed his death warrant. I'll send them after you... As will everyone else."
Despite the men in the room despised Shamino Warhen, the ambitious and insanely young Swede who had taken gun running by storm; they would be unable to ignore his demand. In the room were men and women who had built their families off of respect and honor. Shamino had called the meeting, it was his lover in danger, Kazuma had technically allowed a foreign power into play without alerting the largest boss. Kazuma looked around with an air of desperation, and was met back with several dozen harsh stares. An African American in a crimson suit wearing a large feathered hat shook his head as he played with his platnium and oak cane. "Ice cold, man..." He mumbled towards Kazuma. "That shit was weak."
"To hell with this." Kazuma stood, his associates raised from their tables with him. "And to hell with you, Shamino Warhen. I'm just sad that her head didn't show up in your god damned mail box." Kazuma spat onto the candle at his table, extinguishing it. Shamino's attendants opened the double doors that lead to the main lobby for Kazuma, and promptly closed them when he left.
"Anyone object to my next, obvious course of action?" Shamino asked, looking across the room. Not a single raised hand or brow. "Good." Shamino removed his Five-SeveN from his chest holster, pulling the slide back and promptly catching the bullet mid-flight from the chamber. "Meeting adjourned."
* * *
"You need any back up?" Alex asked, rubbing a cloth along the wooden handle of his Kalashnikov.
"No." Shamino responded, fitting the last bullet into another magazine, before moving onto the next.
"Do you want any back up?"
"No." Shamino thumbed in another bullet, then placed it into his jacket. "Just lock down the city block. Let the chief of police know. If i'm not out in twenty minutes... Cleanse the block of every Jap you see."
"You got it, boss." Alexander slammed the rounded magazine into his rifle, cocking a 7.62MM Round into the chamber with an inhuman smile. Shamino stared down at the incense that burned on his desk, and stood only when the last length of ash hit the lacquered oak. He grabbed his knapsack from the table, gave a curt wave to his associate, and made his way down the stairs.
* * *
His Cadillac CTS was nothing like a Porsche or a Mercedes. For one, it weighed several thousand pounds more, ate far more gas, was far more clunky to drive, and had far more steel in it. It was perfect for taking hails of gunfire. Turning the corner onto a particular strip of street that was Asian-themed, he saw four men in suits at each corner. One of them spat something out of their mouth, and gave a gentle underhand toss to the Ramen stand that Shamino drove past. With a violent step on the gas, the Cadillac accelerated just fast enough to miss the explosion of shrapnel. He swirved the vehicle harshly, kicking the driver door open and grabbing his first weapon from the passenger seat, an H&K MPL sub machine gun. Resting it on the roof of his vehicle, the gun spat out several short bursts of gunfire that ended the lives of four individuals. Four more to go, he turned the gun to the side lightly and emptied the rest of the .40 Caliber rounds into the second group of four. Slipping back in the car, he slammed the drivers door in time for it to catch a hail of nine millimeter bullets. He kicked the passenger side door open, taking the spare magazine off of the dashboard and reassuming his firing on a new group of opponents.
Once the car had been riddled with too many bullets, Shamino took his bag and began his systematic killing of any man with a gun that was in his way between him and the small office building where Kazuma did his daily work. Upon not seeing the vehicle in its designated parking area, Shamino assumed he was at his place of leisure. It was a calm and bullet riddled walk down the road to the Deli, and as Shamino reloaded, he felt a mild stinging at his hip- a bullet grazed though his suit and hit the flesh. Raising his weapon he fired several blind shots towards a small store, and grinned when gunfire was returned from the shattered windows. He grabbed a passerby- an Asian man with ingredients he had promised to pick up for his daughter, and wrapped his spare arm around the mans neck. He turned violently, putting the man in the way of the next hail of bullets. The screams were cut short when a bullet grazed the mans main artery in his neck, and they became gurgles. Shamino threw the body towards the store, rolling quickly and bringing the gun up to fire two shots at each gunman in the store- killing them shortly after a bullet stuck him in the chest, against his light kevlar vest.
The Swede fell to the floor, gasping for breath as the bullet managed to knock all the wind out of his lungs. He desperately felt for his gun, and let out a cry of agony when he felt two bullets slam into his thigh. He felt the gun- felt the slide cocked back to signal a lack of ammo. His other arm ripped open the backpack, removing a Glock 17 with an extended, fully automatic magazine and firing pin. He sprayed and prayed in the direction that the bullets had hit him in, and gave out a cry of joy when he heard screams of pain. He brought himself up to a sitting position, emptying the last of the magazine into an innocent woman caught in the crossfire and two suited men who continued to twitch after they were hit. Shamino's hand fished around in the backpack, finding only an extra magazine for his Five-SeveN. Tossing the Glock to the side, he reloaded his Five-SeveN and managed to get back up onto his feet. He walked by a restaurant, grabbing a mans glass of Jack Daniels and splashing it into the holes of his dress pants, exhaling sharply as he turned the corner towards the Deli.
Kazuma sat alone, a Katana resting against the wall behind him and a .357 magnum resting beside his sandwich. Shamino hobbled his way to the seat opposite of Kazuma, and rested his gun on his unscathed thigh. Kazuma beckoned the waiter, and mumbled for a bottle of Tequila. Upon receiving it, Kazuma poured his strength into opening the bottle, pouring the bloody, broken, and bruised Shamino a small glass on already melting ice. He drained it in several moments.
"Pour me another."
Reluctantly, the man opened the bottle of liquor, struggling slightly due to the sweet liquids drying after years of sitting on the mouth of the bottle. "Thanks." Shamino said, holding out his glass. The ice, nearly melted, cracked their last and split into near-water when the warm liquor splashed into the glass. He took it to his lips, drained the contents, and muzzled a cough with his gloved hand, his other hand busy caressing the gun that sat on his thigh.
"This is no place to have a gun..." The man across the table said, looking to their surroundings. San Francisco, mid day, a deli and coffee shop. People walked by, many people stared. The bloody and tattered Shamino Warhen shook his glass lightly.
"One more."
"Alright."
He drained the glass again, and turned the chair somewhat to face the man who had supplied him the poison, hauling the gun up heavily onto the table. "This is a place of business..." Shamino mumbled, looking past the rims of his glasses and up to the old Asian man who looked back at him with a glimmer of curiosity. "What better place to settle business, than at a place of one..."
Kazuma's hand went for the magnum, and Shamino's bloody knee slammed into the table, shooting it upwards and causing the guns to fly back into the cafe. Both of them standing, Kazuma's hand turned to a fist as he attempted to swing at the gut of the bloody Swede. Shamino's left hand gripped Kazuma's fist, and contrary to his fighting style, forced the fist back towards the owner, while throwing a fist of his own. Kazuma's free hand caught Shamino's, and they squeezed each others knuckles for a moment.
Kazuma threw his weight against Shamino, and he couldn't help but stumble back, tossing a light kick to Kazuma's side. Another, another, and Kazuma released his grip to send a palm straight to Shamino's chin. He stumbled back a few more paces and saw a single star in the afternoon sky when the palm forced his jaw back. Sensing a second one coming, without adjusting his craned back neck, Shamino's right hand caught the wrist of Kazuma and threw it to the side. Kazuma spun, and Shamino gripped his opponent's other arm by the wrist, and drove his palm against the elbow. A sickening crunch and a groan was heard when Shamino broke the Yakuza's arm. Booting the Asian onto the street, his head smashed painfully against a curb, drawing blood at the temple.
Without a single moment of hesitation, Shamino drove his foot into the back of the Asians skull, putting it between a cement block and a hard place. He did this twice, until he could see blood and teeth leak from the mouth of the man. It was then, with some of Shamino's last strength, he raised the Asian man back up to his feet and groggily showed him the corpses of innocents mere meters down the road. "Your hands, Kazuma." Shamino whispered. "Your hands, my bullets." Shamino dragged the man towards the Deli, picking up his Five SeveN from a nearby table it had landed on, and threw Kazuma into the glass of the deli display, which sent glass in every direction. Shamino felt several shards of glass cut deeply into his cheeks, and looked down to his trigger finger to see his glove had been sliced, almost surgically, in half from a bullet.
With Kazuma's face full of uncooked meat, Shamino emptied the magazine brutally into Kazuma's back and skull. Blood mixed with the blood of animals, and the body twitched and shook with every bullet that passed through it. When the gun was finally empty, he placed the smoking hit barrel to the back of Kazuma's corpse, branding a small circle into the back of the body's neck.
A Cadillac pulled up in front of the shop as people dashed and ran every which way, some holding the bodies of their loved ones and screaming, others dialing emergency numbers that, thanks to kickbacks, stayed unanswered. "This one is for the history books, my friend." Alex called through the window of the vehicle. "The San Francisco butcher, they'll call you. You're a hero to every Jap-Hater this side of the Pacific!"
The Swede hobbled to the passenger side of the vehicle. Opening the door, he tossed his gun towards Alex and fell into the seat, slumping. His arm, numb but not pained due to his adrenaline, fished out a bent cigarette from his breast pocket. He nodded lightly when Alex placed the car-lighter to the tip of his smoke, and let out a shaky exhale. "Bring me to the hospital..." He mumbled, rubbing his bleeding side.
"And what do I tell them at emergency?" Alex asked, turning the car around and aiming his AK-47 out the window with one hand, scaring away any vengeful citizens from approaching the vehicle.
"Tell them..." Shamino closed his eyes, and with the last ounce of strength, reclined the chair back all the way. The reflection off of his lense displayed a burning Ramen stand, corpses, blood, sweat, and tears. His lips twitched to a smile. "Tell them I had a long day at work."