(author's notes follow)
The following story contains scenes of violence. Reader discretion is
advised.
*Hong Kong*
Wen Li sighed, and closed the ledger. Profits were down, and the small
curio shop was just barely breaking even. Business had been in a steady
decline, ever since the Takeover, and it didn't look to be leveling off
soon. Now he almost regretted taking the business off of his uncle's
hands... and occaisionaly wondered if the old wretch had planned this. Or
cursed him.
While he didn't put much belief in the 'mystical' of some of properties
of his merchandise, the old man had. Enough that the old man had marked
certain objects off in the thick, dusty manifest he kept, saying that they
could not, under any circumstances be sold. Wen had smiled, and complied
with the old man at first. After all... it didn't cost him anything, and
there were only a few objects. He did note, upon actualy examining them,
that they might fetch a more than descent price on the market, but the old
man had been adamnant, and well, his uncle wasn't easy to ignore.
Then, as business suddenly started to dip, Wen's resolve began to
faulter. It was only the presence of his elderly uncle, and his wrath, that
kept him in check. Then, last month, the old man had died. Wen resisted the
urge at first... then sold off one of the pieces, rationalizing that it was
just one, and he desperately needed the money. The second piece was sold for
much the same reason... then the third, and fourth. Finally, he sold just
about all of it, but even with the boosts the rarities brought in, it was
looking grim.
A soft noise behind him drew his attention from the battered cover of
the accounting ledger. He started to turn, when something seized him from
behind, pulling him violently from his chair. Before he had time to react,
one of his arms was pinned painfully behind his back, as something cold, and
sharp pressed against his neck. It pressed closer, a thin line of ice
against his skin, until he stopped struggling.
"Where's Li Ho?" a harsh voice spoke into his ear, seeded with an accent
Wen couldn't identify.
"My uncle?" Wen whispered harshly, wincing at the way the icy razor at
his throat dug into his skin with each word. "He died a month ago."
"He left you in charge of the store?" the voice asked.
"I-I bought it from him, yes," Wen managed to squeak out.
"Then you're the one who's been selling those cursed items," the voice
said, this time with a shading of anger that sent a sliver of ice up his
spine.
"Cursed?" he said, managing to repress a slightly hysterical chuckle.
"Oh, please-"
The blade at his throat pressed close, the line of ice briefly becoming
fire, and he felt something wet start to trickle down his neck. Shock mixed
with belated pain, and was quickly followed by terror.
"There was a statue, about three feet tall, of buhdda, made of red clay.
What happened to it?"
"Uh?" Dark spots were floating in Wen's vision, as his terrified mind
threatened to collapse.
"The statue. What happened to it?" The blade pressed closer again.
"S-sold it..." Wen managed, and was relieved as the pressure lessened at
his throat.
"To who?"
"F-f-foreign collector... I needed the... needed the... the... money..."
"Who?" The blade dug closer for a third time. Wen's mind went numb,
along with most of his body. Oddly, the only thought he could focus on was
how he was going to remove the stain from his trousers.
"Who?" the voice asked again, not loudly, but with a presence that was
like a physical blow.
"D-don't... know... private... c-c..." Wen's voice cracked,and refused
to work. The blade moved a little futher away, bringing a little more
releif.
"Who?" Wen shivered, and tried to stop his throat from trembling closer
to the blade's edge.
"A-a private company made the deal, as a proxy for a foreign
collector..." His voice was getting steadier, but he believed it had more to
do with the numb fear that was settling over him than any new found
confidence.
"What's the name of the company?"
"Uh... I don't recall... but I've got the invoice around here
somewhere..." He used his free hand to gesture at his desk, and papers on
it. There was a silent pause, then he was released suddenly. He staggered
forward, half collapsing, half leaning on the desk. He took a deep, ragged
breath, then went for the small revolver he kept in his desk for protection.
His hand got as the drawer, when something slammed it closed, trapping his
hand. Wen yelped in pain, as several of the bones in his wrist broke
simultaneously.
"Try that again, and you'll be dead before you hit the ground," the
harsh voice said.
"Uh..." was all the terrified shopkeeper could manage, as he tried
desperately to pull his hand free of the desk, but his assailant was still
managing to hold it closed, with the same foot that had shut it.
"What was the name of the company?" the voice insisted, harsher. Wen
tried to follow the voice, but all he saw was shadows, and a vague image of
a tall, thin figure.
Using his uninjured hand, Wen started shuffling through the papers on
his desk, before finally holding one up. "H-here-" A hand reached out of the
shadows and took the paper.
There was a silent pause, and Wen collapsed into his chair, cradling his
injured hand against his body, while his free hand went to the cut at his
throat. It a few inches long, but not very deep, barely breaking the skin.
It probably wouldn't even leave a scar.
"What-?" the stanger said suddenly. Wen jumped, looking towards the
shadow, numbly curious about the surprise he heard in his attacker's voice.
"Is something wrong?" he asked softly.
The shadowy figure didn't move, but somehow, he seemed to swell, filling
the room with an overpowering presence. There was a flash of light, and a
dagger came into view, it's edge stained red.
"If I find out you've sold anymore of those items, I'll be back to speak
with you. You've caused enough damage as it is. Do we have an
understanding?" the voice said, seeming to reverbrate, and echo inside his
Wen's skull. He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Good," the figure said. There was a flash of movment, and a sharp
pressure against his throat, then darkness swallowed him.
Wen awoke to a world of pain. His head was throbbing, and every motion
sent daggers of pain through his wrist. It was a long time before he had
enough strength to regain his feet.
It was even longer before he discovered that the strong box with his
weeks sales was missing.
* *
*
After a long sebaticle, I am returned.
(okay, so that's bad grammer, but it sounds somewhat impressive... 6^^)
What you've just read (I assume since we're at the end ;p), is a redraft
of an ealier post. Some of you may recall it, but it's been a long time,
and there are enough new faces that I'm pretty sure most of you won't. 6^^
Comments, questions, and criticisms are welcome. I'm rewriting what
I've written before (for those who remember) and hoping to add more in the
near future.
That's all for now,
Ja ne!
-Mark Belcourt
Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping. Waiting. And though unwanted,
unbidden, it will stir, open it's jaws, and howl.
It speaks through us, guides us. Passion rules us all, and we obey. What
other choice do we have?
Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of of love, the
clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief.
It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without
passion, maybe we could know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow.
Empty rooms, shuttered, and dank.
Without passion, we'd be truly dead.
-Angel, BtVS