Five Deadly Rebels, a Kung Fu Sci-Fi Scripted Podcast. Hosted by Ian Tuason. Music by Wu-Tang Clan producer, Cilvaringz. This is Episode 8, Money in the Trenches
“And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666.”
The Book of Revelations 13:17-18
Chapter 27: The Streets are Dark and Hell is Hot
The Blinder presses down on his newsboy cap to prevent it from flying off his head, his other hand gripping the passenger backrest bar of the Biker’s matte black MTT 420-RR motorcycle as they both speed into a maze of backstreets and abandoned buildings. The Biker leans forward, revving the steel beast under him, his aerodynamic horned helmet slicing through the night air like a blade. The roar of the beast’s engine echoes off graffiti-covered walls and dark alleyways.
“Left!” the Blinder yells over the rumbling of the engine.
They wind their way through the shadowy arteries of the city, turning right, then left, then right, then left again. The minutes seem to drag into hours, and the Biker feels like he’s passing the same doorways and dank buildings, over and over.
The Biker slows to a stop under a darkened underpass, and parks, the rumbling of his engine turning into purring as he dismounts his bike and faces the Blinder, still sitting on it.
“Thought you can’t lie,” the Biker pulls one side of his suit jacket revealing his holstered Magnum.
“I can’t,” says the Blinder, relieved, his throat sore from all the yelling.
The Biker draws his Magnum and lays its heavy wood and steel on his motorcycle seat, inches in front of the Blinder, and takes three steps back. The Blinder thinks he could just reach out and take it, that is if he didn’t believe that the Biker would get to it first.
“We’re taking the scenic route,” the Blinder shrugs.
Low, dry laughter seeps through the Biker’s helmet and echoes off the grimy walls of the underpass as he takes three more steps back.
“Who you stalling for, sweety?” says the Biker. “Your boy is locked up. Number One and Two are dead. It’s just you and me,” the Biker takes more steps back, his voice trailing off the further he moves.
The Blinder reaches for the Magnum, and in a flash, the cold nozzle of the massive gun presses up against the Blinder’s chin, forcing him to tilt his head back and lower his eyes to meet the Biker’s gaze, inches from the Blinder’s face.
“You breaking your promises now?” the Biker snarls.
“I wasn’t gonna shoot ya, broski,” the Blinder grins. “Wanted to see how fast you really are.”
The Biker cocks his Magnum, the sound of its clack hanging heavy in the chilled night air. “Too fast, and I don’t got time for this.”
“You can’t wet me yet, broski,” says the Blinder.
“True,” the Biker presses the icy steel of his gun onto the Blinder’s knee. “But there are other ways.”
The dying streetlamp behind the Biker carves his horned shadow across the Blinder’s mask.
“You win, broski,” the Blinder smirks. “I’ll take you straight there. Promise.”
The Biker uncocks and holsters his weapon. “That a girl.”
“The ledger’s in Newark,” says the Blinder. “Take whatever route you want.”
“Newark? Ha!” the Biker laughs, swinging a leg over the purring machine. “The most valuable thing in this world in the shittiest town in this country. Don’t kill me.”
With a flick of the Biker’s wrist, the engine growls, throbbing. He revs the engine, sending a shudder of raw power through the mechanical beast, then without warning, he guns the throttle.
The bike leaps forward, its tires biting into the asphalt with a screech, hurtling them both out of the underpass and back into the streetlights and shadows of buildings.
The Biker, now dead set on a destination, tears through the heart of Queens. Neon signs from storefronts and billboards paint streaks of color across their path through Flushing, then Astoria, then aiming straight for the maw of the Queens Midtown Tunnel, the underworld vein that snakes under the East River.
The tunnel engulfs them in a rush of damp air and the deafening echoes from the engine roar bounce off tiled walls.
Emerging from the underground and into Manhattan, the Biker weaves through traffic like a whirlwind, his horned helmet gifting him with reflexes beyond human limits. The Biker sees every swerve and movement from the drivers ahead of him before they themselves even realize it, and he threads through them all, his course steadfast, the Lincoln Tunnel, another urban cavern beneath the waters of the Hudson River, leading directly to the destination drilled into his mind—Newark, New Jersey.
The Biker leans into a bend then cuts a straight path towards the ramps leading down into the Lincoln Tunnel. He scans the skyline of New Jersey dotted with distant lights looming on the horizon over the inky depths of the Hudson, his mouth salivating. His eyes are so locked on the target ahead that even his heightened reflexes don’t react when a speeding police cruiser hurtles out of an adjacent street as if it were waiting for him to pass, clipping the edge of the Biker’s back tire, sending the Biker, the Blinder, and the motorcycle sliding and scraping across the empty street.
The motorcycle skates across the asphalt on its side, sparks flying, then shatters in half against the end of a cement barrier.
The Blinder stretches his arms wide, keeping himself skidding on his back, his leather vest bearing the brunt of the scraping damage before he rams hip first into the back tire of a parked trailer.
Buck slams the cruiser’s brakes, jumps out and aims his Beretta with both hands at the Biker, but the Biker’s persistent sliding turns into a tumble, and suddenly he’s on his feet, his suit jacket strewn with tears. Buck fires three moving shots at the blur that is the Biker, disappearing into a densely wooded park between two buildings.
Defying gravity, Buck leaps yards over the long street and falls lightly into the thick undergrowth at the edge of the park, streetlights filtering through the trees towering before him.
Buck listens, gun drawn, for twigs snapping or the crunching of foliage under footfalls, but only hears the rustling of leaves.
Suddenly, Buck catches a fleeting glimpse of a shadow darting between the trees. He fires twice, the shots echoing off the buildings guarding the edges of the park.
As the smoke clears, the shadow is gone, as if swallowed by more shadows. Buck charges forward, mud grabbing at his ankles. His boots fly through the wet muck and it tags along with him in flecks and speckles on his overcoat, khakis, mask, and bucket hat. His eyes scan the trees for any sign of the Biker, then finds a patch of leaves glistening with blood, wet and fresh.
Treading forward slowly now, he finds more crimson-stained leaves, then more, until he finds himself standing at the edge of a children’s playground, empty, bathed in the ghostly light of a single lamp beside the swings, its chains softly clanking as they sway in the breeze.
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The Blinder groans, lying beside the huge tire of the trailer, the world spinning around him. He feels for his mask and newsboy cap, still on, each movement sending waves of pain through him.
Slowly, he pushes himself onto his elbows, the skin of his palms a mess of bloody scrapes, his black leather vest ripped and torn at the back.
Heaving a ragged breath, he hauls himself upright against the treaded rubber of the tire. His gaze moves to what’s left of the Biker’s motorcycle, two twisted and broken halves, the constant roar of its engine now faded to a muted hum in his ears.
He hears booted footsteps on rough asphalt rushing towards him. His muscles knot then relax as he sees Buck running, a black Beretta in his hand.
“I got him!” Buck stuffs his Beretta into his back waistband.
“Fook you, Buck…again?” the Blinder grumbles.
Buck pulls the Blinder up by his armpits, who wavers but Buck catches him, cradling his back and securing his side, holding him steady, leading him limping to the police cruiser, still parked with the engine running.
“Are you stupid are you dumb, fam?” Buck scolds. “Mans was going to body you as soon as you showed him that ledger, deadass,” says Buck.
“I got his words,” the Blinder groans.
Buck’s eyes light up. “What are they?”
“Power… Glory…”
Buck almost drops the Blinder in his excitement. “Fuck yea, fam!”
They’re steps away from the cruiser, its driver-side door still swung wide open.
“Let’s get it, fam! What’s the address in Newark?”
The Blinder hesitates.
“My bredren, you still don’t trust me?” Buck pouts. “After I saved your ass? After all we been through?”
“Ah, fook it,” the Blinder sighs. “Forty-five Guadalupe Ave.”
“Forty-five Guadalupe Ave?”
“Yup.”
Buck leads the Blinder around the cruiser and leans him up against the passenger side door.
“Dope, let’s cut, fam!” Buck dashes around the cruiser, jumping into the driver seat.
The Blinder shakes off the grogginess in his head and pulls the handle of the passenger side door but it’s locked.
“Oi!” the Blinder yells, rattling the handle.
Buck floors the gas, almost taking the Blinder’s hand with him. Tires screech as Buck swerves in a wide arc then guns the cruiser towards the Lincoln Tunnel, the ramps to its entrance looming at the end of the long street, leaving the Blinder standing alone in a cloud of smoke from burning rubber.
“Fookin’ buckethead,” says the Blinder.
Chapter 28: Money in the Trenches
The police cruiser’s engine now just a low murmur, Buck navigates the maze of the Newark industrial district. The glow of the dashboard illuminates his mask under his bucket hat as he weaves through a ghost town of shuttered warehouses and silent factories. With its headlights turned off, the cruiser moves through the darkened streets like a ghost.
He rolls past the hulking shadows of buildings and rusty freight containers piled high like metal mountains. Cranes and loading equipment stand frozen in time, their silhouettes stark against the night sky.
Buck sees a street sign ahead—Guadalupe Avenue—and turns into the narrow street. The street narrows even thinner as he crawls forward, and he finds himself rolling alongside a sprawling brick wall stretching out into the darkness ahead.
Time seems to drag and then he reaches it—a gated entrance into the walled fortress with a metal sign screwed into the brown bricks beside the gate, bearing the number 45.
Another sign on the gate itself, large and yellow with black letters displaying the words, ‘Ernie and Son Self-Storage Facility.’
Buck rolls past the gate and its security cameras, continuing on alongside more of the brick wall that seems to never end. His wheels crunch over gravel as he pulls over into a shadowy area between two streetlights and kills the engine.
Buck pops the trunk and quietly steps out of the cruiser into the chilly air, the silence outside broken only by the gravel crunching under his boots and the chirping of crickets in the long grass on the other side of the street.
Softly opening the trunk, Buck lifts its floorboard, revealing the cruiser’s spare tire. His hand snakes under rubber and digs out a tire iron, the color of charcoal, bending at a lug nut socket on one end, and curving slightly to a sharp edge on the other, perfect for prying off stubborn hubcaps, Buck thinks to himself, but also for breaking locks.
Gripping the heavy tire iron in one hand, Buck reaches for his Beretta with the other, but it’s not there. He pats his back waistband a couple of times, dumbfounded, when he suddenly recalls the feeling of the Blinder’s arm cradling his back for support as they hobbled to the cruiser earlier in the night. “That fucking teef,” Buck kisses his teeth.
Buck shakes off his irritation and draws in a deep breath, peering up at the brick wall looming before him. Probably ten or eleven feet tall, he thinks to himself. The crunching of gravel under Buck turns into the pattering of his boot soles on brick as he walks up the wall, defying gravity.
Reaching the top of the wall, crouching low, gravity back to normal, he scans over the walled acres of land housing rows upon rows of long, single-story buildings armored with white metal paneling on its walls and flat roofs. Corrugated metal doors, painted blue and segmented like an armadillo, line the walls of every building in perfect symmetry, extending out into the distance, each lit dimly with mosquito and moth swarmed lightbulbs mounted over them.
“Fuck,” Buck whispers to himself before squeezing the tire iron in his sweaty hand and leaping onto the paved grounds of the facility, landing like a feather.
Too eager, he sneaks down the long path between two buildings and chooses one of the storage units at random. He jams the sharp end of his tire iron into the metal loop of a padlock at the base of a locker door, shackled through a pair of steel rings, one melded into the door, the other embedded into the storage unit’s cement floor jutting out from under the door.
Buck leans down into the tire iron, cranking into the padlock’s metal loop. There's a brief moment of resistance before it yields and snaps.
Buck reaches down, gripping the door’s handle, and with a forceful tug, the door rumbles upwards, metal wheels groaning across metal tracks, unveiling the darkness inside in the locker. Feeling along the inside wall at the edge of the entrance, Buck’s hand grazes a light switch box and flicks its small, plastic lever. Two rows of long, fluorescent bulbs light up on the ceiling, revealing stacks of cardboard boxes with labels scribbled in black marker, a dusty sofa, a large wooden cabinet, and a massive tarp covering a pile of more boxes.
Buck grabs the nearest box and tears it open. Inside, he finds photo albums bearing the white smiling faces of a ginger-haired family and his gut urges him to move on to the next locker.
No longer creeping with his steps, Buck power walks along the row of locker doors after locker doors and chooses another one at random. Thrusting down his tire iron, he makes quick work of another lock. With a sharp crack, the metal snaps, the door roars open, and a wave of musky air hits him. The unit is filled with antique furniture shrouded in dust, a piano, its keys yellowed and silent, stacks of newspapers, their edges brittle and pages yellowed, and a vintage bicycle, its paint chipped and tires deflated. Buck feels as if this unit couldn’t possibly belong to the young Number Two.
“Fuck,” Buck begins to sweat under his mask, the night inching closer to an end, the ledger feeling further out of his reach, like hunting for a golden needle in concrete and metal haystacks.
Suddenly, Buck jumps, startled by a black cat with a red collar brushing against his leg. The Master’s cat? he questions. No, it can’t be, he convinces himself.
“Fuck out of here!” Buck shoves the cat away with the side of his boot, sending it scurrying into the darkness. Buck pauses to wonder again about the cat, but shakes it off, knowing that time is ticking.
In a frenzy, he bolts out from the locker, his boots now pounding on the pavement. The wind whistles past his ears as he sprints through the labyrinth of storage unit buildings. He turns a corner and sees more rows upon rows of storage units stretching out before him, each one as nondescript as the next, the black numbers stencil painted on the white metal paneling over each door mark the only distinction between them.
Buck skids to a halt before another locker, the number 395 over its door. His fingers raw from breaking locks, his muscles aching from lifting heavy metal doors, yet he wrenches another one open. But all he finds is an old washing machine and piles of discarded magazines.
“Fuck!” he roars, slamming the door shut. He doubles over, hands on his knees, drawing in ragged breaths. “C’mon, Buck. You got luck on your side; you must be close.” He looks up at the next locker bearing the number 396.
Calming himself, Buck plods to the next locker, breaks the padlock, pulls open its door, switches on the lights inside, and then he sees it—a Japanese stone warrior statue standing tall in the center of the unit, intricately carved into the likeness of an ancient samurai, broad shoulders draped in sculpted yoroi armor, a menpo mask covering the lower half of its face under the chiselled contours of a kabuto helmet.
Buck’s heart begins to pound against his ribcage as he creeps towards a single Rubbermaid bin of clear plastic at the foot of the statue, as if it were guarding the bin with its life.
Kneeling down, Buck pops the lid, revealing dozens of DVD cases—Akira Kurosawa’s “The Seven Samurai,” Akira Kurosawa’s “Yojimbo,” Takeshi Kitano’s “Zatōichi,” and Quinten Tarantino’s “Kill Bill: Volume 1.” Then Buck’s heart slows when he digs deeper into the bin and pulls out a DVD that doesn’t belong, a single kung fu film among the pile of samurai films—The Shaw Brothers’ “Five Deadly Venoms.”
The cover shows five kung fu masters wearing tang suits of different colors and Chinese opera Jing masks on their shrouded faces, each adorned with a different venomous animal on its forehead—a poisonous toad, a cobra, a scorpion, a lizard, and a centipede.
A wave of calm washes over Buck as he draws in a deep breath, knowing for certain that the ledger is inside the case, he doesn’t even have a doubt.
He pops it open—empty—not even a fucking disc inside.
“Fuck!” he throws the case across the unit like a Frisbee, his yell echoing off concrete interior walls.
Lumbering out of the unit, defeated, standing under the relentless buzzing of insects swarming and bumping into the lightbulb above, Buck searches his brain for some kind of edge, like he’s done a million times before.
Wandering aimlessly down a path between rows of storage units, he turns his gaze towards the numbers above each door—404, then 405, then 406. Then Buck stops in his tracks, his eyes brighten under his mask. “Use your gut, Buck,” he whispers under his breath.
His pace quickens, staring up at each unit number—423, then 424—but Buck’s gut feels nothing.
A sudden pulse of energy surges through him like a storm as he plunges back into the maze of storage units, his footsteps a drumroll echoing off metal panelled walls, his tire iron swinging heavy in his hand. The numbers on the lockers flicker past him in a blur as he dashes through the rows—537—538—539.
The soles of his boots slide to a stop in front of a single unit, his gut igniting with a primal instinct as he looks at the numbers over the locker door—555.
Wasting no time, his tire iron connects with the padlock, and the crack echoes like a gunshot. He drops the tire iron, clattering on the ground. He wrenches the door open, flicks on the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights, and springs into the locker, his eyes wide under his mask.
Standing at the center of the storage unit over a circular water drain in the cement floor, covered with a grid of rusted metal, Buck scans the square room from corner to corner, his eyes landing on the only thing inside the unit—a military footlocker, its heavy-gauge steel painted in olive-drab, its rectangular form fitting perfectly snug into the far corner of the unit. Its flat, solid lid secured shut by a steel combination lock.
Buck swallows, checking over his shoulder, rechecking every corner, taken aback by the spaciousness of the unit, seeing one practically empty for the first time. It reminds him of his step-father’s car shop, large enough to park nine cars inside in three rows. Two metal conduit cables, bracketed onto the concrete walls, snake up from the light switch box on the entrance wall and a fuse box on the side wall, then across the ceiling into two rows of fluorescent lights above. Four steel support beams stretch from floor to ceiling, forming a square inside the unit, like stripper poles aligned with each corner of the room.
Buck takes one step forward when he feels a hard tap on the back of his head and hears the blunt clack of a Beretta being cocked. He raises his hands open at his sides, instinctually.
“What up, me bredren?” the Blinder hisses behind him.
Buck breathes a sigh of relief, thinking it could have been someone worse. “Fam! Thank God, you made it. I thought you got in the cruiser, fam!” Buck drops his hands.
“Nope,” the Blinder says, pushing the nozzle harder against Buck’s head. “Keep ’em up, broski.”
“Fam, what’s this about?” Buck raises his arms again. “We did it, fam! We got all the words. You know the locker number. Let’s get it!”
“Sure, that was our deal, broski, but you broke it, not me.”
“What! How?” Buck affronts. “I thought you were in the cruiser, fam, Walahi!”
“Shut the fook up and let me think!” the Blinder says, fighting off a sudden headache.
And then the Blinder feels cold steel at the back of his neck.
“Then you better think fast,” the Biker growls behind the Blinder, his Magnum cocked.
Perfectly lined up, one after the other, the Biker’s and the Blinder’s outstretched arms gripping their guns form a downward sloping line, the Biker two inches taller than the Blinder two inches taller than Buck.
The icy steel of the Magnum against the Blinder’s exposed skin under the back rim of his ski-mask sends goosebumps down his back.
“Fook,” says the Blinder.
To be continued in Five Deadly Rebels, Episode 9: I Choose Violence, after a brief hiatus, two Wednesdays from now, anywhere you get your podcasts. If two weeks is too long a wait for you, please consider purchasing the complete audiobook version of Five Deadly Rebels, on Spotify Audiobooks, Audible, iTunes, or anywhere you get your audiobooks, which will also support the production of future episodes of this podcast. You can also purchase the ebook, hardcover or paperback version of Five Deadly Rebels, featuring original chapter artwork by comic book and anime artists, Warrick Wong, Jyothee Murali, and Andrew Gong, at five deadly rebels dot com. This has been a DimensionGate production.
