Episode 4: Sidra

"Five Deadly Rebels",  featuring music by Wu-Tang Clan producer, "Cilvaringz",  is the kung fu cult classic film, "Five Deadly Venoms", meets the Gangster genre, meets Science Fiction, written by Goodreads acclaimed author, Ian Tuason, winner of a 2016 Watty Award, the world’s largest online writing competition.

From the five boroughs come five rebels of society—the gangster, the hustler, the raider, the gambler, the corrupt—each gifted with superhuman powers, each mastering an ancient martial art discipline—judo, kendo, muay Thai, karate, kung fu—through a mysterious being from another reality, known only as “The Master”, who launches the five into a dangerous hunt for a golden crypto ledger hidden within the criminal underworld of New York City—a ledger holding wealth that can not only change each of their hard-boiled lives, but the order of the world.

Enter the "the five chambers outside of time," and into a war against reality–if there is such a thing.

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Transcript

 Five Deadly Rebels, a Kung Fu Sci-Fi Scripted Podcast. Hosted by Ian Tuason. Music by Wu-Tang Clan producer, Cilvaringz. This is Episode 4: Sidra. 

“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 12: City of Sadism

Sidra’s petite but curvy body sways between Chris’s knees, who leans back into the leather sofa in the VIP booth. Chris is the manager of a hedge fund that she had heard of, and probably worth nine figures, she thinks—the perfect mark.

She’s used to the leering stares of men, the lustful glances that followed her every move around the club, but Chris seems to be looking through her rather than at her. She catches a whiff of expensive cologne and sees his Jacob & Co watch glinting in the neon lights. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, underdressed, like most men Sidra met on the job whose net worth flexed beyond wearing suits.

Chris curls his index finger for Sidra to come closer. She crouches between Chris’s knees as he leans in, his breath hot on her neck. “Come back to my place. Make it worth my while, and I'll make it worth yours.”

“Sounds good, baby,” Sidra says. “Let me get my coat and I’ll meet you out front.”

Sidra struts out of the VIP section when Ernesto stops her. “I have a weird feeling about this one.”

Sidra smiles. “I’m a big girl, I’ll be okay,” she pecks him on the lips and Ernesto holds his stare, unconvinced, but let’s her go as she swaggers into the change room. 

-----

“So, what are your rules?” Chris plants a bottle of Patrón onto his sleek kitchen countertop. Exposed brick walls, tall windows, and pop culture artwork decorate his open concept loft in Dumbo that used to be a warehouse. Sidra sits on a couch facing a kitchen island counter.

“No anal, nothing rough, and I’m in control,” she says, bluntly.

“That works,” Chris moseys around the island counter and opens the door of his dishwasher, dropping it down like a drawbridge, and slides the bottom rack over it. Spoons, forks, and a long carving knife points up from a utensil basket on the rack. Chris grabs two shot glasses from the rack and makes his way back to the bottle of Patrón on the other counter.

“I got some party favors, if you’re down,” says Sidra, staring up at the towering ceiling.

“Ah, I don’t do drugs,” says Chris, plopping himself onto the couch beside Sidra, two full shot glasses of Patrón in his hands.

“Not even a little?” Sidra takes one of the glasses.

“Nope, I have other vices,” Chris raises his glass and clinks it on Sidra’s. Chris downs his in one gulp and watches Sidra sipping hers.

“That’s Patrón en Lalique; you got to shoot it for maximum usage,” Chris smiles.

Sidra hesitates before tilting her head back and makes the tequila disappear down her throat.

“Delicious, right?” says Chris.

“Mm-hmm,” Sidra smacks her lips. 

Chris’s smile grows wider. “We’re going to have a lot of fun tonight,” he purrs, his hand creeping up her thigh.

Sidra knows many men like him—wealthy, powerful, used to getting their way, which makes hustling him feel so much more satisfying.

But then her vision begins to blur. She looks down at her hand that doubles, five fingers becoming ten. She blinks and sees her hand return to normal then doubles again.

“What did you…put in the shot?” her voice staggers.

Chris stands and walks to a large ottoman against a wall near the couch. Sidra’s stomach churns as she sees, out of focus, Chris removing bondage cuffs, a head harness, a ball gag, and an anal hook from inside the ottoman. 

Sidra’s heart races as she rises to stand, dizzy, but falls back down onto the couch.

“Don’t you worry, little girl; you won’t feel much,” Chris tosses the bondage equipment on the couch beside Sidra.

He leans over her shoulder, whispering his plans and all kinds of vulgarities into her ear, annunciating every word, but they all elude her. She's not registering, not fully grasping. Terror begins to creep into the pit of her stomach and coils there, cold and hissing.

“Please don’t,” her voice trembles.

Chris sweeps his hand at the floor by the foot of the couch, snatching up both empty shot glasses and places them on the island counter.  

Sidra musters enough energy to stand, barely balancing, and stumbles forward.

“Easy there, little girl,” Chris catches her in his arms. She’s cradling his back for balance, and over his shoulder, she sees the long blade of the carving knife sticking upwards from the rack on the dishwasher door, still open and lying parallel to the floor.

Sidra presses forward with all her draining strength, and Chris laughs as he backsteps closer to the dishwasher. Sidra plants her foot behind his heal, tightens her embrace, and with the very last of her strength, she leans all her weight into him.

Chris attempts to backstep for balance but his heel is locked, and he topples backwards, unaware of what waits behind him.

He plunges onto the long carving knife sticking upwards from the dishwasher door with all his weight and Sidra’s weight on top of him, and the blade slides easily through his back. The dishes, glasses and utensils rattle violently in their racks as the dishwasher door breaks from its hinges.

Chris’s eyes widen in shock then glaze over after two shallow breaths.

Sidra shifts her weight to the side and rolls off of Chris’s twitching body, her back resting on the cold, hardwood floor.

She toils to breathe, thinking it’s the drugs he had slipped her, but when she presses her hand on her chest, she feels that it’s wet. Even raising her head up from the floor to look down at her chest is a struggle, and she sees the stab wound between her breasts, blood burbling from it, yet she feels no pain.

The ceiling staring down at her grows blurrier with her every short breath. She groans, turning over onto her hands and knees, crawling towards the front door to the building’s corridor—a corridor where someone might find her before it’s too late.

A thin, steady stream of blood trickles a trail of red on the hardwood under Sidra, crawling closer and closer to the door. Her head suddenly becomes light and she can feel a faint creeping up on her, but she can’t let that happen, not here, not where no one can find her.  

She wills herself to stand, the world spinning around her, warmth running down her stomach. Just a few more feet, she pleads to herself. But then the door seems to move further away as if the floor between them stretches longer. And then her legs give in, her eyes roll back, and she collapses backwards, falling into someone’s arms.

The last thing she sees before blacking out is a faceless head the color of turquoise.

Chapter 13: The Staten Island Fight Club

A horde of men fill the main floor of an abandoned house somewhere in Clifton, Staten Island, that many still call the Slums of Shaolin. The bando’s interior walls are all broken down, only bare support beams, the skeleton of the building, is holding everything up. The air grows thick and heavy with sweat and chatter as the hardwood floors creak under all their weight. Against the four outer walls are remnants of overturned chairs and broken tables. 

Tonight is Tuesday, which means the Scrappy Killas crew is running another fight club in the bando. The crowd of men gather around a circle of open floor at the center of the space, their faces obscured by shadows from the construction work lights surrounding them, stretching tall on portable stands around the outskirts of the crowd.

The sound of boos echo off the damp walls as a couple of crew members drag a battered man out from the circle.

Buck stands in the thick of the mob, wearing a long, army green overcoat, beige khakis and tan Timberland boots. His long, twisted braids hang low below his jawline, almost touching the black link chain around his neck. A black silhouette of a small lizard is tattooed on his temple, as if crawling up the side of his head, barely visible against his dark skin. He counts a wad of cash in his hands as bodies bump into him.

Mickey creeps up beside Buck, his blond hair in thick cornrows gripping tight onto his scalp. A wifebeater tank top hugs his defined muscles, and hangs over the waistband of his baggy, black cargo pants, its hem tucked into his black Doc Marten boots.

“Oi, Buck,” Mickey says to Buck who’s too preoccupied counting the bills in his hand. 

“What?”

“See broski over there, with the beard?” Mickey nods his chin up, looking at a short, stubby Mexican guy standing at the edge of the circle on the other side.   

“What about him?” Buck glances at the guy quick then back down at his money.

“He got me at ten to one to win, could you believe that shit? How much you got on you?” Mickey smirks. 

“Eight bands, still.”

“Here’s two,” Mickey slides a wad of bills into Buck’s coat pocket. “Bet ten racks on me to lose. That would win us one hundy fookin’ racks; ya feel me?” says Mickey.

“Okay, okay,” Buck’s eyes light up, finally paying attention.

“I’m next,” Mickey pats Buck’s back a little too hard for his liking.

“Wasteman,” Buck whispers to himself as Mickey makes his way through the crowd into the open circle. 

A Shot Caller stands in the center of the circle, between Mickey and a heavyweight mixed martial artist wearing only boxing trunks, bouncing lightly on his huge, bare feet.

Mickey glances at Buck and the Mexican guy in the crowd, both facing a tall crew member counting Buck’s cash in front of them both, before nodding and slipping the bills into his back pocket.

Buck shoves his way to the edge of the circle and sees Mickey on his knees on the hardwood floor, meditating. “The fuck?” Buck says under his breath.

The Shot Caller raises his arm and the heavyweight slaps each side of his face before letting out a primal roar, a vein protruding down his forehead. Mickey is still on his knees, eyes closed. 

“Fight!” the Shot Caller drops his arm and backs into the crowd. The heavyweight charges at Mickey who finally opens his eyes, bringing one knee up and planting his foot firmly onto the hardwood.

In a blink, the heavyweight looms over Mickey and draws up his bulky leg straight into the air, loading it back for a devastating axe kick primed to drop onto Mickey’s head.

The muscles of Mickey’s leg planted on the floor lock and stiffen, unseen under his cargo pants—his massive thigh, his rock-hard calve. Then, with all his might, he bears down on the creaking wood with his foot, catapulting himself straight up and at the heavyweight, his axe kick already plummeting downwards.

Airborne, too close now, Mickey’s shoulder thrashes onto the back of the heavyweight’s leg, blunting his attack, and then Mickey drives his back leg upwards, knee first, smashing into the heavyweight’s face, splintering his teeth.

Mickey lands steady onto his feet just before the heavyweight’s wide back flops onto the floor with a loud thud, his eyes crossed.

“The fuck!” yells Buck.

The Shot Caller waves his arms in the air, signaling the fight is done, and the crowd swarms into the circle with loud groans, cheers, and gasps, swallowing Buck backwards into a sea of bodies.

Buck starts pushing his way into the circle, parting the crowd with his arms like he’s swimming. His eyebrows furrow with fury under his hanging braids.

When he reaches the circle, he sees the Shot Caller kneeling over the heavyweight’s quivering body. Buck spins in circles looking for Mickey but he’s nowhere to be found. Buck jumps a few times to scan over the heads of the mob, then presses his way through it, eyes darting from face to face.

On the outskirts now, Buck stands alone beside a construction work light, shaking his head, fuming. “Fucking wasteman.”

Chapter 14: A Woman Walking Alone at Night

In a surveillance room in a police precinct somewhere in Queens, the Biker sits on a reclining chair, a thin line of smoke streams up from the cigarette between his fingers, gleaming white from the light of the rows on top of rows of flatscreen monitors facing him, the only source of lighting in the dark room. All the screens show security camera footage from stores, banks, and traffic lights within a specific nine block square in Manhattan. A date and timecode flickers at the bottom of each screen. All the footage runs in fast forward, but the Biker’s eyes behind the mesh nylon lining of his horned helmet, dart from screen to screen, consuming every image as if in real time, processing hours of footage within seconds.

An image of a woman wearing a blue Adidas track suit flashes on one of the screens. The Biker pauses the video and rewinds it back to the woman.

He freezes the frame and studies her—dark hair in a curly ponytail, a gym bag hanging at her side and a long, beige poster tube with a black strap hanging over her other shoulder.

The Biker snaps a screenshot and runs the image through the NYPD’s face recognition program. 

Leaning closer to the monitor, he stares at the spinning loading symbol turning in the center of the screen. He swallows the gathering saliva in his mouth when the program spits out a match—a name and an address—an address in Brooklyn.

Chapter 15: A Memory of Now

Ernesto wakes up, as if by instinct, the instant Sidra opens the front door of their apartment, already sitting up in bed when she enters their bedroom in her blue Adidas tracksuit. This is their routine—Sidra would come home from work, and they’d hang out for a couple of hours in bed after praying for his cancer to go away.

A few years ago, Sidra quit her old lifestyle after the night she was drugged, and although she never told Ernesto about it, he was so proud of her decision. He offered her to stay with him in his small apartment in Brownsville until she figured out what she wanted to do for work. While figuring that out, she spent most of her time working on what she really loved to do most—painting. And then that became her work. She gave up her Balenciaga bags and Christian Louboutin shoes for easels and paint brushes, painting mostly portraits of her favorite New York celebrities like Biggie Smalls and Derek Jeter in Ernesto’s modest living room, and set them up on display on sidewalks in the touristy area of Williamsburg, making a few sales some days, and some days none.

But as the months passed, they didn’t need much. Ernesto’s building was rent protected, and he could still afford it from his bouncer salary as rent skyrocketed in the neighborhoods around them, Brooklyn becoming more gentrified, year after year.

 

Their first year together felt like heaven to Sidra. They lived month to month, doing groceries in their Brownsville neighborhood where everything was cheap, cooking their meals every day, never going out to eat, watching shows online, slow dancing in their kitchen. It was good enough for Sidra. More than enough. Sidra began to think she loved him when his annoying noises at night, his tossing and turning, his grizzly snoring, never woke her up, and she would sleep the whole night through it. Then on the nights she was alone in the apartment, when Ernesto was working late at the club, when the room was quiet, that’s when she couldn’t sleep. She realized she needed his noises to fall asleep, and then she knew for sure that she loved him.

 

Sidra often thanked Allah for her new life with him, but not out loud, not too much, not in front of Ernesto, a devout Catholic. But to Sidra, they shared the same God.

 

Then one day, Ernesto began to lose weight, and then started coughing out blood. They took a trip to a clinic, and then to the hospital, and then the tests came back—a tumor in his lung, and more forming in his lymph nodes. 

 

They spent everything they had on chemotherapy until there was nothing left. Sidra asked for help from Ernesto’s old boss who had to let him go, and from her old hustler friends, but they never returned her calls. She even called her parents after so many years, but they only told her to come home. They got some help from Ernesto’s brother in San Jose, but it wasn’t enough.

“Hi, mahal,” his lips curl into a smile but his sunken cheeks don’t dimple as they did before the chemo that took all of his thick hair. His skin, once a milk chocolate complexion, is pale and yellowish, and seems to hang from his skeleton. 

The night table is littered with medicine bottles, some empty and some full, some standing up straight and some lying sideways without lids. A Catholic shrine stands atop a dresser in the corner. A candle burns in front of a statuette of the Virgin Mary, flickering orange light on her porcelain face.

Ernesto slides his thin legs off the edge of the bed and pushes his palms against the mattress, forcing himself to stand. Sidra restrains herself from offering to help him, knowing he’d refuse it. With one hand sliding against the wall for balance, he stretches to the shrine and lights a new candle. There must always be a lit candle—a constant prayer always burning. The cancer wouldn’t stand a chance.

“When I beat this, I want to have a baby,” he climbs back into bed.

“Inshallah,” she smiles, slipping off the black strap of a long beige poster tube hanging from her shoulder. She leans the tube upright against the back wall of their closet, next to Ernesto’s shotgun he keeps for protection.

“Come,” he pats the sheets beside him.

Sidra undresses from her tracksuit and lets it drop into a pile at the foot of the bed. In her cotton underwear, she snatches the rosary hanging from the bed’s headrest and lies next to him, burying her face into his shoulder.

“We don’t have to worry about money for treatments anymore, mahal,” her voice muffles into the sleeve of his t-shirt.

“How?” 

“Better you don’t know,” she says, and he just closes his eyes, trusting her unconditionally, as he always has. “Let’s pray?”

They both start reciting the Catholic prayer he had taught her, speaking in unison.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” Sidra’s small whispers and Ernesto’s deep voice create a kind of harmony that comforts them.

-----

Sidra slides her keys into their front door as quietly as she can. Carefully, she opens the door and closes it gently behind her. The front of her pink Juicy Couture sweatsuit is stained with spots of blood, a grocery tote bag hanging at her side.

She tiptoes into the kitchen and opens the cupboard under the counter where they keep their pots. She lifts the lid of the largest pot, digs into her tote bag, and starts filling the pot with stacks of cash wrapped in rubber bands, all the way to the rim. Sidra digs into her tote bag one more time and lays a dark silver chain encrusted with pink diamonds onto the pile of cash, covers the pot with its lid, and quietly closes the cupboard door. 

Sidra creeps into the bedroom and sees Ernesto sleeping with the rosary in his hand. She undresses from her bloodstained clothes and buries them at the bottom of their hamper in the corner before slipping under the blanket next to him, resting her head on his chest, listening to his slow, raspy breathing. The weight of her head wakes him up. 

“What time is it?”

“Go back to sleep, mahal.”

“You’re home late.”

“I’m okay.”

He shuffles under the blanket, lifting his head to look at the shrine, and pushes against Sidra to stand. “The candle’s out.”

“Please,” she whispers. “Don’t go.”

Sidra squeezes him tight, cherishing the warmth of his flesh against hers. The statuette of Mary sits in shadow. The light from the dawn sky seeps through the window, dim and soft on the walls. She listens to him breathe and savors the moment, as if the moment itself is already a memory. 

Chapter 16: The Brooklyn Fight Club

Mickey leans back into his corner of the boxing ring, his rippled arms resting on the ropes, eyeing Amanda on the opposite corner, who’s rubbing her hands together as if she’s ready to eat, staring at Mickey from over her purple polished nails. Amanda is a trans woman; her pronouns are her and them. She’s Kim Kardashian from the neck up and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson from the neck down. Her throbbing muscles bulge through her purple spandex bodysuit.

The Brooklyn Fight Club is nicer than the Staten Island Fight Club, Mickey thinks to himself, run by the Russian mafia and operating out of an actual boxing gym with a decent ring, only a few blood stains on the canvas. They have a locker room, too, even rows of folding chairs set up around the ring, but most of the crowd of bloodlust-filled men are standing around the ring, banging on the canvas with their hands, yelling to get shit started. 

A middle-ranking Bratok enters the ring and nods at both Mickey and Amanda who nod back. The Bratok raises his arm straight up above his head when Mickey catches a glimpse of a figure standing ringside wearing an army green bucket hat over a carbon composite face protector, the black handle of a Glock tucked into the waistband of his beige khakis.

“Shit,” Mickey mutters to himself when a bell rings, then suddenly, a falling sensation, and then nothingness.

-----

The first thing Mickey remembers when waking up is the heels of his Doc Marten boots scraping across the floor as he’s being dragged by his armpits into the locker room, and then feeling the back of his cornrowed head thumping against tiles.

He hears two pairs of footsteps stomp away and then a door closing, throwing the room into almost silence, only the distant sounds of the crowd outside seeping through the walls. 

Mickey takes his time to get up, trying to remember what had happened that made him lose the fight—what distracted him.

And then he opens his eyes to see a black Glock aimed at his face.

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says.

The masked figure cocks his gun, “Where’s my fucking money, fam?”

“Buck?” Mickey recognizes Buck’s muffled voice under his mask and wonders if he’s still unconscious, dreaming.

“So, what you do, fam? Split my eight bands with mans, behind my fucking back in front of my fucking face?”

“What?” Mickey rubs his aching jaw. “Oh, Staten Island. That. Broski owed ten racks to the Scrappy crew,” he leans up slowly, still rubbing his jaw.

“Nope,” Buck raises his gun higher, tilting it down at Mickey. “You stay down.”

Mickey drops his head back onto the tiled floor. “Anyways. As I was sayin’. They were gonna fookin’ wet him that same night. Broski has a family, though, ya know? So, I told the crew he could use a hundred racks from me credit to bet against your ten racks for me to lose, then he’d be settled with the crew after I win. Ah, me fookin’ neck,” Mickey massages the back of his neck.

“Fuck that mans. You owe me eight bands, fam.”

“What do you care, broski, you’re ballin’.” 

“Not balling enough. Now, pay me eight. Fuck it, pay me ten with juice.”

“I don’t have it,” Mickey turns his head and spits out blood onto the tiles beside him.

“What?”

“I bet everything I had on me self today,” Mickey chuckles through his bloody lips.

Buck lowers his gun, lining up Mickey’s face in its sights. “That’s a shame, fam.”

“You gonna wet me for eight racks?”

“It’s the principle, still.”

“Ah, the principle. You sure about that?”

Buck turns his Glock sideways, and Mickey knows the conversation is over.

In a flash, Mickey leans to his side and sweeps his brawny leg at Buck’s feet, but Buck leaps over it, backflipping in the air and planting his stance on the ceiling as if it were the ground. Mickey shoots up to his feet and squares up, dropping into a muay Thai stance, but Buck is too high up for him to reach, standing upside down on the ceiling, so he lets his chiseled arms drop to his sides and laughs instead.

Buck aims his Glock at Mickey again when Mickey says, “I’ll get you more than ten racks, broski,” turning to walk to his locker.

Buck eyes Mickey carefully as he spins the dial of his padlock then yanks it down with a loud clank.

“I can get you M’s. Fookin’ billions, to be honest.”

“Cap,” Buck scoffs. 

“No cap, broski.”

Mickey swings the locker door open. Buck sees a red newsboy cap and a dark thermoplastic mask with thick eyepieces hanging from one of the hooks inside the locker.

“I can’t cap even if I wanted to,” says Mickey, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, and Buck understands. “Now, come down from there before someone fookin’ sees you.”

Buck let’s himself drop from the ceiling and lands nimbly on his feet. “Number fucking Three, eh? The Blinder. So, all that bullshit about not being able to cap was bullshit, too, eh? Scamming me out of eight bands,” Buck hisses.

“I told you how much you’d win if I lost the fight. A hundy racks. That was true, broski. Never said I was gonna throw the fight, though, init?” Mickey snatches his red long sleeve hanging from another hook in the locker and slips it over his wifebeater. “Now lack the burner. I won’t try nothin’ on you.” 

“Aite,” Buck tucks his Glock into his back waistband behind his long coat, not so much trusting Mickey now, but trusting the Master’s code, blocking the Blinder from telling lies. “Now, tell me about them M’s, no capping, still.”

“I know who has the ledger,” Mickey slips on his black leather vest over his long sleeve.

“The gold ledger?” Buck’s voice cracks with excitement.

“Yep, that’s the one. I know where it is and who has it, but you gotta keep it on the lowski.” Mickey notices the end of the old envelope peeking out from the inside pocket of his vest, its corners bent and paper turning yellow. He stuffs the envelope deeper into his pocket.

“Number One?” says Buck.

“Number One’s dead. I didn’t wet him, though, but I saw his words,” says Mickey, slipping his head into a black ski-mask with white barcodes embroidered all over it, his blue and gray eyes peeking out through a single, oval opening.

“What’s mans words?”

“We’ll get to that,” Mickey fastens his thermoplastic mask onto his face and adjusts his thick eyepieces.

“Aite, so who has the ledger now?” says Buck.

“Check this. So, shorty walks into the club last night asking for a fight,” Mickey slaps his red newsboy cap onto his head, wiggling it to fit. “Young Indian ting. No one took her seriously until she bet her iced up chain on herself to win a fight. Silver links with pink ice—Number One’s chain, broski. Probably worth two M’s, but not on the streets. The Russians put up a hundy racks on it and faced her up against some poor fook. Shorty won the fight in ten seconds. She left with the ice and the bags. I followed her. I know where she lives. That’s where the ledger must be, init?”

“Aite. What’s shorty’s addy?”

“Why, what’s the plan?” The Blinder turns to face Buck, mask to mask. 

“The way I see it, fam, if you ain’t capping, and I know you ain’t because the Master don’t be capping neither, then shorty bodied Number One for the ledger, and now she’s out for all of us for our words, still. She’s either Number Two or Number Five, both fucking dangerous. I say we roll up on shorty with the burner, take the ledger and her words, then find the last rebel and roll up on him, too, or her, or them, or whatever the fuck. We’ll split what’s in the ledger down the middle, fam.” Buck extends his fist for a dap.

The Blinder doesn’t return the dap. “I’m thinkin’ somethin’ else. We make a deal with her to split what’s in the ledger. If the Master ain’t exaggerating, there’s enough bags in there to go around.”

“Why would she, fam? Shorty didn’t make a deal with Number One, still,” Buck drops his fist.

“You heard what the Slugger did up in Manhattan. I don’t think shorty trusted him. She might trust us.”

“How about the other rebel?”

“That’s an unknown, broski. We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

“Okay, okay. But let’s say you’re wrong, fam, and she comes at us. Then we take her out. Two against one. No problem. You down with that?”

“Sure, if it comes to that, but I doubt it, to be honest.”

“Okay, okay,” Buck rubs his hands together. “So, what’s shorty’s addy?”

“Naw, I’ll take you there, broski.”

“Fam? Bredren?” Buck sulks. “You don’t trust me?”

“First, show me your words.”

“Fuck that, show me yours first, fam,” Buck’s tone flips.

“Show me yours, and I promise, broski, I’ll show you mine, and tell you Number One’s words, too. You know I can’t cap. Then we have a deal.”

Buck hesitates before sighing.

“Okay, okay,” Buck opens his coat and stretches down the crewneck collar of his orange sweatshirt below his two collarbones, exposing the words tattooed under each of them.

Risk

Reward

The Blinder nods, “Number One’s words are iron and fame,” then pulls down the collar of his red long sleeve revealing his words.

Hard

Truth

The Blinder lifts his fist to Buck who taps it with his knuckles.

“Cool. Let’s fly, broski.”

Chapter 17: In the Early Hours of the Night, in a Quiet Apartment, Somewhere in Brooklyn

Sidra sits at the edge of Ernesto’s bed wearing his baby blue button-up shirt like a short dress, stroking the sprouting hair on top of his head, just starting to grow back. Sidra exhales a sigh of relief knowing that the treatments are working—the latest test showing the tumor in his lung shrinking. They even have a doctor coming to the apartment now, and a nurse who visits every other day. The only problem is the chemo sickness keeping Ernesto on painkillers, knocking him out for hours on end. But Sidra is happy watching him sleeping rather than hurting.

Sidra had given him two painkillers an hour ago and he should be out cold for the rest of the night, she thinks to herself as she thumbs the space between his eyes, cherishing the sound of his snoring.

“Alhamdulillah,” Sidra whispers and kisses his forehead before closing the bedroom door quietly behind her.

In the kitchen, Sidra fills up a kettle from the faucet then sits it on a coiled burner on the electric stove beside the sink, turning its knob to high heat. 

Behind her, a jar filled with Filipino shortbread sits on a round kitchen table for two.

Beyond the table is the cramped, carpeted living room, lined with a bookshelf, a sofa, a window leading to the fire escape outside, and so many easels displaying painted portraits of Ernesto healthy, Ernesto getting sick, Ernesto getting sicker, and Ernesto getting better.

There’s a knock at the front door. 

Sidra peeks through the peephole and sees a police badge up close. 

“Who is it?” Sidra asks through the door.

“NYPD. Can I come in?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

“Then, no.”

“Well, I could get a search warrant and come back in a couple of hours with some boys to turn your apartment upside down, if you prefer.”

Sidra looks down at her bare feet and sighs before sliding the door chain off, turning the lock, and opening the door to see Liu-Chin in his all-black suit, designer dress shoes and a black backpack hanging off one of his shoulders.

“Come in,” Sidra turns her back to him and walks into the kitchen.

Liu-Chin closes the door behind him and strolls into the living room, his shoes still on, as if he owns the place. 

He drops his backpack onto the sofa and eyes the portraits of Ernesto.

“These are nice. You made these?”

“Yup.”

“Really? I’ll buy one.”

“Not for sale, sorry.”

“I take it he’s your boyfriend?” Liu-Chin points at one of the portraits. 

“Yup,” Sidra takes a seat at the kitchen table and slides a small plate of shortbread towards the other seat. “So, what can I do for you, officer?”

“Detective,” Liu-Chin corrects, taking the seat at the table, his back facing the living room. <join paragraph> “Last Saturday, around three a.m., you were caught on camera walking in an area where a murder took place around that time. Ran your face in our system and was surprised you came up.”

“Well, I do have a past, don’t we all?” Sidra crosses her legs under the table. “But I’m not that person anymore.”

“What were you doing that night?”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Not yet, but that’s up to you.”

“I was buying art supplies.”

“There’s a store open that late?”

“Off someone from Craigslist.”

“Ah, not a good idea, a pretty girl like you out that late.”

“I can fend for myself.”

“Hmm. Why do I believe you?”

“I guess you’re a good judge of character.”

“Are you alone in here?”

“My partner’s sleeping in the other room.”

“I see,” Liu-Chin digs out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter from his inside suit pocket.

“You can’t smoke in here. My partner has lung cancer.”

“Well, it’s too late for him then, isn’t it?” Liu-Chin lights a cigarette. “He might as well keep smoking.”

“He’s never smoked a day in his life,” Sidra says, coldly.

“That’s a shame. Nothing like a cigarette after a good fuck, if you know what I mean,” he ashes on the shortbread and blows a long cloud of smoke onto Sidra, eyeing her skin between the open collar of Ernesto’s shirt.

“Will that be all, detective?” Sidra buttons her collar closed.

“What you hiding under there, sweety? Something all the boys want, I’m sure. Why don’t you open it up and give me a little peek?”

“What you said right there is sexual harassment, detective. What would your captain say if he knew you were talking to me like that?”

“He wouldn’t say anything. Unless I allowed it.”

Sidra shoots him an icy stare. 

“Iron fame,” says Liu-Chin, sucking in a long drag of nicotine.

“What?”

“The words. Iron. Fame. Those words mean anything to you?”

“Sounds like a bad cooking show to me.”

The kettle on the stove begins to burble and hiss. Liu-Chin unlatches the one button holding his suit jacket closed, exposing the Laughing Buddha handle of his silver-plated Magnum at his side. 

“You know, I read your rap sheet. Prostitution, hustling johns. You must love fucking, don’t you? What’s your body count, sweety; in the hundreds? Thousands?”

Liu-Chin butts out his cigarette on the shortbread. The kettle’s hissing turns into whistling, then into loud wailing.

“But you haven’t had a good fuck in a while, I can tell. Sorry about that, sweety. Maybe what you need is a real man. A strong, healthy one.”

Sidra smiles, her hand lightly pressing up against the hilt of Over Dark, its sheath duct taped to the underside of the table.

“Now, let’s see what you got hiding under that shirt, sweety,” Liu-Chin reaches over the table.

Suddenly, in one smooth movement, she front kicks the table into Liu-Chin, sending him tumbling backwards onto the living room carpet. She unsheathes Over Dark as if willing the katana to appear. Jagged bolts crackle along its blade, not as brightly as when she drew Over Dark at the Slugger, wearing her jingasa and mask, but there was no time to retrieve them now, hidden under the floorboards of her closet. She lifts the blade up at an angle across her face and widens her stance, the electricity from Over Dark sparkling blue in her shiny, brown eyes.

Crouched now, one knee on the carpet, Liu-Chin releases his grip on his Magnum, still holstered. He chuckles, knowing its uselessness against Over Dark, even in its weaker state. He calmy reaches into his backpack on the sofa beside him and digs out his biker’s helmet. Its dark Kevlar face-shield is frilled with horns, fitted onto a black nylon lining littered with random white letters of the alphabet.

Liu-Chin slips his head into the lining. The face-shield fastens onto his skull, its horns jutting out behind Liu-Chin’s head like the neck-frill of a triceratops. The two longest horns on each side of his head spread back like the wings of a Trojan soldier’s helmet. 

“Tell me, Number Two, do you think your kendo can beat my kung fu?” says the Biker.

He leans back onto one leg in a crane style stance. On one hand, he squeezes all the tips of his fingers and thumb into the shape of a beak, and draws his forearm back, his arm forming the long neck of a crane, ready to strike.

Sidra brings Over Dark down, splitting the kitchen table in half, and charges at the Biker through the table’s ruins.

Over Dark falls right, right, left, then right again at the Biker. Lightning quick. But the Biker’s feet are a blur as he sidesteps Over Dark’s blows, his hands a blur as he slaps the flat side of Over Dark’s blade with his palm, deflecting every other blow, his hands an indecipherable display of motion.

Too fast, the Biker strikes at Sidra multiple times with the pointed tip of his crane style hand as she’s still winding up for a single blow, breaking her nose and two of her ribs before Over Dark slashes harmlessly through the air, inches from the Biker’s side. 

Then the Biker switches to tiger style, digging his fingernails into the calluses of his palm, striking Sidra’s throat with the second knuckles of his fingers, folded down, resembling a tiger’s paw. 

Sidra back peddles, forcing air back through her damaged windpipe, but the Biker presses into her.

Wall to wall, the Biker works on Sidra, his arms turning in circles in front of him, so fast that they seem to blur into many arms in Sidra’s vision, like a centipede, counter striking every missed sweep and stab from Over Dark—sometimes one counter strike, sometimes two, depending on the target on Sidra’s body. 

The Biker switches from tiger style to crane style, then tiger style again, blindingly fast.

Sidra draws Over Dark back over her head, but before she can unload the blow, the Biker rips off the top three buttons of Sidra’s shirt that swings open, exposing the two words tattooed under her collar bones.

Sword

Mercy

Sidra unleashes the downward strike, but the Biker catches her wrist, twisting her arm, pointing the katana straight to the ground. He slaps Over Dark’s hilt and the katana flies from her hand, its electricity dying the instant it leaves her fingers. The blade clatters on the carpet and slides up against a leg of the sofa.

The Biker twists her arm tighter, forcing her to bend at the waist to save her shoulder from dislocating, her head hanging low, her dark hair sweeping the floor.

      The Biker presses the cold nozzle of his Magnum on the base of her neck, blood streaming up her face from her broken nose, her breath wheezing from her broken ribs.

“Where’s the ledger?” the Biker commands.

“Far away from here,” she spits out blood onto the Biker’s designer shoes. 

And then the bedroom door crashes open, Ernesto leaning against its frame, a shotgun shaking in his weak arms, aimed at the Biker.

“No!” Sidra screams.

But it’s too late.

The Biker raises his gun quicker than Ernesto can squeeze his trigger, and then the top half of Ernesto’s head explodes, leaving only his jaw and chin still attached to his neck.

Sidra kicks her legs back into a front-flip, unraveling her arm, her heel striking the Magnum out of the Biker’s hand as it thumps onto the carpet and slides up against the floorboard of a far wall.

Sidra sticks her flip, landing on her feet, her arm untwisted, and fires a violent side kick into the Biker’s chest, propelling him backwards, airborne, slamming into a bookshelf. Hardcovers and paperbacks spill onto him, lying in a heap at the base of the shelf.

Sidra bolts to the window at a desperate speed—the fastest the Biker has yet seen her move. The Biker dashes to his Magnum, snatches it from the ground, turns and fires, a cloud of gunpowder smoke blurring his vision.

When the smoke settles, he sees the broken window, shards of glass hanging from the top of its frame like fangs. One shard falls and shatters on the windowsill.

The Biker darts to the naked window frame, leans out and peers down through the metal grated ledge of the fire escape. He scans the sidewalks and streets below—empty. He looks up through the grated ledges above. Still nothing. Only the side face of the building with windows above, and windows below, some slid open and some closed, all connected by the same fire escape structure. Above the building, dark clouds gather, dense and defined, looking the way clouds look before a storm.

The wailing of the kettle and the smell of gun smoke, and sweat, and blood, still lingers in the air. Lightning crashes in the distance. A dog barks outside.

The Biker glances at Ernesto’s dead body lying on its back halfway into the bedroom, still warm, still spewing blood from the bottom half of his head, soaking into the bedroom carpet.

The Biker looms above Over Dark lying flat by the foot of the sofa. He picks it up by the hilt and eyes its blade, but it’s just a blade now, not even a good quality blade, but one that some average white man would use as a display on a side table or hanging shelf. Hard rain begins to fall, drumming on the metal of the fire escape outside, and splattering on the windowsill. The Biker lets the katana drop from his grip and it chimes as it hits the floor.



To be continued next Wednesday in Five Deadly Rebels, Episode 5: The Letting of Blood, anywhere you get your podcasts. To learn more about the podcast, visit our website at five deadly rebels dot com.  This has been a DimensionGate production.