"Mandalay, Mandalay...where for art thou, Mandalay?"

Twin pistols reflected the soft lighting of the overhanging bulbs, marking time as he moved from one mini spotlight to the next. Abandoned warehouses...why did they always have to hide in abandoned warehouses? The guy was somewhere inside with him, wounded by the bullet that had lodged itself oh so violently in his calf muscle. Despite how many times he’d played out a similar scenario, Henry still half-expected his quarry to jump out with a hand-canon, its own bullets etched with his name.

The low light certainly wasn’t helping his vision, the boxes and crates blurring in and out with each blink of his eye. Squinting wasn’t helping, so he stepped to the side, into the darkness and out from beneath the overhead light. Cradling both pistols beneath his right arm, he reached inside his leather coat, stubby fingers grabbing onto a wire frame in the interior pocket. I should always wear these things, he thought, but image is everything these days.

Placing the glasses on his face, he sighed heavily. He was blind as a bat without them, a constant reminder of his fading youth. What was next, a plastic hip and a colostomy bag? Back in the day a little lowlife like Mandalay wouldn’t even cause him to breathe heavily, but now...

Now he had gray hair atop his head and too many extra pounds on his gut. The Reaper was sneaking up on him one day at a time, to the point where his mirror reflection just made him feel colder. Bah, fuck it, concentrate old man, he chided himself, you gonna let some little ant shit outmaneuver you? Gripping his pistols in hands once more, he stepped back into the light.

He felt the pressurized wind against his face, and a slice from what he first thought was a razor bloodied his face. Henry’s head recoiled back and to the side, throwing him into a topspin that resulted in him laying prostrate on his stomach against the dirty warehouse floor. Slowly, he rolled over, the blood from his cheek slowly running down the side of his face. Opening his eyes, he saw a silhouette of a man standing over him...a man with a very big gun.

"I told you I didn’t fuck with Mr. Cordova! Shit, am I gonna have to pop you, too?" Despite the shaking gun that was hanging just inches from his face, Henry couldn’t help but lower his eyes. It was Mandalay alright; the big gaping hole in his leg and geyser of blood squirting from said hole was enough to tell him that. It looks like the little ant shit had outmaneuvered him after all.

"Chill, homes," Henry replied in the calmest tone possible. Unfortunately, that just resulted in even more unsteady shaking of the gun. The boy was scared or maybe going into shock from his wound...neither a very good situation when combined with his possession of a firearm.

"I ain’t your fuckin’ homes!" he shouted, a jerk of his body resulting in a squirt of leg blood flying across Henry’s chest. "What, just ‘cause I’m black means you can talk all street with me? Fuck you, old man!"

No, fuck this, Henry decided, noticing the jet-streams of blood cascading across his black polyester shirt. "Mandalay, a suggestion for you,: he said, eyes narrowing as he spoke, "next time you get the drop on somebody..."

Mandalay’s eyes enlarged, the deer-in-headlight effect taking place as he saw the twin pieces of steel fly forward.

"...make sure you disarm their asses first."

Slugs the size of a gorilla’s thumbs exploded from the barrels of the two Desert Eagles, striking Mandalay in the chest with the momentum of a moving car. The hanging light above them suddenly went red, coated with the blood bursting out the man’s back. He was on the floor, breathing his last gasps of breath, before he even conceived pulling the trigger on his own gun.

"Guess you can use that advice in your next life, you little shit," Henry said, sitting up from the floor. He grunted audibly, as he attempted to stand. The task was more difficult that it seemed, he discovered. Looking down at the dead body before him, Henry Savant VIII couldn’t hide the unmistakable expression on his face.

The blood from his check had ran down into his ear, and it was pissing him off like nobody’s business.

Sweat was collecting in the arm pits of his button down white shirt, causing him to thank sweet jumping Christ that he’d worn a sport coat to the meeting. Rubbing his left shoulder, he discovered a knotted muscle that was quite discomforting. Stress had been building and building since he’d scheduled the meet, but it was quickly dawning on him that perhaps appearance was the cornerstone to making a sale go through effectively. Regardless, Fenton Frost massaged his shoulder roughly and cleared his throat.

"You look uncomfortable," the dark-eyed man in the business suit stated, glancing at Frost over the top of his Rayban sunglasses.

"I’ve been sitting here for over an hour," Frost replied, slapping his hand on the giant wooden crate that sat beside him in the penthouse foyer, "and I’m kinda wondering if maybe I should just reschedule. Mr. Cordova’s a busy man and all, apparently..."

As if on cue, the double doors to the penthouse office slowly opened, causing Frost’s sentence to die in his throat. Out of the room strode a short, balding man, his black tuxedo perfectly pressed and immaculately clean. Flanked on both sides by two men the size of small aircrafts, Quentin Cordova grinned from ear to ear as he approached the nervous Fenton. "Mr. Frost," Cordova began, "I trust the trip to Atlantic City has found you well?"

"Far enough away from New Mexico for me," Fenton replied, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back off the tip of his nose. Taking Cordova’s extended hand in a firm handshake, the younger man sniffled from irritated sinuses slightly before continuing. "So, you ready to see what your hard spent millions upon millions of dollars have bought?"

Cordova merely smiled and raised a hand to the three bodyguards that were standing to attention around him. Fenton watched as the large men went into motion, working to open the wooden crate that had been the cause of his fugitive status. "I just want to make sure that this won’t be traced back to me," he said, "since I’m already in enough trouble over it as is."

“I understand,” Cordova answered, "and you have nothing to worry about. Should the government come looking for this particular piece of hardware, my lawyers will have them tangled in so much red tape that they’ll bleed from paper cuts."

"And if that doesn’t work?" Frost asked tentatively.

"Then I’ll just have you killed," the businessman responded as sincerely as possible. Fenton took a step back, a concerned look washing over his face. Quentin smiled yet again. "Just kidding."

A visible shiver went down Fenton’s spine, though he hoped Cordova hadn’t noticed. Despite the man’s words, he knew he wasn’t kidding, and that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if the government got too close. To the citizen majority, Quentin Cordova was a millionaire by inheritance that dabbled in philanthropy....what was known to a smaller number, however, was the fact that said inheritance was the result of a family lineage of crime. Cordova was the top man in Atlantic City organized crime, and a natural buyer for what Frost was selling.

But when one plays with fire, one should also expect to eventually get burned.

With a loud crack, the front of the wooden case broke open, showering the Persian rug below it with shattered splinters. The three security agents promptly began to dig through the thick packets of protective shipping foam, determined to reveal the crate’s contents to their boss. "What the fuck is in this?" one of the men asked, arm deep in the crate. Finally, a large enough amount of the foam had been cleared away, revealing the face and upper torso of the case’s occupant.

"What do you think?" Frost asked, anticipating the answer.

Staying silent, Cordova stepped to the open crate, an inquisitive hand extended toward the occupant’s face. Brushing it softly with the back of his fingers, the crime boss displayed his first genuine smile since the meeting had begun. "She’s beautiful."

"That's the prototype model of the Lubricated Uninhibited Virgin," Frost rattled off, proudly, "specifically designed for complete operator subservience. The government had plans on retrofitting it for wartime capabilities, but as you can guess I decided there was better profit in the more carnal applications."

"Does she have a name?" Cordova asked, oblivious to what Frost had just said.

"It’s really up to you now," Fenton answered, "but I’ve taken to calling her Lilly..."

"So what's the best thing about taking a shower with a 12 year old girl?"

Henry sighed, exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke into the air. "I really couldn’t say."

"When you slick her hair back, she looks 8!"

Despite himself, Henry couldn’t help but chuckle as the guy sitting at the bar beside him started laughing manically, cracking up at his own joke. After several moments of this, his cackling died off, allowing him to wipe away emerging tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. "Man, that’s the shit right there."

Jeremy was his name, yet another of the mindless thugs employed by the imperial Quentin Cordova for his less than legal enterprises. Though younger than Henry by quite a large number of years, the man had nevertheless endeared himself to the veteran and the rest of the Cordova crew, so much so that he had earned a nick-name amongst them. "Jerminy Cricket", they called him...and for seemingly good reason. Whenever a bad idea was conceived, it was inevitably traced back to this one man, and this one man had no lack of ideas spewing forth from his brain at all hours of the day.

"So, H8," Jerminy began, jabbing his fingers playfully into Henry’s side, "banged any good hookers lately? I strung this one up the other day...shoved a baseball bat in her snatch and broke it off. Took her to the hospital, got it pulled out, then took her home and did it again. It was so hot, man."

"I told you not to call me that," Henry said, deciding it best to just not comment on the tales of his friend’s sexual escapades.

"Come on, now," Jeremy argued, "what’s the use of being a bad ass if you don’t have a bad ass name to go with it?"

It amazed Henry that someone in their line of work could be so...shit, so fucking jolly. A bodybuilder in his life prior to working for Cordova, Jeremy was the epitome of physical intimidation. One word out of his mouth, however, and you instantly felt comfortable in his presence...until he snapped your neck like a twig for no reason whatsoever, of course.

"Shot, water back!" Jerminy shouted as he pounded down another shot of whiskey, slamming his glass on the bar top a moment later. "C'mon, H8, pony up on another shot. Everything’s more fun when you're drunk."

"I have a meeting with Mr. Cordova in about ten minutes," Henry answered, pushing away the small glass of alcohol that his friend had placed in front of him, "and you know how he frowns on us drinking on the job."

"Hey, do me a favor when you see the boss," Jeremy said, placing a friendly hand on Henry’s shoulder. "Rumor has it that he’s got this major league piece of ass walkin’ around all naked and shit in his office."

"Yeah, so what?" Henry asked.

"So you gotta tell us if it’s true or not!"

Standing and stepping away from the bar, Henry the VIII merely shook his head in amazement. "I’ll be back later," he said, dropping a few bills of money on the bar top before leaving.

"More booze!" Jeremy shouted at the bartender, waving an upturned middle finger wildly in his direction. "Don’t make me eat...your...face!"

Henry wasn’t nervous as he made the long walk down the hallway, from the elevator to the doors of Quentin Cordova’s office. Of all of the men in his employ, no one had made the long walk as many times as Henry. Of course, the walks had become more and more infrequent as his tenure increased and the boss focused his attentions on the up-and-comers of the industry. Regardless, Henry was the record holder for most successfully completed assignments, and it was his hope that Cordova would keep that in mind when speaking to him.

Rapping his knuckles against the office door, he was met by a man much larger than he as the entrance opened. "I’ve got an appointment, Steve," Henry mumbled. With a smirk on his face, the bodyguard stood to the side, allowing the older man access to the room of the most powerful man in the city.

"Henry, old friend," Quentin greeted from behind his desk, a Machiavellian smile smeared onto his leathery tanned face, “so good to see you again. Please, have a seat."

Accepting the offer, Henry sat on the edge of the seat that rested in front of the desk. "I took care of Mandalay," he stated, directly as possible, "he won’t be a problem anymore."

"Good, good," Cordova replied dismissively, taking a pause afterward to light the massive cigar that was clinched between his teeth, "but that’s not what I called you here to talk to you about. You’ve been with me since the beginning, Hank, even back when I was just a little runt trying to get some scraps from the proverbial table. You may think I’ve forgotten this, that I don’t value your commitment to me, but you’re wrong..."

"I’d never think that, sir," Henry replied, prompting a raised hand from his boss, halting his words.

"Don’t call me that," he interrupted, "not when it’s just us. We’ve been on a first name basis since childhood, so Quentin is the only thing you should be calling me when we’re in private."

"Okay, Quentin," Henry corrected, "what’s going on?"

"As we get older – and I’m sure you feel the same way – people such as we start to think about where our lives have gone wrong. We think about how we envisioned our lives when we were children, and things start looking bleak and miserable when we realize just how far from the target we actually hit. And when we hit this crisis point in our history, we try to think of ways to get back on track with the ideas of our youth."

"I don’t think I’m following you," Henry admitted.

"Power and money are two things I have in abundance, old friend," Quentin explained, "but I’ve come to realize that there’s more to a fulfilling life than just those two things. Everything I’ve earned in life has been done through...well, less than honorable ways, as I’m sure you’ll agree. What I’m missing is the satisfaction that comes with helping people instead of harming them."

Henry furrowed his brow, an obvious sign of confusion and concern. In all the years he had known him, he had never seen Quentin Cordova waver in his actions, never once seen him display remorse for the terrible and tragic things he had done to people in order to further himself. This existential crisis being described was a cause for worry. "So what do you propose?"

"Tomorrow, I’ll be making an announcement to the city," Cordova answered, "a statement of intent. I’m going into politics, Henry, and in a few months I will be mayor of this city. It’s time I started giving back to the community that I’ve taken so much away from."

Cigar smoke hung thick in the room, adding an ambience to the surprising words that came from Cordova’s mouth. Taken aback slightly, Henry attempted to string an answer together, but his sentence merely came out as a stutter of words. "That’s...huh, well...I mean, yeah, that’s...something..."

"I’m going to need someone to take care of business while I embark on this new endeavor," Cordova spoke, finally getting around to the reason for the meeting, "and I’d like that person to be you. I trust no one to do this as much as I trust you. Will you accept?"

The world came to a crashing, screeching halt around Henry Savant VIII, his eyes glazing over as his brain processed the responsibility being offered him. He felt nauseous and his heart began to race in his chest, bringing him precariously close to the heart attack he’d avoided for many years. Standing from his seat, Henry rubbed a hand through his tousled graying hair. "I gotta use the bathroom," he muttered.

With a nod of understanding, Quentin waved a hand at the door on the left side of the office. "Please, be my guest."

Henry nearly fell through the door, stumbling over himself as he pushed himself into the tiled room. Hyperventilation had set in, and with a thud he sat his large frame on the toilet seat while attempting to catch his breath. After all the questioning he’d done concerning his lot in life, to have such an opportunity tossed in his lap! In the span of fifteen minutes, he’d went from a worthless piece of shit that had too often contemplated suicide to possibly one of the most feared and powerful individuals in his line of work.

As the thought burned through his mind, he glanced around the room, his eyes finally stopping on the stained-glass door of the room’s large shower. A shape had drawn shadows down through the room, the large block of dark that seemed to encapsulate the entirety of the bath. Standing on shaky legs, Henry walked over to the textured glass, curiosity overtaking him. Sliding open the door, his vision was immediately filled by the large wooden crate that rested gingerly in the ceramic shower. The front of the crate had been broken open, revealing...revealing...

...the most beautiful female face he’d ever seen. Her eyes were closed, long lashes extending from smooth lids to the top of her cheek. Blonde hair had fallen down across her face, loosened from the removal of packing foam that covered up the rest of her body. Full red lips pouted at him, and the silk of her skin mesmerized him. He stood there, staring at beautiful perfection while the clock ticked on. How long he stood entranced, he had no idea. Was this some victim of undisclosed indiscretions, a woman that Cordova had killed while pondering his goal of bettering mankind? A swell of sadness came from his heart as he decided that yes, she was dead...

...and then her eyes snapped open, exposing a sea of blue in her irises. The surprise of her movement caused Henry to jump back in shock, his boots slipping on the slick bathroom tile. He crashed down to the floor hard on his ass, but his gaze never left the young girl in the packing crate that had so captured his attention.

The knock on the bathroom door brought him screaming back to reality, forcing his head to snap to the side. "Henry, are you okay in there?" Quentin's voice sounded from the other room, another knock of knuckles on wood echoing through the smaller chamber.

"Yeah," Henry responded, again looking at the girl, whose eyes had returned to their closed position, “everything’s cool.”

He was in a daze as he walked into the bar, making a bee-line for the seat he had previously occupied earlier in the evening. It came as no surprise that the seat had remained unfilled, as Jeremy was still sitting slouched over the bar top with a glass of beer in his hand. Henry took a seat, a cigarette dangling shakily between his lips as he motioned for a drink from the bartender.

"H8, m’ man," Jerminy greeted, slapping Henry hard on the back with the palm of his hand, "what’s the good word? You see the bitch?"

"Jeremy," Henry began, his voice tense and nervous, "tell me...do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Well that depends," Jeremy began his answer with a chuckle, "is that the love between a man and a woman, or the love between a man and – say..." he took a look around him, grasping into the neck of his beer bottle, "his beer? Because that kind of love is pure and untainted, like a good kick to the testicles. It gets your blood flowing, because you never know where a romance like that is gonna take you."

When no reply came from his friend, Jeremy took a curious look at Henry's face. "Oh fucking Christ on a pool table," he said, his jaw hanging in slack, "you’re fuckin’ serious, aren’t you?"

Henry slowly turned his head, nodding as he looked Jeremy in the eye. "Yeah," he answered softly, "yeah, I think I am..."

// disclaimer

The characters, concepts and ideas presented within LUV + H8 are the intellectual property of Chris Munn and are © 2005-2008. The LUV + H8 artwork is the intellectual property of Mike Rasbury and is © 2006-2008. Grapefruit: Pulp with a Twist, Grapefruit logos, and site design are all ™ and © Mike Rasbury 2005-2008. Any reproduction or use is strictly prohibited. All rights reserved.

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