back-at-it-again-bish - Tumblr blog

back-at-it-again-bish · 2 years ago

Text

Hurricane Heller

Entire work available on AO3 here.

[TWs: Period typical antisemitism; graphic depictions of violence; gun violence; details of blood, gore and injury; minor character death (OC); murder]

11. Unsanctioned Retribution (Part 2)

It feels surreal, returning to the launderette knowing what is about to unfold. Mordecai pauses across the street from the crumbling structure as he's done a hundred times before, a hand on his lapel and the other pressed into his coat, a cool breeze shifting his popped collar against his jaw. He feels as if life is coming full circle, returning to the place he began as a different person, one with a much darker heart.

The first of many decisions he will make without Hashem's guidance, Mordecai rationally knows he should feel afraid; every decision before this was done believing his actions were sanctioned by God, almost predestined to succeed. Now he carves out his own destiny, with tools he's gathered alone, and Mordecai feels at peace knowing he's in control.

As the young feline steps off the curb, the street lamp above him flickers and dies, casting the young feline in darkness, an unheeded warning for what is to come.

He steps into the store with a jingle of the bell, drawing half a dozen pairs of eyes as the door closes with another jingle behind him. Unlike his first and many subsequent entries to the launderette, he walks unencumbered through the shop, a clicking of his loafers echoing in the suddenly silent space, eyes on his back as he keeps a casual, unhurried pace.

Rumours flowing around the newest recruit of Mr Savage's personal repertoire have already permeated through to each arm of his wider operation. The bookie turned torturer, a young man with impeccable manners to counterbalance a bloodlust he guarded behind closed doors. Mordecai hates those implications, yet they keep the enforcers effortlessly at arm's length as he heads through the back door.

Right where they belong; out of my way.

As usual, the room is thick with cigar smoke, the gray fumes curling around a single bare bulb suspended above a table in the center. Mordecai scrunches up his nose in distaste at both the smoke and the smell of food scraps left to fester in the stuffy room. Fiores sits at the head of the table, working on a ledger, his gaze flicking up as soon as the tom enters.

Their eyes meet for the first time since the adolescent tom was headhunted for Savage. Former boss and employee at a stalemate, both finally on equal ground. Fiores closes his ledger and shifts his weight back in his chair. "Well look at that," he says sarcastically, the usual thick cigar belching smoke from between fat fingers. "Our Littlest Bookie finally came crawling back home."

Mordecai narrows his gaze and flicks an ear irritably, but he doesn't respond otherwise, back to the open doorway as the enforcers begin to gather and listen. He intends to let Fiores talk himself into a corner and the underboss obliges just as expected, pointing his cigar at the tuxedo. "You left me high and dry, boy. The guy Savage brought in was useless! I've been doing all your damn books since then!"

His voice level and hands still pressed into his pockets, the adolescent raises his chin intransigently. "With due respect, Mr Fiores, there was no opportunity to refuse Mr Savage."

"There never is, though it wouldn't have helped you to try," the overweight cat chastises, pausing to take a deep toke of his cigar. Dark smoke flows freely from his nose and mouth when he speaks again. "Heard you've made a real name for yourself though, eh? What is it now, the… Killer Kitten?"

He chuckles at his own joke, enforcers joining in from the doorway. Mordecai doesn't rise to the bait, instead reaching inside his coat to a hidden breast pocket. Only his ears turn back to signify he heard half a dozen guns cock behind him before he extracts a photograph he lifted from the file on his latest target. He holds it up between his index and middle fingers. "Do you recognise this young man, Fiores?"

Fiores immediately frowns, silencing any laughter from his goons with a discrete wave before leaning forward not to look at the photo, but stare the tuxedo down. "I highly doubt Savage sent you to question me, so I'm going to give you some advice; quit while you're ahead, Kosher."

When Mordecai holds his ground, the underboss sits back in his chair and takes another puff of his cigar. "He's not the type to look at ingenuity and think 'how can I use this' like me. He'll see you going rogue and cut you out like you'd cut out a cancerous growth." Fiores' frown morphs into a deep scowl. "I don't take kindly to bring accused of things by a damned kike, either. Think about that before you go on."

"This is the kid I interrogated today," Mordecai continues, unphased by the threats. He can still sense the guns on his back as he takes a few calculated steps towards Fiores to put the photograph down in front of him. "Savage put me on him because after being acquitted of some minor offenses, three of his coworkers ended up either incarcerated or dead, suggesting he's feeding the police information."

"What does that have to do with me?" The overweight man growls. "Why'd I know some poker-stacking brat?"

A tiny smile curls a corner of pale lips. "I didn't yet mention a profession," Mordecai clarifies; the man is framing himself at this point, making the tom's job far easier. He taps the photo with a claw, finally drawing the underboss' gaze down to the photo. "He worked at your casino, Fiores. You bailed 'some poker-stacking brat' out the same day he was charged, to make sure he ran his table that night. That's suspicious."

The bulbous man finally stands to face his accuser. Where he used to tower over Mordecai, they're now practically the same height, looking the adolescent dead in the eye as he speaks through grit teeth. "I can do what I want with my pay, boy. Not that it's your business, but I bailed him out because we were short-staffed. Your contrived narrative ends here."

"You bailed him out because he's your middle man," the tom refutes calmly, not even flinching as Fiores snarls and bares yellowed fangs barely six inches from his muzzle. "You feed him information, which he relays to the police, maintaining a degree of separation that protects your interests at the expense of another. You're a damned rat, Fiores-"

The punch comes fast and hard, clocking him square in the jaw. The scrawny feline stumbles back into the table with a grunt. Gingerly pressing a hand to his face, Mordecai looks up in time to see Fiores shrug off his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor as he rolls his sleeves with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Get up, boy," he demands with a growl. "You want to insult me, you better be ready for a good fucking beating. Now get up and take it."

He always knew it could come to blows, but he'd assumed it wouldn't be an ambush, and how naive he feels now, forced to use the table to steady himself. Without time to prepare or draw a weapon, he's a sitting duck; a scrawny kid with practically no fighting experience, which certainly shows in how swiftly his confidence drains.

Rough hands grab Mordecai from behind and pull him to his feet, shoving him back into the fray before he can object. He's thrust straight into taking a blow to his right eye; the tom hears his pince nez shatter before the punch connects with his flesh, the dull tok of meaty fist to skull before an explosion of pain and the momentum have him once again falling, this time jarring his ribs on the table before sprawling out on the floor at Fiores' feet.

Theres a sharp kick to the ribs and the underboss snarls. "Back off 'im," he commands his enforcers. Mordecai barely registers their shadows shifting away before he's flipped roughly onto his back and a boot planted squarely on his chest. Barely able to breathe, he grabs at the ankle and tries to dislodge it to no avail, Fiores putting his massive bulk onto his leg and looming over the younger tom. "Bit off more than you can chew, did you? Wanted my job too, hm? You greedy fucking kike."

He struggles under the immense weight as Fiores takes his time returning his cigar to thick lips, then casually pulling a pistol from his waistband. Emerald eyes widen as the barrel is leveled at his forehead and recalling his letter opener, the monochrome cat scrabbles in a pocket as Fiores pulls back the firing pin with a twisted smirk. "Looks like I get to tell old Savage his favourite pet wasn't house-broken. Lucky me."

Grasping the letter opener, Mordecai rips it from his pocket and plunges it into the underboss' calf.

Fiores screams and jerks backwards, pulling the trigger as Mordecai rolls to the side. Red hot pain sears down the lad's cheek as the bullet skims flesh and melts fur, but there's no time to acknowledge it. Down one weapon, he goes for his last - the switchblade in his boot straps - flicking it open with an audible snick just as Fiores yanks the letter opener out of his leg and slings it across the room.

Enforcers rush in, only to retreat as their boss turns his snarl on them, wordlessly demanding they adhere to his previous statement; back off, he's mine. Mordecai steadies himself on shaking legs as they face each other down. His right eye is already swelling shut behind the empty lens frame, cheek and jaw on fire, entire body shaking with adrenaline as the underboss levels the barrel with his chest, taking a limping step closer. "Hold fucking still, boy."

Mordecai does the exact opposite, diving towards the table at his right. Another shot ricochets dangerously close to his heels as he stumbles full-body into the table and overturns it for makeshift cover, clutching his switchblade to tightly his knuckles turn white. There's not enough space for the table to be effective cover - all Fiores has to do is limp closer, and he'll be a sitting duck - but it bides him a moment to think.

A third shot goes clear through the table, barely an inch from his hip. The tuxedo feels the air heat up, singing his fur tips as it passes, making it clear he can't stay there. He needs to disarm Fiores, but there's no obvious way to do that, time ticking past far too quickly with the click of a fresh chamber being loaded.

If it's useless as a shield, perhaps it can be a weapon.

With no time to plan anything more elegant he pivots on his heel, grabs hold of two of the table legs and pushing back to his feet, charges the wooden table in the direction of the last bullet, using as a temporary battering ram. There's a yell of surprise and yet another shot through the table before he crashes into Fiores.

The underboss falls flat on his back with a heavy huff of air as Mordecai flies over the table, landing a few feet away, the dull thud of a forgotten third weapon hitting his hip bone as his switchblade ricochets away. Disoriented and dazed, he tries to get back to his feet using the nearest wall and hisses when his left leg burns with pain. He doesn't looks down though, struggling to focus through a pounding headache and squinting through his remaining, crooked spectacle lens, attempting to locate Fiores.

Out of nowhere, Fiores grabs him by the neck and shoves him back against the plaster. He squeezes Mordecai's throat so tight the lad can't draw breath, his attacker gleeful as the adolescent struggles beneath his grip. "Your luck's run out," Fiores informs his prey. "Better use those last words to pray for forgiveness, though I doubt your God wants your soul back, after all you've done."

The monochrome feline pulls uselessly at that thick, meaty hand for a few precious seconds. He's suddenly very afraid to die, desperate to survive this encounter, when he recalled the tool he kept as a failsafe that knocked painfully into his hip before. Still clawing at the man's hold with one hand, he scrambles in his coat pocket and fumbles the handle of his last resort with the other, struggling to grasp it as his brain is slowly deprived of oxygen.

Dark sport dancing before his eyes, he finally gets a good grip on the claw hammer and swings.

His first strike is uncoordinated and clumsy, smacking Fiores not in the temple as planned, but the cheekbone, creating a resounding crack that echoes through the tiny room. Taken by surprise, Fiores releases his throat and stumbles with a scream of agony, pressing his hand to the fractured bone as his instincts put distance between him and his attacker.

Mordecai sags against the wall and sucks in breaths, lungs burning from the almost-fatal defect, but he doesn't wait for his head to clear. Still unsteady, limping slightly on his left leg, he follows Fiores the couple of feet he managed to put between them and taking aim this time, Mordecai strikes the man square on the temple with his claw hammer. A splatter of blood mists the tom's face and Fiores is knocked to the ground.

Fuelled by adrenaline, his near death experience and years of bitter resentment, Mordecai straddles the groaning man and slams the hammer onto his head again, and again, and again. Each hit sprays the adolescent with fresh blood he barely feels speckle his face and clothes, his weighted tool crushing the man's skull until his temple is concave and he no longer breathes.

Only then does Mordecai stand, letting the hammer drop to the floor from his shaking, bloodied hand. He stares at his former boss' corpse almost disbelieving, processing his first willing murder from an abstract perspective; it doesn't feel entirely real and yet, he can feel the blood crusting rapidly in his fur, the scents of iron and flesh thick in the air.

"Contact Mr Savage," he orders calmly, glancing back down at Fiores' as he runs a now steady hand through disheveled hair and readjusts his suit jacket. "Apologize for the lateness of correspondence on my behalf, then emphasise the import of the call; that Fiores has been forced to resign."

When he glances at the gawking enforcers, they recoil from the unarmed Kosher Butcher, not daring to approach the unhinged killer in their midst as Mordecai removes his pince nez to inspect the damage to the frames. Frowning deeply as he feels their twisted state, he sighs and replaces the bent specs on his muzzle, turning to the nearest enforcer with a chillingly cold stare.

#mordecai heller #lackadaisy mordecai #lackadaisy #fanfiction #lackadaisy cats #tracy j butler #fanfic #hurricane heller #niche narratives #hurricane heller chapter 11

18 notes · View notes