Big Trouble in Little Kowloon - The Misfortunes of Colonel Frantz Jarowskij

[Werner von Urslingen]

Hi, guys!

 

A while ago I wrote a short fanfic about my Crew, the Jarowskij Brigade. The story centers on the Jarowskij Brigade, a German mercenary-unit hired by the Guild to oversee a habitual district in the northwestern part of Malifaux. In it we follow Colonel Frantz Grüber Jarowskij as he tries to tackle the challenges of leading his titular Brigade in the slums of the favela-like borough, suitably dubbed “the Mangle”, and his attempts to dislodge the Ten Thunders from a neighboring district. It's not the best piece I've ever written, but I thought it would be fun to see what you guys think.   

 

 

NB: The story contains an unhealthy amount of sexist, racist, homophobic and generally indecent slurs and thoughts. Bear in mind that the views expressed by the characters doesn’t necessarily coincide with my own. Just putting it out there, so nobody gets any ideas.   Also, the story does contain some head-cannon. For example, the dominant currency is Pound Stirling rather than Script, there are some districts that aren't mentioned in the official backstory etc. etc. I hope you can overlook that. 

 

Also, I had a bit of trouble pasting the text from Word, so it might look a bit wonky in places. I hope it won't be too much of a bother.   

 

Hope you have a fun read!

 

/Werner

____________________________________________________________________

 

The Backdrop - The Jarowskij Brigade (You can skip this if you aren't that interested)

Open Spoiler

A band of Hessian ex-army specialists and whatever assorted murderous riff-raff the band have picked up over the past six months, the 1,000 man strong Jarowskij Brigade makes for an unwelcomely influential clique in the street-level politics of Malifaux.

The Guild aren’t certain exactly what the Jarowskij Brigade is doing in Malifaux. However, all their paperwork was in order – a renewable one-year contract with the bill already footed by Her Majesty’s Government, all the right signatures in place. Not given any forewarning, the Guild was in two minds over how to utilize the Crown’s uncharacteristic generosity. They needed policemen, engineers and logistical personnel – not a battalion’s worth of Hessian mercenaries itching to earn extra danger-pay. Maifaux had enough people (and otherwise) with too many guns and too few scruples as it was.

Luckily, the ever dependable Lucius Matheson pointed out that the Habitual District 13-B had been experiencing a surge in Neverborn activity as of late. Despite protests from the Ortega family, it was suggested that the Jarowskij Brigade could be tasked with stabilizing the sector. It was a win-win scenario – either the Brigade would succeed in stabilizing the sector or (far more likely) they would all be torn into variably-sized chunks by the Neverborn, in which case the Guild could simply pocket the government’s down payment for themselves.

To the Guild’s pleasant surprise, and the Ortega’s disbelief, only two weeks later the Brigade reported that the sector had been thoroughly cleansed of any Neverborn presence. An independent investigation undertaken by the Ortega was forced to concede that the area had indeed been rid of Neverborn (“for now”). The Brigade was forthwith made responsible for security along the outer northwestern perimeter, centered on Sector 13-B. Everybody, except perhaps the Ortega, were happy with how things had turned out. Additional soulstone-routes could be opened, the frontier was quiet and the Jarowskij Brigade could cash in on a healthy bonus to boot. In the subsequent atmosphere of goodwill and cheerful backslapping, nobody paid too close attention to the after-action debrief - or the odd fact that the Brigade had not sustained a single casualty during the entire operation.

 

However, the question of the Jarowskij Brigade’s place in Malifaux’s chain of command was still to be determined. The matter was delegated to the desk of the Governor-Secretary, where “the final details are being considered from every possible angle in order to ensure a resolution that will be beneficiary to all concerned parties”. Until such a time, the Governor Secretary has graciously taken it upon himself to handle all the “dreary supervisory aspects” of the Brigade’s employment, such as contractual issues, payment, equipment, deployment etc.

 

Presently, the Jarowskij Brigade exists in a sort of legal vacuum. Nobody’s certain who they answer to. Nobody’s knows the extent of their jurisdiction. Nobody’s entirely sure what their job actually is anymore. Consequently, the Brigade has been given free reins to use “any and all measures to ensure public order, the rule of law and the protection of public commercial interests” – that is, make the people sit down, shut up, do what they’re told and keep the soulstone flowing, much to the detriment of the area at large. Not that habitual district 13-B was ever a very nice place to begin with. It’s a grimy hodgepodge of ugly squatter towns, open sewers and drinking dens languishing on the periphery of Guild territory like an urban eye floater. It has always been a dumping ground for all kinds of filth - material, fecal and human. For the people of the Mangle, as the area have been aptly dubbed, The Jarowskij Brigade simply constitutes the latest in a row of gang lords with a disagreeable muscle-to-empathy ratio – only this lot’s got a note from the Governor.

 

There has been a 70 % decrees in violent crime and a 55 % decrease in total crime since the Brigade's glorified occupation started. More importantly, tax revenues has gone up by 15 %. At least that’s what the figures say – those that even reach the Governor’s desk, that is. The reason? The Brigade simply doesn’t report any crimes, mostly because they’re committed with their permission (and blessing). The street gangs pay part of their protection money to the Brigade in the mercenaries own Meta-racket. The back alley-drug dealers and gas-light street pimps are allowed to run their trades in return for 18 % of the profit and free sampling of the merchandize. The Brigade has a lot of money to make from keeping the Mangle the sordid mess it is – as does the Guild. A suitably substantial part of the Brigade’s illicit earnings end up in the Guild’s pockets (even after a healthy dose of embezzlement along the way). Not all of it, but well enough to keep the Guild willingly oblivious and the tax-collectors happily bribed.

 

The only area where the Brigade doesn’t cut any slack is the trade in soulstone. The Jarowskij Brigade has broken down a lot of doors (and fingers, and kneecaps) on the mere suspicions that anyone might peddle the slightest speck of these overpriced nuggets of magic. Despite the Brigade’s draconian efforts, there’s a sizeable discrepancy between the mines’ documented output and the amount that reaches the Guild storehouses. Somewhere soulstone is being funneled out of the supply-chain. The Guild is putting the pressure on the Brigade to get to grips with the situation, or else risk having their cushy posting as the Mangle’s top muckamucks exchanged for frontier service faster than they can say “combat rotation”. Consequently, the Brigade’s usual home invasions and “preemptive policing” has taken on a sort of anxious urgency, with the predicable result of making “due process” an even bigger joke than before.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Big Trouble in Little Kowloon

 

1.

 

“You said what”?! His nostrils flared menacingly as his face a shade more towards tomato.

“I, erh… lost the squad, sir”.

“Lost them? Lost them?! They’re not a bag of peanuts, sergeant”!

“T-there were a lot of them, sir…”

“I don’t care how many of those squinty-eyed motherfuckers there were! You don’t lose four heavily armed grunts on a fucking zone recce”!

Klemm fiddled a bit with his dog-tag and looked about the room for inspiration. None was forthcoming. “Well, eh…” he let of a nervous chuckle “It seems we just did, sir”

 

His attempt at comic relief didn’t sit well with the Colonel who turned practically cerise, a little bit of foam accumulating in the corner of his mouth as if he were about to bite the lieutenant’s head of. “Oh, you did, did you? Well guess what, Klemm - you just lost your rank to! You’re fucking demoted - effective immediately! And you’re on latrine-duty for the next month, private!”

Klemm turned a tone paler and stammered something incomprehensible before falling back on his training. “Y-yes, sir!”

“Make that two months, pipsqueak!”

“Sir!”

“Dismissed!”

 

As soon as the part-relieved, part-distraught Klemm had dashed out of the room, Frantz Jarowskij crashed down in the spindly desk-chair with a heavy sigh and an ill-boding creak. He grabbed one of the blackish bottles on his cluttered desk, discarding it on the floor with a disgusted grimace when it turned out empty. “Probably for the best”, he thought gloomily.

 

Frantz Jarowskij wasn’t in top shape – even discounting a looming liver-failure. He was muscular and broad-shouldered in a rather statuesque manner, although years of strain (and stray shrapnel) had done their bit while his long hair, which had been grime-grey since his teens, was receding with the inexorability of a Greek tragedy. His blocky face was leathery and worn to the point that it could possibly stop a low-caliber bullet, with entrenched frown-lines giving him a constantly displeased expression – which was actually pretty representative of his temperament.

 

Jarowskij and his titular Brigade had been contracted to occupy and pacify Habitual District 16A - not that anyone ever called it that. The Guild hadn’t even bothered calling it a “restoration of law and order” or a “crackdown on crime”, which were their usual casuistries. Everyone knew the Ten Thunders were calling the shots out in Little Kowloon, even if nobody ever saw them doing it. But now, for some strange reason, the Guild had suddenly decided to go gunning for Malifaux’s biggest elephant-in-the-room. However, asking why was effectively the opposite of Jarowkij’s job.

 

Frantz unceremoniously brushed his desk clean, sending empty food cans, coffee-mugs and assorted junk tumbling to the floor before dutifully (although not without another heavy sigh) once again glancing over the district-map. He didn’t get what the Guild saw in Little Kowloon. It clearly wasn’t worth the headache. However, Frantz was smart enough to know he wasn’t smart enough to wrap his head around the politics of it. He was a simple man with simple goals. He liked getting money, getting girls and getting drunk, preferably in that order. If the Guild wanted him to step on a few gooks before he could cash in – well, tough luck for the gooks.

 

He trailed a finger along the glaring, red line he had marked on the district-map. It seemed to taunt him. It marked the extent the Brigade’s progress in Little Kowloon thus far. They had evicted every troublesome chink between Whu and Little Dragon Street. Every opium den, gambling hall and titular massage-parlor that they could find had been persuaded, necessitating varying degrees of blunt trauma and destruction of property, to pay protection-money to the Brigade. They had even set up a Guild-headed administration in the erstwhile dojo on Kowloon Plaza, although that was mostly something for the Malifaux Messenger.

 

Still, they were not even half-way through the district. Progress was slow, grinding to a halt along the Lantern Gardens, and their patrols were constantly harried from the rooftops by those black-clad bastards – using bow and arrow, just for the fuck of it. Not to speak of bitch-queen Misaki herself.

 

 

“Goddamned, twirly-hipped bitch-witch…” he muttered to himself, as if he could put a hex on her by sheer, acidic force of will (then again, in Malifaux you never knew).

 

 

He had been looking for the past two weeks, but none of these goddamn chinks knew anything about the woman who were organizing much of the elusive resistance - or they were simply too stubborn to give her up. He assumed the latter. These gooks were all in cahoots, there was no doubt in his mind about that. How else could you explain Yan Lo and his ghost-gooks suddenly showing up – uninvited, unwanted and all up in his shit?

 

There was some seriously bad voodoo going on here, and all of this supernatural fuckery was way outside of both his comfort zone and pay-grade. They had been sitting comfortably in the Mangle for three months. Beating up hoodlums. Free drink and cheap broads. Playing cat-and-mouse with the Arcanists, and winning. Now he was paddling up shit creek, ninja-bitches on his heels and Resurrectionists up his backside with no end in sight.

 

He got up with another worrying creak, this time from his back. He couldn’t stand another minute in this makeshift office of his. Besides, it had previously belonged to one of those monk-fellas, and the lingering smell of incense were playing to hell with his sinuses. The carpets were nice, tough. He rummaged through the drawers, retrieving the necessities: A service revolver, a mustache-comb and his hip-flask. Holstering the two former and taking a healthy swig of the latter, he strode out of his stolen office to confront the disasters of the day.

 

***

2.

 

Little Dragon Street had escaped much of the jovial property damaged that usually followed the Brigade’s arrival. The paper-lanterns, which Frantz had to admit were rather cozy, were all in place, even though they were solely ornamental at this time of day. The paper-windowed facades were (mostly) intact, save for the traces of a few cases of sporadic resistance. The gambling hall, which name Frantz couldn’t pronounce, was open for business. The streetwalkers, who often couldn’t pronounce his name, were working overtime. People went about their business much as they usually did, albeit a bit more hurriedly when the occasional patrol of brown-suited Brigademen passed, or drunkenly stumbled out of the eastern-equivalent saloon.

 

“Come on, old timer! Just let us in so we can talk!”

 

The old coot leaned out of the second-story window, crowing something insubordinate-sounding back in mandarin. They had been at it for five minutes already with no end in sight. Frantz decided to up the ante, as well as let of some steam at the same time.

 

“Don’t you fucking try and gaff at me in fucking kung-fu, grandpa!” Frantz yelled back at him from down in the street, surrounded by grim-looking grunts, the passing civvies torn between schadenfreude-tinged curiosity and not wanting to get caught up in the mercenaries’ affairs. “We know you can, so just make this easier on yourself and speak like a fucking human for once!”

The Chinaman pursed his withered lips with indignation. “Leave me be, whelp! Is harassing good honest people all you louts do?”

“We’re here on official business, old man! This is a criminal investigation!”

 

Even Frantz agreed that it was a preposterous statement, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, it wasn’t often he got to throw around such long words.

 

“Liars!” the old man spat back at them, obviously not impressed with Frantz’s three-syllable threats.

They had known from the start that the dried up old chink was some sort of spiritual muckamuck in the community. It was his temple that Brigade had “confiscated” as a temporary headquarters, and in whose office Frantz was currently storing his papers, liquor and dirty laundry. Luckily, it was also why they hadn’t just shot the old coot out of hand, as that might have caused some “friction” with the locals, to say the least – a choice Frantz was now tempted to reevaluate.

 

Purportedly, at least according to their informant, the old fu-manchu was some sort of “ancestral caretaker” – whatever these heathens meant by that. Frantz wasn’t interested in cross-cultural studies – however, what was interesting was that this particular pagan was rumored to have administered burial services on behalf of the Ten Thunders. It was too good of a lead not to follow. These guys all had a real hard-on for this morbid, ancestral crap, which meant that this glorified undertaker possibly had a few beans to spill concerning his old business partners. At least that was the idea, and Frantz was starved for ideas.

 

“I have nothing to say to you!” the coot continued, face flushed with what little blood he had left. Still, he spoke cleaner English than Frantz did, which was a bit embarrassing.

“You are trying my patience, gramps” Frantz said with a predatory, scornful smile “either you let us in right this instance, or I’ll have my boys tear down that rickety-shit paper-house of yours” He crossed his arms over his chest “So what’s it going to be little piggy? Are you going to make me huff and puff?”

He snorted at his own joke, the surrounding troopers obediently following suite. “Good one, Colonel” somebody said.

 

The Chinaman didn’t answer. He just looked down at Frantz, figuratively as well as literally, with narrowing eyes. Frantz glared back. Usually, these kind of pissing-contests were Frantz’s forte. However, there was nothing about the Chinaman’s countenance that betrayed any sign of him budging. For the first time in some time, Frantz felt a bit… uneasy, which was ridiculous in itself. The old bastard had to be crazy. He had a dozen armed soldiers at his literally paper-thin door, facing down with the Colonel of the most notorious mercenary outfit in Northwestern Malifaux. He was supposed to grovel and kowtow, or at least have the good graces to shit his pants, not look at him like he was some sniveling kid pilfering apples.

 

“Idealists” Frantz thought with mental frown, “always with these fucking idealists”.

 

A voice from within the house saved Frantz the humiliation of looking away. The man spun around and hissed something oriental, followed by a high-pitched, pleading protest. A woman’s voice – or at least something close to it. Another rebuttal from the coot was ignored by the woman, who appeared to try and drag the old man away from the window. “Woman” was maybe a bit of an overstatement, but these peoples all looked the same to Frantz so he couldn’t be sure. She wore same drab, greyish robes as what must be her grandfather. Cute, although a bit heavyset. The again, Frantz liked girls with a bit of a homely girth to them. She fretfully tugged at his robes, eyes darting from her relative to Frantz and back again. The girl obviously didn’t agree with her grandpa’s stand-ground take on conflict resolving, which was smart. She was also obviously scared, although Frantz suspected it was more for her grandfather’s sake than her own, which was stupid.

 

“Why hello there, fraulein!” Frantz grinned with nicotine-stained teeth, giving her a sardonic little bow.

 

The girl froze. She obviously knew enough English to know who he was referring to. She shot him a panicky glance, trying to act like she haven’t heard him while still pleading with her reluctant grandfather, who in turn yelled at her to get back into the house.

 

“Women! They can be handful, can’t they?” Frantz laughed, looking around at his men, who again laughed obediently.

“Hah! Two handfuls if you’re lucky, Colonel!” Plötzer chuckled, lewdly emphasizing his point with both hands.

 

The mercenaries boomed with laughter - even the outdone Frantz. That was a good one. He had to consider Plötzer for promotion, he reminded himself. In the meantime a quick slap had settled the family dispute, and the slighted girl reluctantly withdrawing in worried silence with a hand on her reddening cheek. The old monk’s face was red with outrage when he again turned to the would-be home invaders – which showed him everything Frantz’s need to know.

 

“You know wha – *pfff*” Frantz started but had to interrupting himself when he couldn’t hold back a final snicker, wiping a tear of laughter from the pit of his eye. “You know what, grandpa? You really should let us help you out, we know exactly how to shut naggy womenfolk up…”

“And with what!” Plötzer swiftly interjected, trying his luck. Another cascade of laughter resounded over the street, even at this much less witty outburst.

“Shut the fuck up, Plötzer” Frantz barked with attempted, and failed, harshness “that’s enough wit from you”.

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.” The company joker responded with a quick salute, although still smirking.

Frantz turned to the monk again, who made a poor job of acting unaffected. Parents were always the easiest.

“Now, gramps” Frantz sneered with a lopsided smirk, putting as much superciliousness as he could into it – which admittedly came quite natural to him “are you going to cooperate with the authorities, or are we going to have to expand our investigation to include the entire household? Know what I’m sayin’?”

“Y-you dare-!”

“Shut the fuck up” Frantz snarled, cutting the old man off. I’m tired of your games, you old fuck. You could be the pope of China for all I care… but right now” Frantz pointed to his open palm “you’re here”.

He balled his open hand into a fist.

The monk didn’t answer.

“And so is she” Frantz added, making sure he got the point.

“So, what’s it going to be?”

 

Even the troopers and the few civvies that dared to stay and look keeping quiet as an unfair contested of wills was fought. Another few

seconds passed.

 

“I’m…” the monk drew another breath “I’m coming down…”

“Good”.

 

The old man disappeared from the window. Shorty thereafter, Frantz sighed with relief. He wasn’t very good at bluffing, but sometimes it paid off.

 

Frantz spun around. “Plötzer!”

 

Even the flippant sergeant had caught up on the return to military soberness as he saluted stiffly, bringing his heels together.

 

“You’re in charge. Search the building of anything of remote significance. Nobody enters and nobody leaves, is that clear?”

“Klar, Herr Oberst!”

“Then get to it.”

“Jahwol, Herr Oberst! Bergmann, Klotz – guard duty, front door. Górski, Gottlieb – you take the back. The rest of you – with me”.

 

Curt. Straight to business. Yes, there was definitely some officer-potential here. The troopers fanned out in silence, save for the ominous sound of gravel crushed under polished military boots. Frantz couldn’t help but smirk. It was a pretty sight, no doubt. He took a well-deserved swig of his hip-bottle, savoring the burning sensation for a moment before nonchalantly sauntering back down the street. Behind him there was a loud curse in Saxon-accented German and an almost as loud protest in mandarin as the troopers unceremoniously forced their way into the building.

 

“Sit your ass down, old timer! Now!”

 

Frantz fiddled a bit with his breast pocket before presenting the cigarette-pack, deciding to reward himself with a bit of COPD for a job well done.

 

“Well, break it down, then! Trommler, get over here!”

 

Now he just had to play the waiting-game. If Plötzer found something, which he had to admit wasn’t that likely – great. If he didn’t – well…

 

“I said sit down!”

 

Consolidate what they got? Possibly, granted they got some backup – which was unlikely. The Guild didn’t like to sully their hands. That was Frantz’s job.

 

“Oh, so what have we got here, then? Trying to hide something from us, old man?”

 

Besides, he did not want to crawl back to Matheson’s office and tell the Secretary that “sorry, but we got our asses handed to us by a bunch of fucking chinks – could you pretty please send some help”. He didn’t much like to visit Matheson’s office at all, actually. That fucker gave him the creeps.

 

“Where’s the rest? I said: Where the fuck’s the rest?! No, I told you to sit down!”

 

That Ortega woman would just love to see him squirm too. No, no way was he going back to his employer empty-handed – not to think what it would mean for his rep out in the Mangle.

 

“You see this gun? I’m going to turn her face into a rice-bowl with this fucking gun unless you tell me: Where have you hidden the rest? I’m going to count to three.”

 

“Sometimes, life just isn’t fair”, Frantz thought to himself as he tried to light the knock-off Ronson with growing frustration, adding to his suddenly sullen mood.

 

“One!”

Goddamn shitty lighter. That’s what you get for buying at the Mangle. Bloody crooks.

 

“Two!”

 

“Sometimes, life just isn’t fair”

 

***

3.

 

It took him a few more tries to ignite the lighter until he was rewarded with a small, yellow flame and the soothing kiss of nicotine. He blew a half-decent smoke-ring, something his father had taught him how to do. He smirked faintly with nostalgia, tapped off some ash onto the panel-floor and then drew deeply again.

 

The translators had been working furiously to interpret, sort or (mostly) reject the scrolls, notes and texts Plötzer had confiscated from the priest’s home – which, considering none of the men spoke mandarin, was all of them. Last time Frantz had checked in they had found nothing of interest. Goose Egg. Nil. Considering how well paid those translators were, Frantz had no reason to suspect they were lying, either. Right now it looked like this was turning into another dead end, serving only to further alienate the locals. The fact that Plötzer had threatened to turn the granddaughter’s face into a canoe hadn’t helped.

 

Despite all of Frantz’s willing ignorance and spiteful racism, he wasn’t as stupid as to think he could get away with just about anything. Little Kowloon had accepted the Brigade’s presence, an acceptance based solely on mathematics of firepower. If they got it into their head that the body-count may be worth it? Frantz shuddered at the thought – especially of his own grizzly demise should they get their hands on him. Another patrol had been hit after his lopsided pissing-contest with the monk. Another three dead. He was winning, at least that was what he told himself, but it was not a kind of winning he particularly liked.

It was the most fundamental rule of mercenary-work: Getting paid is only any good if you live to spend it. That’s why he had survived this long. That was the secret to his success. It wasn’t because he was the best. It certainly wasn’t because he was the smartest. It was because he always made sure he was left, win or lose. “You only have to die once” his British CO had told him on his first tour in Angola. Frantz guessed he had taken it to heart.

 

Frantz sighed, the cigarette-smoke quickly filling his cramped sleeping quarter, dimly lit by the flickering oil-lamp. Even after half a bottle of wine and congenial company he couldn’t have a moment’s peace of mind. Feeling sorry for himself, Frantz threw his legs over the bedside and sat up with a low groan – partly from his current fatigue, partly from his old wounds. He reached under the bed for the bottle, uncorked it and took a swig from the unpleasantly tepid liquor. This place was driving him to drink. Well, more than typically, at least.

 

His bedfellow squirmed slightly in her sleep, stealing what little was left of Frantz’s share of the cover. He swore under his breath, but didn’t wake her up. Even the prostitutes in this goddamn part of Maifaux had him on edge – and not in the nice way. They weren’t like the ones in the meat markets in the Mangle. Those would even serve freaks like Lieutenant Klotskij. The pimps didn’t care about the bruises, and the cuts only incurred a 15-50 % add-on cost, depending on severity.

 

Frantz hadn’t even seen a pimp on Little Dragon Street, come to think of it. He had thought he had - two raven-haired young men in bright-yellow robes and pierced ears hanging out next to the girls in that glittery chink-casino down the street. When they turned out to be rent-boys Frantz had been rightly indignant. When they then had solicited their services he had spoken his just mind – which included terms like “faggot” and “butt boy”.  He had then been hip-thrown across the hall and made an ungraceful landing on the Fan-Tan table, resulting in an ex-table, a slight concussion and a much wounded pride. At least he got it better than Klotskij – they had sent him his left testicle back in a silk-pouch.

 

Night-life in Little Kowloon was proving to be almost as dangerous as the Ten Thunders – and that was in no way discrediting the lethality of the Ten Thunders.

 

There was a cautious knock on the door.

 

“Shit…”Frantz mumbled, getting up with another groan “what’s the fucking time…”

 

There was another knock.

 

“Yeah-yeah” he growled. He threw open the door, squinting at the light from the hall’s much brighter lamps. Something smelled like shit out here.

“Sir!”

 

The lanky Klemm sluggishly snapped his heels together with a click. He looked tired, eyes red, holding a bunch of papers under his left arm. He stank like an outhouse – which wasn’t that odd now that Frantz’s thought about it.

 

Klemm blanched a bit at his Colonels visage, which hadn’t bothered with pants. “I- Erh… I-“ he began.

“What, so you’re a faggot now?” Frantz grumbled.

“Wha-? No, sir! I-“

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Frantz continued, making it clear that whatever time it was, it was way too late.

“Half-past four, sir”

 

Frantz thought about giving him a dressing down for disturbing him at this hour, but what was the point? It wasn’t like he was going to get any sleep anyway. He inhaled another quarter-inch of the cigarette, then put it out against the door-frame. He sighed. “Oh, fuck it… Well, don’t just stand there, come in”

 

Frantz staggered drunkenly back into the bedroom, lighting another oil-lam for illumination before slumping down on the desk-chair. Klemm took a parade-ground step into the bedroom, brought his heels together again and then handed Frantz the ugly-looking scribbles.

 

“Notes from the translators, sir. They finished just about half-an-hour ago”.

 

Frantz pretended to read the first page, being too tired to put any real effort into it. Klemm’s gaze wandered about the room before noticing the snoring bundle in the bed.

 

“Eh, sir…”

“What?” Frantz grumbled as he squinted at the barely legible notes.

“The, erh… girl?”

“Don’t you worry about her.”

“But, sir. What abo-“

“Worry about how the fuck I’m supposed to be able read these fucking notes. I mean, shit…” He slapped the unreadable notes on his desk with a disgusted look. He turned to the perplexed private, who was way too deep into his Colonel’s private sphere to be fully comfortable.

Frantz sighed. “Just tell me what they’ve found” he said, pinching the bridge of his notes “and for fuck’s sake, give me the short version”. He really regretted putting out that cigarette.

“Well, sir – I think we’ve found something that might interest you”. Klemm couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice, which made the tired Colonel even more annoyed.

“Well do fuckin-!”

The bed-bundle stirred in its sleep, muttering something annoyed-sounding in Japanese.

“Well, do fucking tell, private” Frantz muttered. Goddamn these crazy oriental broads.

“Yes, sir” Klemm half-whispered, following suite “about three klicks from here there’s a graveyard, a memorial grove, right?”

“So what?”

“Well” Klemm continued, unaffected by his superior’s acidity “this monk? We know he’s been conducting funeral-services for Ten Thunders-members, right? Well, now we got their names, so we know which grave belong to who…”

“I guess…” Frantz rolled his eyes. This definitely wasn’t the short version.

“Well, then it wouldn’t be a long shot to guess that anyone visiting those graves would also be connected to the Ten Thunders, right?”

“So wha-… Oooooh…”

 

Finally Frant’z penny dropped.

 

“Oooh…”

Klemm beamed. “Exactly, sir”.

“So we could use this for intelligence-gathering?”

“I would believe so, sir”

“And seeing how keen they are on this ancestral bullcrap, one could also guess it’d make for a pretty good bargaining-chip, should it come to that?”

“Very likely, sir”

“And they would probably put a whole lot of effort into keeping that cemetery out of enemy hands, correct? Which could draw the bastards out?”

“Very astutely observed, sir”

Frantz didn’t know what ‘astutely’ meant, but it sure sounded snazzy. Damn, this old coot still had a few tricks left in him, it seemed. Frantz grinned widely and mischievously with all of his teeth, except the two that was MIA.

“Hah!” he exclaimed, feeling suddenly reenergized. He stood up from the chair, triumphantly waving his fist at Klemm “We got those slant-eyed, cat-eating chink-sneaks now, eh Klemm!”

Taken aback by the Colonels sudden camaraderie, Klemm just nodded vigorously with an eager-to-please smile on his face, determinedly overlooking that the whole thing had basically been his idea.

“Hah! I knew I’d get those bastards eventually! Nobody messes with the Jarowksij Brigade and lives!” Frantz snatched an opened bottle from the desk. “Cheers!” He took two deep gulps “Ah! Delicious!”

Frantz quickly strode over to Klemm, bottle still in hand. “Listen here, Klemm” he whispered conspiratorially, a wolfish smirk on his lips, gesticulating wildly with the slushing bottle “I’ve got this all figured out now”.

Klemm flinched a bit when the still-naked Colonel put an arm over his shoulders in a fatherly fashion.

“I need you to get three squads ready to scramble at a moment’s notice” Frantz snappily instructed as they walked out into the hallway “I want demolition-specialists to have explosives ready to go, and I want you and my staff at the HQ in two hours, got it?”

“Three squads. Demolitions. Two ho-” Klemm repeated before interrupting himself “Me, sir?”

Frantz grinned at him. “Yes, you”.

“But I’ve still got the barrack 3 latrines to-“

“Latrines!” Frantz roared with laughter “But I can’t have my newest Lieutenant cleaning some fucking latrines, now can I!”

“L-lieutenant, sir?” Klemm’s eyes opened wide.

“That’s right, effective immediately! Now, get your ass in gear, lieutenant, and make it snappy!”

“Yes, sir!” Klemm bellowed in finest drills-square-style, smiling from ear to ear.

“Dismissed!”

 

The still latrine-smelling Klemm careered down the hallway with a will. Frantz hoped he had the good graces to wash before meeting with the rest of the staff. Frantz took another swig of the bottle. Not even the armpit-warm slush they called wine in these part could dampen his mood. He spun around and walked back to his room, almost managing to whistle the first lines of the Badenweiler. It seemed everything was going his way. Guess it was Karma.

 

Once in his bedroom he stretched out with a contented groan, then sat down heavily on the bedside, almost sending his bedfellow airborne in the process. She yelped in surprise, cleared her head and shot Frantz a venomous glare. Her makeup was a bit smudged, her hair was a bit unkempt and she was actually a bit thin for Frantz’s taste, but she made do just fine.

 

He grinned at her. “Good morning, baby! Wine?” he said, offering her the blackish bottle

“Kekkou…”

Frantz had no idea what that meant, but he guessed the mordant tone indicated a negative.

He chuckled. “Well, more for me, then” He took another deep swig, spilling just a little bit on his chest.

“Ah, good stuff” he breathed happily before returning his gaze to the woman “Anyway, you wanna fuck?”

 

Granted, it wasn’t his most elegant line, although brute honesty had a certain élan to it. Not impressed, the little Asian woman frowned deeply. “No-no! You pay one night! Now morning! Now you pay!” she barked at him in severely broken English, despite his charming demeanor. They sure could turn on a dime.

“Oh, well” Frantz shrugged “tough luck for me, I guess”. He got up to look for his pants, which proved harder that he would have thought.

“Well then, darling. How much for the whole shebang?”

“Twenty-two pound! British! No shitty-shitty German-money!” She cawed at him, managing to slaughter the English language and nonchalantly put on her earrings at the same time.

“Well, who can argue with such a pretty face, eh?” Frantz said with a leer, shooting her a wink. He went over to the desk and dug around in its guts before finally producing a couple of wrinkly pale-green notes. When he spun back around the petite yūjo had already wrapped her garish, orange robe around herself and slipped into her clogs. How she had managed to do her hair as well was beyond him.

“Tell you what, here’s twenty-five” Frantz said, smiling widely “Buy yourself something nice, you little minx”.

 

She snatched the notes from his hand like a cobra, counted them quickly and then hid them inside her robe without as much as an “Arigato”. She gave him a curt little bow and then strode out of the messy bedroom, taking what little grace it had with her. Frantz stood there, rapt, for a second.

 

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch…”

 

Then he sniggered again, taking another swig of wine. These chink-chicks were difficult to handle, alright – he’d be happy to get back to the romp-a-fiver in the Mangle. Still, you had to give it to them – they ran a tight ship.

 

“Goddamn crazy gook-girls” he muttered amusedly as he clumsily pulled on his pants. Nevertheless, this day was going to be great – he could just feel it.

 

 ***

4.

 

Shizuko strode down Little Dragon Street with a purpose. The mercenaries on patrol were too tired to wolf-whistle or try to flirt a freebie out of her, and if they were two steps smarter they’d know why that’d be a bad idea anyway. Like any honest work you had to take the good with the bad, tough. It hadn’t been the worst she’d had – but these Germans were thoroughly unimaginative lovers. So dull. Luckily, the Colonel made up for it by proving exceedingly helpful for her other line of work.

 

Like most men the Colonel underestimated the fairer sex. Even her tried-and-tested, although woefully stereotypical, ‘hysterical oriental’-act worked wonders dissuading any suspicions he might have. She had done her homework. The Colonel was a predictable creature – with emphasis on the latter – just play according to his preconceptions and you’d be fine.

 

She could have killed him, naturally. Poison. Self-inflicted gunshot. Strangulation. But, then again, that might have disturbed the flow of business, and she really didn’t want to mess with the girls’ sudden influx of so easily-entertained customers. Besides, she wasn’t paid enough for killing. The intel would suffice.

 

One of the mercenaries stumbled drunkenly out the gambling hall. One of the “guards” stationed there for the owner’s “protection”, of course. Not that Daigo was owner in anything but name, anyway – although the Germans didn’t know that. She smirked faintly at him as she approached the entrance.

 

The bloodshot lieutenant smiled stupidly back at her. “Oh, erh - Guten abend, Madame!”

 

He was cute, but not her forte.

 

“Oh, let me get that for you, Madame!”

 

The young German threw himself at the door in front of her, trying to push two times before remembering which way the doors opened.

 

“Domo, lieutenant-kun” she whispered, shooting him a furtive side-eye glance as she passed.

“O-of course, Madame” he slurred “Eh, Auf *hic* Wiedersehen, Madame”. He quickly bowed in an attempt at social graces, and sobriety, stumbling slightly. They were so easily led she almost felt bad for them.

 

Lady Misaki really gave these ones too much credit.