Episode II - Mutual Benefit

The four men stepped from the bomb squad’s van and into the street in front of the the Winchester. The bar was a contrast of neon and dull brick, the lights flickering for dominance then fading away again to dull. Inside was not much different, flickering of spirits within bland shells. A bar tender wiped down his bar lethargically, and watched with dumb anticipation as a man bought a woman at the bar a drink. Another woman sat alone and smoked at the bar. Six other women had pulled up chairs to a high table to lean in and chatter like schoolgirls, their presence being some of the only life the smoke heavy air birthed. In the corner booth an off-duty cop sat with his wife and a friend couple nibbling on chips and chicken wings. Slow mandolin plucks through the air with an Italian timbre and seems never to push thoroughly through the smoke. An Italian man hair pomaded back slumps drunkenly against a jukebox, paying for the same song each time it stops. A group of men play a game of pool while others watching lean against the wall and collect bets.

“That man there,” Salomone whispers, “against the wall. That’s Zizza Medici, we have close mutual friends.”

Eli eyes him attentively and nods slowly, looking for underlying meaning, while Graham and Richard head for the bar. Richard takes a vodka while Graham sidles up nest to the lone woman and begins a conversation. Salomone arrives at the jukebox as the song ends and places a coin in the slot.

“How are you friend?” Salomone asks.

“Oh, wonderful. Peashy. You axe me dat, later, no?” His head rolls limply about his neck and he nods slightly to the tempo of the music.

“Well, I need information now,” Salomone lift his shirt to reveal the marking.

“Shite,” Zizza murmurs, “Salomone, wathca need?”

“What do you know about ‘the man that opened Hell’?” Salmomone gripped Zizza’s chin to keep eye contact.

“Hell? The whole worldsh going to hell!” He raised his voice as if to toast the occasion and was indeed reciprocated by Richard with an elevation of his glass. “I tink, your axing the wrong queshions, friend.”

“I need to know.”

Zizza swayed his head sleepily to the music. “Mushics bout the only thing makes shense any more.”

“Zizza.”

“Jacob Aasimov, he’z your man,” he smiled dopily at Salomone, “Talk to the Don about ’im.”

“Aasimov. Thank you Zizza.” Salomone kissed Zizza on the forehead and turned to leave.

“ ’Eh, Salomone, when you sees the Don, tell him I di’int mean to, I di’int mean to, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He hung his head heavy with tears, as Salomone walked to collect the rest of the team. “Tell ‘im! Zizza says ‘is sorry! Tell ‘im, Salomone, tell ‘im!”

The crack of the pool balls had ceased. Turning around, Salomone met an impressively large man with his nose blacked out by tattoos. He brandished his pool cue like a weapon, while two men covered his flanks, one with a pistol, another with a knife.

“Askin’ the wrong questions, methinks,” the man says punctuated by his pool cue tapping his hand. “Whatca need to know about Aasimov?”

“Don’t think he needs to know nothing,” the knifeman smiles broadly to say, his nose also blacked by tattoo. Salomone looks calmly over the group and smiles with a big flash of white teeth and slowly draws his gun. Eli raises from his seat at the bar, and Graham puts an apologetic hand on the woman he was sitting with as he turns around to watch and stiffens for action.

“Gentlemen, this is so kind of you to humor me in my old age.” Salomone reached across his belly with his free arm as he gestured loosely with his gun arm. “You see I’ve been really stressed lately, and I just haven’t had a good time take out some of that aggression with a few easy targets.” He raised his shirt revealing the alchemical marking, his identity.

“Shit!” The leader exclaimed, and fell back against the other two grunts, who went scrambling for the door with cries of “Salomone!”

Silence followed the gangs scuffling away until Graham stood from his chair and said, “Alright, resume people.” Eli motioned for him to come over to Salomone. Graham nodded and left with a quick nuzzling of the woman’s chin before raising completely, she grabbed his arm and jotted down her phone number.

“Call me when your done with this manhunt,” she said, more professionally than attractively.

Salomone took the wheel as the other men entered the car. Richard slowly entered the vehicle following the other three men and sat in the back with his head leaned against the side, dreaming of the snows of Russia and the savannahs of Africa, a warmth coursing through his veins.

“So, what’d we get?” Graham asked with a casual gesture but an eager manner.

“A name: Jacob Aasimov,” Salomone said into the rear view mirror.

“A name and we move on?”

“A name, and we ask the Don,” Salomone said casually.

“What the hell! You’re mafia?”

“I have friends, Graham. And it seems now they’re coming in handy.” Silence, then drove the car through the night as the clouds burst then mellowed in the dusk light on a drive through the Illinois countryside. Salomone drove the car with the intense focus of a man who cares little for the task but much for avoiding everything outside of it. Eli rest with his head against the window letting the cool air flood his forehead. The backseat held Graham who was sticking cards to the roof by changing their gravitational pull and having them fall upward, and Richard whose drunken state had him slumped smilingly against the side of the bomb squad van.

An hour into the drive Eli suddenly snaps up from a car ride dream. His eyes wide and otherworldly, he so startles Salomone that the car is driven into off the road and parked while Eli drinks heavily from the air. Graham leans forward with concern, “What is it, Eli?”

Eli could not speak through so dry a mouth so instead waved his hand in the air which rippled and darkened. When the air subsided all the men could see was an event that had been, or would, or could never be. It was a dark room, smelling of damp cement and cool confinement.

A man took a drag of his cigarette angrily yet with contemplation. He stared into the darkest corner of the room, something stared back. The ember light of his smoke danced steadily across his sharp brow. Smoke hangs about his shaven head. He breathed out a thick cloud not from a nose but from two holes in his face not unlike those of a skull. He took his cigarette in two fingers and stared again into the blackest corner of the room. His face twisting viciously he laughs silently, a shaking of his shoulders and irregular puffs of smoke. He mutters into the corner, “Sonovabitch.” He seemed to be in an internal debate.

Hurried footsteps bring a lanky man into the room, opening a chipped white door, and being unaccustomed to the darkness flips the switch to turn on the singular naked hanging light the room was allowed. No sooner had the light come on, than had the skull-faced man yanked the light to the ground. Everything sparked blue then developed light a reverse picture into black.

“Sir…” the shaking and startled man started. And that was all Eli had seen.


A few hours passed and the men arrived at a colossal gothic mansion. Tall and arching spires, stone and solid turrets, jagged and beautiful windows, all within this home. The van pulled into the circular drive. Two men stood at the door, both were in suits, wore dark glasses and were equipped with head set radios. Eli phlegmatically exited the car and walked behind Salomone whose gait was that of a man who might own the mansion. Graham fidgeted with his deck of cards as Richard stumbled to the doorstep.

Stepping swiftly forward, Salomone’s approach to the door was halted suddenly by the arm of one of the security guards. Spinning madly to meet him, Salomone raised a hand as if to strike him. “Vaffanculo!”


The second guard’s hand hovered nervously about the offenders’ shoulders, “Bobby,” a deep yet shaking voice spoke, “this is Salomone.” The man then turned to Salomone, “Go on ahead sir, you know you’re always welcome here.”

“At least I know that,” Salomone popped his arm downward to shake his sleeve back into position and threw open the door while saying, “These men are with me.”

Graham’s indignant disinterest with the mansion faded as his eyes wandered within it. The place was of an earthy and wooden quality that seemed to have absorbed and nursed the a cigar smoke aroma that alienated the place into a realm of wonder. Halls and rooms formed a labyrinth of dining, sleeping, socializing. Guests could be seen in all directions, yet still one felt sole and alone in the immensity of the manor. Despite its extensive guest list the place was kept monastically quite by the enormous space and the sense of fragile antiquity.

Marching triumphantly through the halls Salomone lead the men into a large chamber much like the throne room of a king, the Don upon the throne. The Don was a large man with several chins to speak of and an expensive suit with the bowtie loose and the shirt unbuttoned half way down his chest. His eyes were sharp and his hair was silver and slicked back, he quietly excused a cuddling broad from his lap with a large and powerful hand as Salomone near kicked open the door and the people of the court fell silent.

“Salomone, you know I don’t like being disturbed in my chamber,” he spoke gesturing for his cigars at the time.

“Forgive me, Don Medici. But I need a favor,” Salomone said approaching and kissing the Don’s ring. Graham and Richard nervously hung by the door, and had not even meant to enter but had been sucked in by the powerful charisma that the Don possessed and the door shut behind.

Looking around, Graham elbowed Richard and asked, “Where’s Eli?” Richard, squinting and smiling, shrugged his shoulders.

In fact, Eli was in a hall admiring a saber that the Don had hung upon the wall. It was a beautiful craft of silver and gold. His hand made a motion towards it, when he heard footsteps and froze there in an admiring and appraising manner. When the guest had passed Eli took the sword and tied its baldric around his waist. Drawing the sword, Eli noticed the fine condition of the blade and the meticulous care it must receive. Balancing it on two fingers, Eli smiled widely and sheathed the sword again. However, he then felt something wrong the blade hummed violently within Eli's head.

Eli touched the sword lightly and as he did his eyes flew back into his head leaving only the whites exposed. His head moved back and forth as if reading an invisible page written in the clouds. When he had finished his eyes rolled back forward and he smiled brightly at the sword. He had the next chapter of the story; he would have to tell the others.

“Sir…” the shaking and started. The ember turned to look at the grunt. “Sir,” the man stuttered again, “Some men have been asking about you. About you and… and well, that corner.” Chills rose even as he said it. It was as if he was a child who felt that when his mind dwelt on monsters, he was attacked.

The smoking man smiled, “Have they met Helslocke?”

The shaking man seemed to believe he misheard the other, “Um, we’re not sure. We haven’t seen Helslocke since the last council you called.”

The smoking man’s head twitched to the grunt. “John’s gone rogue!?” He puffed his cigarette violently, illuminating the skull visage of his face.

“Ah, sir, we just haven’t heard from him is all. I—I can send for Chesir to arrange for his return.”

“No!” the boss snapped, “I want Bactum.” He smiled wickedly, victoriously into the corner. “I want a mess.”

“Sir!” The grunt answered as he scrambled up what became stairs after enough falling and grasping at air in the dark.

The skull faced man stared into the corner long after the door slammed shut and at length said, “How do you like that, bastard?” He flicked his cigarette away and began to light another. “Chaos?” He spoke to the corner.

Eli snapped conscious, he would tell the others of this in the car.


With a cigar lit and now with a tool to gesture, the Don spoke to Salomone, “You have friends now, Salomone?” He said pointing at the two men.

“Why?” Salomone’s back bristled.

“Makes me nervous. You never had friends before. Makes me as nervous as those cops you talk to,” the Don’s voice rose to a passion then fell with a heavy exhalation.

“These men need to know how to find Aasimov,” Salomone spoke and it became clear to Graham then that Salomone must have already known this name.

“Hell. Aasimov?” The Don sank back in his seat deflated, “Your in deep shit now.”

“Word has it he has a new weapon,” Salomone spoke from his gut.

Taking a breath into his massive chest the Don shook his head. “Salomone, last report I heard of Aasimov had to do with an old factory. I sent a man to investigate and haven’t heard of them since. I—” he paused his head ticking and his mouth moving, “I need a favor as well.”

“Name it,” Salomone said to a jump from Graham.

“My nephew,” the Don paused with sadness tainting his face. “My nephew, Guido, I sent him. I need you to get him back. Last we heard of him was in this old anti-biotic lab four hours from here. Frankie can get you a map.”

Salomone looked solemnly at the don then reached into his coat pocket to retrieve a cigar and waved it as a baton as he spoke, “I won’t smoke again, until Guido and I smoke with you.”

The Don nodded as the silence built, he broke eye contact and began looking about the room uncharacteristically uncertain. Salomone turned to leave and Graham and Richard went straight for the door. “Oh, Don Medici, I spoke with Zizza, he says that he’s sorry.”

The Don nodded firmly and finally, “Thank you,” and was silent till Salomone reached the door.

“Salomone!” the Don suddenly spat. The three men turned to face the big man and as they did he spoke again, “Wassa matta with you? Niether you two’s name’s Salomone, niether of you have a dreg of Italian blood!” Graham hovered between an acquiescent fist and a salute and then turned hurriedly to the door as Richard followed silently behind. Salomone came right to the Don’s seat at the boss’s gesture.

“Listen, Salomone, there’ve been whispers of a man working with Aasimov. I believe you know him, a man named Darius.” Salomone leaned back with surprise and hate combating in his eyes and said nothing. The Don placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and said, “Look, I have a gift. You know Slims, my cousin? He’s ready to keep our pact.” Salomone looked up suddenly and his eyes flared with excitement.

A tall, muscular and square Italian man in a trench coat pushed past Richard and Graham who were standing silently watching Eli mumbled to himself about the sword. “Come one, we’re leaving,” he said. Graham and Richard looked at each other confusedly.

“Whersh Shalomone?” Richard asked with a comically raised brow. They noticed now that at some point Richard had slipped away and was now wearing the Don's plus-sized satin red robe and was clinking about as if he had bottles stuffed into the pockets.

“Come on, dumbass, I am Salomone,” he said, craning his head to show a swirling symbol of star tissue blooming out of a bullet wound nick to the side of the neck.

Eli suddenly stirred, “Wait, what? What happened?”

“I’ll tell you in the car.”