“Then what happened after that?” Jerry asked as his leg bounced anxiously in response to Howard’s harrowing tale.

  Howard looked over towards his wife. She had stopped her desperate praying to descend into an uneasy, shifting sleep. “Mallory happened.”

  Jerry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Mallory’s power was a trump card only to be used in the event of facing off against insurmountable odds or Touched who couldn’t be stopped with lesser means—not a bunch of well-meaning, but dumbass civilians trying to play hero.

  There would certainly be consequences for the poor woman trying to save herself, one of her good friends, and her husband from being beaten to death by a crowd. During the telling of Howard’s story, Anthony had mentioned none of the victims of Mallory’s wrath had died, but several were in critical condition in the very same hospital they were currently in.

  “Well, what happens now?” Jerry asked everybody and nobody in particular.

  Anthony stood up and clapped his gloved hands together, drawing everybody’s attention to himself. “We do the sensible thing. We call it a day and see if any cameras, birdeye bots, or witnesses saw where Lee Wortles ran off to. Everybody here is dismissed as of today.”

  Jerry and Braxton gave their goodbyes to everybody, then left the hospital. When they returned home, Jerry read the burn-after-reading letter given to him by Mr. Moon. In it were vague instructions, an address to a house in New Chemeketa, and a catcaller number.

  “Alrighty then,” he said to himself. Jerry went to his home’s kitchen sink and produced his lighter. He set the letter ablaze and watched until the white paper blackened into ashes he washed down the sink. Jerry thought about having himself a quick drinking session, but decided not to. He needed his mind crystal clear for the dark sins he called to commit tonight.

  Sometime near 2200, Jerry called the catcaller number from the now burned letter. Nobody picked up like the letter said would happen. Forty-five or so minutes later, Jerry looked outside one of the front windows of his house. He saw a cheap, nondescript car with blacked out windows pulling into his driveway. Jerry kissed Braxton goodbye and left his home.

  The driver’s left side window slid down to reveal a familiar Shibananese face. Mr. Kirigami grinned at Jerry. “So you’re my dark passenger for tonight, huh? I can’t say that’s shocking based on what Mr. Moon tells me about you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I would say ‘goodnight and better blessings from the Twelve,’ but we both know there’s nothing that’s going to be good about tonight the Twelve would bless.”

  “I suppose so again.”

  “That’s the blackguard spirit we need! Now hop on in, friend. We got some work to do.”

  Jerry entered the car. When the journey towards the address in New Chemeketa started and they were several minutes on the road, Mr. Kirigami decided to strike up some light conversation.

  “How was work today?”

  “Like an outhouse you drunkenly slipped into. Shitty from top to bottom. None of us got anywhere with the case. I got into a bullshit argument about nothing that went nowhere. Mallory, Howard, and Noura ended up getting their asses beat so soundly in a supermarket, they ended up in the hospital. Mallory will definitely end up getting administrative leave and no offense to you, have internal affairs up her ass for hacking up some civilians. Oh, and to top it all off, the asshole they were chasing ended up getting away. So that’s how my fucking work was for me today.”

  Kirigami was quiet following Jerry’s rant. “I got a good saying for horrible days like these that beat us into the ground. It’s like the day decided to smoke some crisk, grab a bottle of chili-oil flavored lube, and sneak up on you with a strap-on covered in broken glass. I often tell people this to uplift their spirits, and what do they do? They give me the most quizzical looks and say nothing despite how true my words ring.”

  Jerry gave Mr. Kirigami a subtle side eye and said nothing. He thought about asking him if he was the one smoking crisk instead of the day, but a rare moment of politeness and exhaustion from the day’s earlier events had dulled his sharp tongue. Still, he silently wondered what was with the Triple I Division and being able to wrangle up the strangest bastards in Almandica in one country.

  They arrived in one of the city’s quieter, residential neighborhoods called Lepaupin. Little to no cars were in the streets. Nobody was around but stray cats in the process of scavenging from metal or plastic cans of garbage. Tall street lights of black iron casted large pools of yellow, buttery light on the cobblestone roads and concrete sidewalks below.

  “You ready for this?” Mr. Kirigami asked Jerry.

  “Not as if I or our victims of the night have a choice,” he said. “But before we do, I gotta ask you some important questions.”

  “As long as it’s not about any of my ex-wives, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Now, I know that it’s considered bad form and even dangerous for Touched like us to explain how our curses and powers work to one another, but I’m gonna need to know that right now so I can have an idea of what to expect if shit goes cattywampus in that house.”

  “Cattywampus? What a strange word that is.”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  Rather than answering immediately, it seemed that Kirigami was going the demonstration route. He pulled what looked like a black, perfectly straight line from his pocket, and showed it to Jerry.

  “See this?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Now see this.”

  One second, there was a black line in Mr. Kirigami’s hand. The next second, there was a large, fully-formed claw hammer. Jerry blinked in shock. He placed the hammer on Jerry’s lap and patted the tool.

  “That certainly wasn’t some cheap parlor trick. Explain.”

  “When it comes to my Touched ability, I have the power to fold myself or anything physical into smaller and smaller sizes, then reform them to full size as needed,” Mr. Kirigami said. “But when it comes to my curse, my skin burns easily. Very easily. Even a bad enough sunburn could incapacitate me.”

  “The Twelve strike me blind,” Jerry said. “That sounds like a mighty powerful ability indeed. No wonder you were able to become an internal affairs officer in the Triple I Division.”

  Mr. Kirigami nodded. “Now that I showed you mine, show me yours, friend.”

  “My power is honestly not that impressive, but gets the job done when paired with my specially acquired skills,” Jerry said. He felt great humility and a little jealousy over the flexibility and power of Kirigami’s power. “I barely feel pain like other people do, injuries that should kill full-grown men hardly phase me, and I would have to run about one hundred kilometers or more to even begin feeling tired.”

  “And your curse?”

  “Emotions like anxiety, rage, and anger hit me harder and faster than usual, and I also seem to bring the worst out of people who aren’t Touched. Then again, that just might be my personality. One of my few dear friends who tolerate me mostly out of necessity called me an ‘incorrigible bastard’ a few hours ago. I want to say he’s completely wrong about that, but…”

  “I fail to see why you speak so lowly of your powers even if the curse is quite intense,” Mr. Kirigami said. “Do you know the kind of things I would do to be able to wake up in the morning and not have my back and knees wage war on the rest of my body?”

  Jerry shrugged.

  “Let’s just say a lot.”

  Jerry and Mr. Kirigami looked towards the house they were parked outside of. It was one tallish row house in a series of five others. The four windows with blinds facing the street were glowing rectangles of light that needed to go out. Mr. Kirigami pressed a button on the center console of the car. A red light came alive over it.

  “Signal jammer is live,” Mr. Kirigami said. “When I leave this car, I’ll move to cut the power and snip some landlines. Your signal to break down the door and enter the residence will be when the lights go out. I won’t be able to help you for a few moments, but you’ll be able to hold it down without me, right?”

  Jerry nodded. “Right.”

  Mr. Kirigami pulled a few more black lines from his pocket. He unfolded them into a hammer for himself and two black ski masks. Mr. Kirigami wore his ski mask then handed the second one to Jerry. Once the pair made sure their nefarious facewear was fitted properly to conceal their identities, they wished each other the best of luck to give somebody a very unlucky night.

  Jerry watched as Mr. Kirigami exited the car and bolted towards the targeted rowhouse. He then turned right on the sidewalk to maneuver behind it. For a man even older than Jerry who complained about his knees and back waging war on his body, he moved with a shocking amount of refined celerity.

  Go gramps, go, Jerry sarcastically thought to distract himself from the rising anxiety bubbling in his chest. It didn’t work very well.

  Sweat formed and ran over Jerry’s occluded brow in rivulets. Nocturnal raids involving criminals was always nasty, dangerous, but ostensibly noble work. He remembered the fond memories he and Braxton made by putting several new holes in Bradley Birdshit. But to raid the home of two mostly harmless individuals whose only crime appeared to be being inconvenient to the interests of the Mendakian Union was objectively nastier work.

  In fact, this sinister nightmare of a situation reminded him of the bleak years nights where he and Braxton were contracted by the Stelle crime family of Mannahantank to “deal with” inconvenient individuals and act as Anthony’s full-time bodyguards.

  To Jerry, it felt evident that the only difference between a crime family and a government was simply who told him when to hurt others, how to hurt others, and why these others deserved to be hurt.

  The lights of the rowhouse went off and Jerry’s pseudo-philosophical musings on the nature of the state came to an anticlimactic end. He exited the car like the seats had caught fire and used that momentum to carry himself towards the wooden door of the rowhouse, which he effortlessly kicked in with one, mighty blow.

  Jerry ran into the dark rowhouse like its owners owed him late rent, and was treated to an alarming sight in the living room. As the letter said there would be, there were two people fumbling about blindly in the thick darkness of the rowhouse with weak emergency flashlights. Jerry identified these two people as Estilda and Lazlo Escandón, the true targets of the raid. However, what shocked Jerry to his core was the surprise guest appearance of a fifth character for this nocturnal tragedy.

  This fifth character was a young Native Zapotekan male. Short black hair, short of stature, but with big brown eyes wide with shock at the strange, masked man menacing his father and mother with a hammer. Or that’s what Jerry guessed to be the relationship here. Jerry had a strong feeling that when one found themself running into stranger’s homes with a claw hammer in one hand and nothing but bad intentions in the other, it was not exactly the best time or place for clarification questions.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Jerry and the young man regarded each other with mutually blank, hostile stares for a few moments, then slammed into each like territorial gorillas. They grappled, swore, and violently tore at one another’s clothing, filling the row house with their rising rage. The young man was deceptively strong for his height, almost as strong as his opponent, but lacked the proper skill or technique to overcome Jerry, who ultimately gained the upper hand by headbutting the young man in the mouth.

  When the young man staggered backwards in a bloody-mouthed daze, Jerry grabbed him by the neck, briefly lifted him up into the air, then slammed him down onto the coffaux table of the living room.

  Books, pens, pencils, and coffaux mugs flew to the floor. It was a small miracle to watch the young not only remain conscious, and capable of fighting. Then again, adrenaline made even mites into mammoths. This violent action set off Estilda and Lazlo.

  They attempted to rush Jerry, but he swung the claw hammer wildly at both parties, barely keeping them at bay. Lazlo made a particularly unlucky step towards Jerry, and was rewarded with a blow that fractured several of his fingers. Lazlo screamed in agony as he backed up, cowed alongside his wife.

  “That’s right!” Jerry roared. “Back up! Back up, I said, or I swear on the blood of the Twelve Saints I’ll do this little prick’s forehead in!”

  “Why are you doing this?” Estilda screeched. “Why are you in our home!”

  “I’ll rip your fucking head off if you hurt him!” Lazlo shouted. “I swear on the Twelve I will!”

  Jerry’s head swam with anxiety-inducing questions. Where the Vullen was Mr. Kirigami? Could he alone handle these three without being overrun? Was the man underneath his hand their son or somebody else important like that? Foolish as it was, Jerry decided to pursue the last question since it had the potential to give him actual answers.

  “See this guy over here I’m going to brain if you two don’t back down?” Jerry asked. “Is he your son or something?”

  “No,” Lazlo yelled. “That’s my brother’s son. My nephew, Rajinman. He’s only nineteen. You don’t need to hurt him, but if you do…”

  How about that, Jerry thought while Rajinman continued to wiggle furiously underneath this hand. I guess you can ask clarifying questions during a situation like this.

  “Just nineteen, huh?” Jerry asked. “I hope a growth spurt snatches the boy up before I snatch his soul, or you somehow talk his parents into feeding the shrimpy little bastard some cheeseburgers and HGH.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Rajinman muttered. “Saint Frank give me strength, I swear I could kick your ass in a fair fight!”

  “Bold statement to make when you’re the one with another man’s hand around your throat while also being within skull smashing distance.” Jerry pointed his hammer at the couch behind Estilda and Lazo. “You two, take a seat before I do something regrettable to him. Now!”

  “We’re not going to do that,” Lazlo said. “Who’s to say you just won’t kill all of us even if we do what you want from us?”

  “I actually don’t even want to hurt anyone in this household,” Jerry insisted. “But if you keep pushing it, I’ll push back and won’t like that one bit, man.”

  Lazlo took one step towards Jerry. This small movement inspired Raijinman to intensify his struggle. “Take that step back right now,” Jerry screamed, “or I swear I will beat this kid into such a deep vegetative state, you’ll want to chop him up and put him into a stew. Do not fuck with me right now!”

  “You might have gotten the jump on him and struck my hand with that hammer,” Lazlo said while taking another slow, cautious step towards Jerry. “But you don’t have the guts to do any real damage, or else you would’ve done so already!”

  “Is that so, huh? Then watch this!” Jerry called the man’s bluff with the utmost brutality by smashing his hammer into Rajinman’s right collarbone. The bone gave way and shattered with the ease of a porcelain teapot. Rajinman went incoherent with pain and rolled off the coffaux table, causing even more pain with his fall to the floor. Lazlo regretted his choice to challenge Jerry based on him instantly taking two step backs and pulling his wife closer to him.

  “Lazlo,” Estilda screamed. “Do something! Do anything! He’s killing your nephew!”

  But Lazo said and did nothing while his nephew moaned pitifully on the floor, just like Jerry wanted. Unconsciousness mercifully took Ranjiman away from the terror of the night.

  Mr. Kirigami burst through the front door without warning. Everybody in the row house save for Rajinman looked at him. Estilda screamed in terror at the sight of him.

  “Where the Vullen were you?” Jerry shouted. “I nearly lost control of the situation without you here to help me.”

  Mr. Kirigami looked at the state of the rowhouse and shook his head. “If this is what you call being in control of the situation, I would abhor seeing what a loss of control concerning the situation would look like.”

  “WHERE WERE YOU?” Jerry shouted.

  “No need for yelling at me,” Mr. Kirigami said. “A pack of stray dogs chased me around for a bit until I gave them the slip and ran back here.”

  Jerry inhaled, exhaled, and wished he could ash about ten cigarettes in a row. He was nowhere near physically exhausted, but rapidly approaching mental exhaustion from all that he needed to do tonight.

  “What are you two psychos doing in my—”

  “Shut up and sit down,” Jerry and Mr. Kirigami shouted at Lazlo together.

  Seeing that he was now outnumbered by two angry home invaders armed hammers, Lazlo made the rational choice of sitting down on the couch behind him and begging his wife to do the same. Jerry and Mr. Kirigami approached the pair, their hammers menacing, gleaming, and promising further violence.

  “Before I was so rudely interrupted by that foolish boy with more bravery than common sense in his head you call a nephew for some strange reason, ” Jerry started, “I actually didn’t come here with orders to hurt anybody, but to offer an ultimatum.”

  “About what?” Lazlo asked.

  Jerry pointed his hammer centimeters from Lazlo’s face, causing the man to wince. “I hate to be the blackguard to deliver such a low down, dastardly order, but I’m gonna need the sexual harassment lawsuit your wife has against Raddlegan O’Bashane dropped, or my friend and I will get to dropping you and your wife.”

  Lazlo rushed to his feet and screamed into Jerry’s face, “You and your friend are detestable pieces of shit! Do you have any idea what that scum did to my wife?”

  Jerry jabbed Lazlo in the stomach with his hammer rather than legitimize his rightful wrath with an answer. The surprise blow returned him to the couch, where Estilda screamed and comforted her beaten husband by holding him close to her. Lazlo looked like he was about to puke, but kept a brave face for his wife. Jerry saw the true love that glued the two together despite the horror he and Mr. Kirigami were inflicting on them, and bitterly wondered when these atrocities would end.

  “I have a deep understanding of where your anger and that little outburst originated from,” Jerry said. “But this really isn’t the time or place for panicking, shouting in my face, or the Twelve forbid such a terrible, misguided idea, attempting to negotiate. The only choice here is to drop the lawsuit.”

  “That is not happening,” Lazlo said. He moaned in pain as he straightened himself up, regaining a massive amount of his quickly fading dignity. “You and your thuggish friend over there can break every bone in my entire body, but neither of you can break the love and support I have for my wife.”

  “That would be an excellent line in one of those cheesy, feelgood, life-affirming movies they release in the summer,” Jerry said. “But this isn’t one of those movies. This is reality, an experience that has been as cheesy, feelgood, and life-affirming for me as the time one of my older brothers gave me the decapitated head of pig for my thirteenth birthday.”

  Mr. Kirigami stopped staring menacingly at Estilda and Lazlo to give Jerry a look of deep concern. “That’s a metaphor, right?”

  “See reason right now,” Jerry said to Lazlo while ignoring Mr. Kirigami’s question, “and this night can be just one big, bad nightmare you’ll forget about come morning.”

  “The only nightmare here is you,” Lazlo said. “And not only will I not forget this, I won’t talk my wife into dropping the lawsuit.”

  Jerry cleared the coffaux table of what little was left on it from the fight he had with Rajinman, then sat down on it to face Lazlo and Estilda. Those two, including Mr. Kirigami, regarded him with puzzled stares.

  “What are you doing?” Lazlo asked.

  “I want to have an honest dialogue,” Jerry insisted. “I want you to explain to my friend and I why we shouldn’t beat you, and I will explain why the beating might need to happen.”

  “Is this a sick joke?” Estilda asked. “Some kind of torture?”

  Jerry shook his head. “I’m not in the sick business of torturing people who I think don’t deserve it.” He looked at Mr. Kirigami. “Have a seat with me to talk to these two?”

  “I’ll pass on that liability,” he insisted. “I react better to things when I’m standing up because sometimes my back and knees have other plans.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We don’t deserve this because we are just normal, regular people doing our jobs,” Lazlo said. “But then some asshole decided to prey on my wife.”

  “But is that really true?” Jerry asked. “Now, I’m not saying your wife deserved the horrible things that were done to her, and I also think that bastards like Raddlegan O’Bashane should be the ones facing the hammers of my friends and I, but do you mind telling me where you and your wife work, Lazlo?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  “I already know where you two not only work, but as you can obviously see, live,” Jerry said. “But I want to hear you or your wife say it with your chests.”

  Lazlo exhaled. “My wife and I have both been employed by the Information Warfare Division for a decade. Our main concerns are—” Lazlo stopped speaking and gasped. His eyes glittered like he had finally put the pieces of a difficult puzzle together. “Wait a minute! I know what you’re trying to imply here.”

  “In my experience, IWD agents are known for their ability to suss out intentions once you give them enough information,” Mr. Kirigami said. “What conclusion have you arrived at, Lazlo?”

  “This psychotic, nephew-beating bastard of a man is trying to imply that since we both work with such a supposedly morally dubious division of the Mendakian Union, we deserve everything you and him are going to do to us tonight.”

  Jerry found himself moderately impressed. “Close, but not quite, Lazlo. I ask where you and your wife work not to justify the actions of my friends and I, but to frame things proper-like. You and your wife are people who have spent their careers inflicting untold violence without touching a blade or firing a gun, but seem utterly surprised that this violence could possibly one day find its way into your home? That is bizarre to me.”

  “Like you’re one to fucking talk,” Lazlo said. “You and your friend are the ones invading my home, beating my flesh and blood unconscious, sending my beloved wife into hysterics, and attempting to threaten us into dropping a rightful lawsuit. If the supposed violence we inflicted on people without a blade or a gun makes us acceptable targets for retribution, I would almost hate to see what violence is coming your way. Almost.”

  Jerry laughed and shook his head. “If the skeletons in my closet demanded a chunk of my flesh for every horrible thing I have done or said to other people, those bony bastards could throw a barbeque big enough to feed a thousand people. So when the Taxman and his big brother Death come to snatch me, I won’t really fight it. I won’t complain. I’ll simply just shrug these broad shoulders of mine and accept what was a long time coming.”

  “I guess it's good that you're so at peace with the ramifications of your lifestyle,” Lazlo said.

  “Not really, just how it is,” Jerry said. “Speaking of ramifications, will you give me your word that you and your wife will drop the lawsuit? I honestly don’t mind doing it, but I’d really, really don’t want to go home tonight knowing I left a man beaten, bloody, and half-conscious in front of his dear wife.”

  “I’ll tell you my answer, but I’m going to need you to lean closer for you to hear it.”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend this,” Mr. Kirigami said. “He might try something tricky.”

  “If he tries any tricks, I’ll show him a few more impressive ones.”

  Jerry leaned his ear in towards Lazlo, who whispered, “Fuck you.”

  “Just as I expected,” Jerry said while he leaned away from him and stood up. “Time to put some work in, I suppose.” Jerry tilted his head towards Kirigami. “You get his wife to watch and I get him for the beating.”

  Mr. Kirigami nodded. Jerry seized Lazlo and ripped him out of his wife’s protective arms while Kirigami seized her. He forced her to stand, painfully folding her arms behind her back, so she watched what was about to happen to her husband.

  Jerry tossed Lazlo to the rug near Rajinman with such vicious force, he received long streaks of friction burns up his arms and hands, and woke his nephew. Rajinman moaned and pleaded for Jerry to not harm his uncle, but he was sick of hearing anybody in the home out anymore. Though the initial invasion of the house was thrilling in a way that made Jerry a little sick, the situation turned into just another session of the same shit meeting a different night where somebody who possibly deserved violence was definitely getting beaten.

  While Mr. Kirigami held Estilda, she screamed for Jerry to stop assaulting her helpless husband. He refused to listen or even acknowledge her presence. Jerry used a fluid combination of his hands, the hammer, and his feet to ravage Lazlo. Since Jerry was skilled in the fine, thuggish art of delivering beatings meant more to terrorize and brutalize rather than cripple or kill, he avoided striking Lazlo’s sensitive areas to focus more on his shins, shoulders, back, and limbs.

  Jerry finished the dehumanizing beatdown sooner than instructed by Mr. Moon’s letter because he had no true personal hatred against Lazlo, leaving the man well tenderized, bruised, and curled into a fetal position of absolute agony. It was Jerry’s turn to lean in towards Lazlo and whisper.

  “This first and hopefully last meeting of ours was the suggestion. If there is a second one, that meeting will be the order. Now smarten the fuck up and do the wise thing, Laz.”

  Mr. Kirigami released Estilda. She rushed to the floor to comfort Lazlo. Estilda cried incoherently, cradling Lazlo. He bled heavily from his nose and possessed a dazed look in his eyes that suggested he barely knew where or who he was right now.

  Jerry and Mr. Kirigami watched the two for some time, then left the scene of their crime a few moments later.