From: torquemada@inquisition.spanish.org
Subject: A Tale of Morgue, Part 1
Date: 19 Mar 1994 18:55:59 GMT

A TALE OF MORGUE, PART 1
	Copyright March, 18 1994 by Lars Ericson



	The two concealed figures hid under the burnt out van motionless,
waiting. The night was a cold October night, the kind of night that Moscow
is famous for -- enveloped in fog and smelling of acidic pollution. Rumor
has it that people have disappeared in this fog, only to have their bodies
found the next day gnawed and mangled. That's one of the many reasons that
only the insane and the courageous ventured out at night, especially in
the Stratsky Enclave.
	The Stratsky Enclave was in effect a massive prison. A giant
thirty foot wall surrounded this neighborhood, not for its own protection,
but for the protection of the suburban middle class and the corps that
dwelled outside. Luckily Morgue didn't live here. Granted, he lived in a
run down, post-industrial slum, but it was no Stratsky Enclave.
	"You think he's going to show?" whispered the small form next to
Morgue.
	"Yes, he'll show. He's got to show."
	"But, we've been waiting here for hours and --"
	The dwarf's sentenced was cut off by Morgue's hand clamping over
his mouth. The sound of an electric motor could be heard down the street,
slowly getting closer. The dense, oil-black fog shrouded the bike's
appearance until it was a mere twenty meters away. The bike was a beat-up
Romanian import, some unnamed electric city bike. The rider was a big
human, wearing a thick jacket that looked like a collage of fur and
leather. The man got off the bike and picked it up as he walked up the
apartment steps. He was at least 2 meters tall and was bald. Morgue would
have mistaken him for an ork if he hadn't already known otherwise.
	The man got to the front door and unlocked the thick padlock
before disappearing inside.
	"Let's go."
	Morgue and the dwarf quietly slipped out from under the wrecked
van and briskly walked across the street and into an alleyway that was
adjacent to the apartment building. The night was eerily quiet, like the
city suddenly held its breath anticipating.
	Inside the alleyway, Morgue stopped and peer out into the street
to see if anyone had seen them. Although no average person would be
walking these streets at three in the morning, it was bets to be safe.
	"Check the door, Boris. It should be open," whispered Morgue.
	The dwarf, who was wearing a dark jeans jacket and thick wool
pants jogged over to the iron door at the end of the alleyway. This alley
was a deadend, with a stone wall blocking its entrance into the next
street. The rusted iron door was at the very end.
	"It's fraggin' locked. I thought you paid that drekhead of a clerk
fifty nuyen. That's a hell of a lot of money to rip us off," whispered
Boris violently, cursing to himself under his breath.
	"Don't worry about it. I had expected as much."
	Morgue walked over to the iron door, producing a small cardboard
box from inside his jacket.
	"Watch the street while I get this open."
	Morgue took out a pair of angled metal probes and started working
on the locked door. Within a minute, he heard a reassuring click as the
tumblers fell into place.
	He opened the door slowly, trying to avoid the rusty door from
creaking. Morgue opened it halfway and slipped inside, with Boris
following. The door opened into a rancid-smelling stairway that lead up.
It was made of pitted concrete, and garbage was scattered about, including
a rotting corpse of a dog.
	Morgue covered his mouth with his arm, shielding himself from the
awful stench that wafted up from the floor around him. Boris gasped as he
stepped into the stairwell, but quickly recovered. Morgue gave him an icy
stare, indicating the importance of silence. The pair started up the
stairs slowly, hoping to make as little sound as possible.
	Morgue was like a wraith floating up the stairs. He had always
prided himself on his ability to sneak around silently. Boris, on the
other hand, was finding it hard to keep his soft boots from echo up and
down the stairwell.
	Morgue passed several landings with doors on them, not stopping to
look or listen at any of them. He knew where he was going, and so did
Boris. A soft click sounded from behind Morgue. Glancing back, Morgue saw
Boris clutching a small black semiautomatic pistol. An older Glock model
that Dragoon was hocking last week. I guess he sold to at least one
customer, thought Morgue.
	"Now don't forget, we aren't going in blazin'. It's stealth right
up to his tired sleeping body, two slashes, and we're out the way we
came," said Morgue sternly. Boris nodded in comprehension. There was going
to be a resolution tonight, that was for sure.
	"Seventh floor," stated Boris quietly. Morgue  felt the hard
casing of the retractable forearm snapblades the lay under his right
sleeve. This weapon would have cost him a bundle if he hadn't gotten them
off the body of a dead Mafia soldier. Recycling is good for the
environment.
	Morgue slowly opened the hard slate-grey plastic door. The door
opened into a small dark hallway. Whatever lights were supposed to keep
the devil rats away had been smashed out. Garbage lay scattered about the
floor-- glass, newspaper, styrofoam containers. About midway down the
hallway, on the right-hand side, a rusty elevator door could be partially
seen. Moonlight from a window at the other end of the hallway gave some
semblance of illumination.
	Morgue headed down the hallway, with Boris close behind him. Life
was so much less complicated last week. Ulav Petrovinich is sleeping on
his sweat-stained mattress, using a thick second-hand synthetic bearskin
rug to keep himself warm, less than twenty meters away, thought Morgue.
Ulav is...was...one of the leaders of the gang known as the Kroniks --
Morgue's gang. Morgue would have never thought he was going to be tip
toeing down a hallway intent on assassinating his own gang boss, that is
he hadn't found out. Morgue had made the mistake of pissing off Ulav
several times, not enough to make him want to kill Morgue, but just
enough. It always happened when Ulav had some lame, dangerous plan, that
Morgue argued against. After the first couple times that Morgue's
suggestions started saving lives, other members would choose his plans
over Ulav any day. I guess Ulav just couldn't take someone being better
than he is, thought Morgue.
	It was just last Tuesday that Morgue overheard Ulav tell his
girlfriend that he was going to murder the local Mafia Capo and frame
Morgue for it. When the Mafia got angry, they could then blame Morgue's
unsanctioned actions and hand over his dead body. That's what he thought.
Andrea never saw him coming, and neither will he.
	Boris was a good friend, thought Morgue. He knew that Boris would
help. Ever since the warehouse incident two years ago, Boris had been a
loyal friend. He was also good with a gun.
	Morgue stopped at Ulav's apartment door, pausing to take in the
sounds all around him. Boris was a bit edgy, it showed in the way that he
glanced back and forth constantly. The letter "D" was nailed to the door
crooked and fog stains streaked across the bottom of the door. Even on the
seventh floor, the acidic fog could get inside and not leave for days.
	Morgue produced lock picks from inside his jacket. Ten seconds
later, the twenty year-old lock clicked open. Morgue flexed his forearm
muscles as two parallel blades of blackened steel slid out silently. The
muffled activation mechanism had been Morgue's own design. Stealth at all
costs.
	The pair entered the apartment quietly, scanning the open living
room from enemies. The apartment was practically bare, a torn couch sat in
front of a smashed in trideo set. A counter the left provided a view into
the small kitchenette, while a door the left was closed.
	Inside the adjacent room was the large form of Ulav sleeping on a
mattress on the floor. A door in one corner was open, leading into what
could be called a bathroom, while a dresser stood at the foot of the
mattress.
	Morgue pointed to Ulav, his fingers mocking a gun, and then made
his hand into a fist. Boris stood off to the side of the mattress,
pointing the Glock a Ulav, while Morgue crept up the mattress. Morgue
crouched right next to Ulav's unconscious head and whispered his name.
	The form stirred slowly, a grumbling escaping from his mouth.
	"Have a nice life...in Hell," whispered Morgue as he stabbed his
forearm blades into Ulav's eyes as hard as he could. Ulav gasped loudly
and then was still. The problem had been solved. Ulav was to be yet
another victim of urban violence. He should really learn to lock his door.
	"Drek, Morgue. Have you ever had a conscience?" muttered Boris.
	"Consciences only hinder creativity,"answered Morgue with a cold
smile.



--
Lars M Ericson: Professional Vagabond  <lericson@gac.edu>
Team Garotte, Founding Member
Registered Member of a Decadent Society

"I'm scared of the darkness in the light...I scare my subjects 'cause I
know I'm right.."
	--  Ministry, "Burning Inside"