Famine was sitting in a room, his chair was wooden behind an oak table with another chair opposite— the lights dimmed, but an array of trophies and awards sealed behind Famine in a frame irritated the room. He leaned forward— beside him a grandfather clock chimed, his ghastly aura petrifying the desk as he looked at his hand.
He twinkled with them, his eyes sharply on the jewellery— the signet rings as he opened and closed his palm. A pack of cigarettes alongside a lighter as he released, he gently unravelled the casing; putting the blunt to his mouth, gently as he began to smoke.
The flame from the lighter still burning on the desk, as it lightened the room, revealing a shadow at the timber door ahead of the Boss. The lighter’s flame faded…
“Father Hawkle.” The shadow somberly spoke, walking forward toward the Gangster.
“Halt.” Famine’s dry lips opened, causing the shadow to stop moving. He lifted up one of his crooked fingers, clawing against the air. His jagged fingers flickered the air, creating a burning light out of existence. Shaped in the silhoutte of a weighing scale.
Illuminating the tall figure’s face.
A brown-skinned young man— no teenager, he had an auburn afro. Dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, oxford shoes tapping against the creaky oak flooring. The teen’s baby blue eyes glinted, his mouth gasped as he saw the light.
“Le Mariele! The Black Horse!”
“Yes. I am.” Famine waved his hand off, dissipating the light. He sighed before his eye sockets’s focused on the boy. “Your name?”
“I am Leron.” The boy rubbed his eyes, smirking.
“I didn’t tell you to laugh, boy.” Famine itched his neck, “You came here for to speak to the ‘Third Seal’.”
“I’ll get to the point.” Leron brushed off his suit, staring back at Famine. “I want to work.”
“Work? You another kid who’s too busy trying to find loopholes than win the real way?”
“Another kid? You not worried about that— you can sell drugs anywhere in this fucking realm and nobody would bat an eye!”
“Language kid.” Famine flicked the cigarrete bud out of his mouth— it flung onto to the floor before being squished by the Ghoul’s foot.
“Stop calling me kid, I’d fuck you up.”
“What do you want? I do hardware—” Famine flung his arms out to the room, “Only reason I got this is because I got lucky with the Lord and my brain-power.”
“Everyone knows you are ‘The Black Horse’. You even admitted it.”
“Did I?” Famine leaned forward into Leron’s face— an ugly grin on his lips. “Unless you’ve gotten true video evidence that would ever played in court against God’s advisor.
You should leave. I don’t hurt cops— or kids.”
“Cops?” Leron flinched.
“Listen, listen. Listen.” Famine wagged his finger, “Being a gangster is beyond your control— it’s something that you become from necessisty not willingness. But when you make it as one, you become the best there is. Some may say that being a successful gangster is better than being God.
I say;
It’s healthy competition, one that every hobby has.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Problem is, this is not a hobby. It’s a lifestyle.”
“So you do confess?” Leron facepalmed.
Famine sniggered, “I wouldn’t confess if I knew you’d never leave the room.”
“But you don’t hurt kids— or cops.”
“Right, I won’t make an exception this time either. A boss’s word is key.” Famine cupped his mouth. Shouting.
“What are you—”
“HEY BUDDY! YOU BETTER CLEAN THIS MESS OR I’LL BRING YOU IN!”
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Leron snapped around as the door barged open, a silhoutte holding air— shaped as if it was a shotgun.
BLAST!
Leron hit the floor, unconscious, blood pouring from the side of his stomach.
“Hey, I told you.” Famine leaned forward, smirking. “Clean the mess— not leave one. It’s as if you want me to return you back to the Lord.
You better be thankful of our friendship! Also thankful to Medea for even constructing those phantasams.”
The silhouette dropped the wraith-shotgun on Leron’s skull. It crushed until the head burst.
“What’s wrong with you! Hell, I knew you were ruthless but honestly—”
“Sorry to interrupt you ‘Le Mariele’ but I don’t work good under nagging.” The silhoutte snagged a cigarrete off the table, alongside a lighter.
Placing it against their skull, illuminating their face.
Lichness.
The Lich was dressed in a pitch-black tuxedo, his black pointed shoes steadied on the ground.
Famine sniggered, “You know, every day I consider reporting you. But you’re a better underboss than a Puck.”
“Sometimes I get that itch of silencing those capos.” Lichness snarked, beginning to walk back.
“You should remain in the shadows, don’t let your silhoutte be illuminated in no lights. Otherwise, you’ll be dead for certain.”
Lichness leaned his head back, smiling. “Can you really kill an undead Lich?”
“Medea can make it happen.” Famine laid back into his chair, shoes on the desk. “But as for production, we just lost one of our biggest consumers.”
“Boss.” Lichness returned to the desk, laying his hands on the table. “Don’t speak like that.”
“You’re right. I run everything. The universe is mine.” Famine wiped his brow. “Still sucks Medea doesn’t take this seriously. Floria collapsing nuked my profit margins. Even Saints, Angels, Seraphim— all my customers gone.”
“Regarding those three groups,” Lichness smiled, “They are going to Medea’s castle— after losing a fight against Ivory.”
“Any casualties? I’d expect Ivory winning but did he leave any corpses?”
“Surprisingly no.”
Famine’s eyes widened, “He spared them?”
“I guess Medea wants to torture them too.” Lichness chuckled, “That one person in Floria is dead though, right?”
“Drago Solomon. Don’t worry. Not even worms survive erasure. After all the shit he’s done, he’s lucky I didn’t get my hands on him.”
“Sorry for bringing him up Sir.”
“Sir? Haven’t heard Sir in a while..”
“That’s what Jonah used to call you.” Lichness patted his shoulder, “Jonah…”
“Don’t sob, he’d be proud of you.” Famine smiled, “You survived all this time in Ostra— defeated Ozymandias and now rose the ranks to an Underboss in less than a couple days.”
“Adamant there was no bias to it?”
“Well, you found out that all of the consiglieres were traitors so…”
“Speaking of.” Lichness looked up to the ceiling, “We use these terms, but where do they even come from?”
“Elaborate further.”
“Ozymandias tried to kill me because I discovered a distortion… about the Old World.”
Famine went still.
“The Old World,” he echoed.
“You must know something. More than the historians Medea employs.”
“Knowledge of that era isn’t forbidden,” Famine muttered. “But it is… delicate.”
“What happened to Earth? Why did the world become this?”
Famine paced behind the desk.
“I don’t know everything,” he said. “But I know enough.”
Lichness bowed his head. “I’ll take anything. Even a crumb.”
“Don’t beg,” Famine snapped. “You’re better than that.”
Silence stretched.
“Fine,” Famine said. “I’ll talk.
All I know is that the Old World was real reality. But due to a war, described as ‘World War Three’.
The Old World was real. Our real reality. It ended in a war— ‘World War Three’. The kind that kills the universe with it. I don’t know how the chain reaction happened. But it happened. Everything collapsed.
Later— not instantly— God remade everything. But remnants of the Old World linger. Enough to keep this place functioning.
That’s how I traced Roxanne Martinez’s name. I compared it with old references from Medea’s archives. Her birthplace lined up with fragments of the fragmented continents. But the realms dwarf Earth’s scale. Mapping them is pointless.
It was a hobby. Illegal because knowledge leaks cause revolt. And revolt destroys economy. Especially drug economy.
But Lichness… as your brother… that’s all I know.”
“So Medea’s the one filling libraries?”
“No idea how they spread across realms, but yes. Maybe it’s reality distortion. Someone strong ripping holes into universes and stealing things. I admire the dedication.”
Lichness turned to the door.
“Leaving already? I assume you’re busy.”
He grinned, opened the door, and slipped out, leaving the Ghoul in darkness.
