"Terror Reign of the Pudge"
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dochermes"Terror Reign of the Pudge"
8/19-8/24/1992
I.
It had been two days since the South Street Seaport Massacre. At dawn, the bodies of seventeen gangsters had been discovered piled up behind a fish market. Most had been shot with semi-automatic fire, but four had been killed by having their heads crushed, or in one case, pulled off entirely. They were all members of the Irish gang headed by the Doherty Cousins, and now the area they had formerly controlled had new thugs continuing the same brutal extortion and rackets. These usurpers were a mixed crew of different races and nationalties, something rare in the badlands, united only by their leader... the Pudge.
In his office at the former KDF headquarters on 38th Street, Jeremy Bane read every detail in the papers and received dozens of phone calls from his network of researchers. The underworld was in an uproar such as had not been seen since the 1970s. The Dire Wolf normally didn't operate against normal Human crime, but the Pudge was bizarre and vicious enough to catch his interest. He was described as monstrous, bigger than a Sumo, heartless and violent. Curious, Bane began to gather information and even tentatively plan what to do if he tangled with this brute.
At just before noon, Bane hung up the phone and swung his swivel chair around to get up from behind his desk. With his enhanced metabolism, he was hyper and restless at the best of times. He began to pace his office, checking on the creatures from Ulgor in the fish tank, straightening the magazines on the coffee table, pulling the heavy curtains aside to glare out at a muggy stagnant day. He had begun to think the days of the great villains were history now. Wu Lung, Karl Eldritch, John Grim and the others of their rank were dead or hiding. But this new threat certainly seemed imposing enough. A month before the mass killing at South Street, six leaders of a Jamaican drug ring had been found in the same condition, most of them beaten into almost unrecognizable pulp, and the next day, agents of the Pudge stepped in. This attempted consolidation of the rackets was nothing new, but it seldom got this far before fragmenting again.
Bane decided to go out and stir things up. He was so recognizable, a tall gaunt man with pale grey eyes who dressed all in black, that his presence on the streets might itself send a message. As always, he wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes and the matched silver daggers where sheathed on his forearms. Usually, he carried one of the KDF silent anesthetic dart guns but he thought about the Pudge and reconsidered. He switched for his long-barrelled Smith & Wesson .38 revolver and examined it closely before holstering. Suddenly eager, he went down to the underground garage barely big enough to hold two cars. Cindy had taken the Buick Regal upstate to Albany, so that left the Ford Mustang for him. Fine. He had not extensively reworked the cars, just adding some Kevlar panels and hidden compartments for various weapons. Bane rolled up the concrete ramp with its sharp turn at the top, went out the alley and pulled out onto Lexington Avenue. Now he abruptly felt alive.
Heading south, he kept turning over what he had heard about the Pudge. Even taking exaggeration into consideration, the man seemed to on the borderline of Human, maybe over it. At Fulton Street, he found a parking spot and wandered through the area which would always smell like fish. There was the stained cinder block building with a wooden sign WIDE ATLANTIC COMPANY, and a dozen cars parked in front. No one was in sight, though, there did not seem to be any activity even on a Wednesday afternoon. Bane walked on to the property as if he had been invited, went down an alley between the main building and a smaller warehouse and came out facing a dramatic view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Here, on a paved area storing wooden pallets and barrels and tarps, four men jumped up as they saw him approach.
Bane reflected it was odd to see a mixed bunch of goons. Most gangs still operated within general ethnic lines. But here were two tall black men, a short chunky Latino, and a biker with a blond beard and tattooed arms. They formed a loose line as they spotted him. One of the black men said, "You got a problem?"
"Everyone's got problems," replied the Dire Wolf. He glanced around. "That must be where the Doherty crowd got executed. That blood's not coming out right away."
"It'd be a better world when people mind their own business," said the Latino in a gentle voice.
"Yep, it would be but it's not likely to happen." Bane saw how the four arranged themselves and he had already planned the fight. Like a chess master, he figured his fights a few moves in advance. They were all armed, but standing too close to him.. almost within arm's reach. The two black men were also standing too close together. The Latino moved to get behind him, and that was the signal for the blond man to reach behind him and pull out a 9mm Browning. He opened his mouth for the final threat, but before he could speak, Bane had closed the distance in a fencer's lunge and yanked the gun from the man's hand with a savage wrench. In a backward continuation of the same movement, the Dire Wolf crashed the Browning across the blond's jaw and then spun around to fling it hard at the Latino. The gun crashed into the man's face and knocked him down and even as he started to fall, Bane was pouncing on the two black men. Everything had taken place in less than a second and they were reacting by pulling Glocks from their waistbands. Bane got between them and launched a flurry of eight punches in two seconds, so rapid it sounded like drumming. The men reeled and dropped.
None of these goons were badly hurt, as far as Bane intended. With his enhanced speed and Kumundu training, even a good fighter seemed to be moving sluggishly. Next he rounded up their guns. The Browning, two Glocks and a Colt .32 revolver from the Latino, who he now decided was Cuban. All four weapons went far out into the East River as the splashes echoed. The Dire Wolf dragged the Cuban over closer where he could keep an eye on all four of them at once. Then he straightened with heightened awareness as he felt a presence. Wheeling toward the cinder block building, he saw the green metal back door was open and there stood the Pudge.
II.
Not much over six feet tall, the brute would weigh well over four hundred pounds. It was not all in the bowling-ball shaped torso, either. The arms and legs were thick and solid. Despite his huge size, the man stepped quickly through the wide door and began walking toward Bane with as much smoothness as any normal person. The Pudge wore Navy blue sweat pants and a loose yellow polo shirt over a white T-shirt. He was barefoot for some reason. Both his hands and feet were oversized even for a hulk like himself.
Despite the immense threatening bulk striding toward him, Bane was most aware of the menace in the expression. The Pudge did not have a shapeless face, it was square and hard, with thin lips pressed together. The double chin was bigger than the real chin, but the face framed in the fat was solid. Short light brown hair sat on top, and angry hazel eyes glared out at him with murderous hatred. As he strode across the lot, the Pudge spat out a cigar butt to one side.
"Well," said Bane casually, "I guess we don't need to introduce ourselves."
"What do you want?" demanded the Pudge in a rough, uneducated voice. "I'm busy."
"I bet you are." Bane stepped two feet to the side, where he could watch both the Pudge and the thugs who were stirring and trying to get up. "I thought we should get a look at each other."
"Forget it! I got no time for you today. Stay out of my face and stay healthy." The brute turned on one wide foot and was about to leave when Bane said, "It's not that easy."
The brute exhaled sharply. "Yeah. I can see everything has to tick me off today." Suddenly he was lumbering straight at Bane, open paws reaching out clutching angrily. It was surreal to see something so big move so fast. As the Pudge got within reach, the Dire Wolf stepped to one side and drove his boot down to the back of the monster's knee, intending to knock him off-balance for a punch to the back of his neck. To his surprise, the kick had no effect and the Pudge caught him with a swing of one flat hand that caught Bane unbraced and sent him tumbling.
Even as he touched the concrete, Bane was up on his feet but the Pudge had pounced forward and crashed a broad open hand to the face that landed like a two-by-four. For the first time in years, Bane lost the advantage in the fight. He faded to one side and threw a lightning backfist that his monstrous opponent caught in an open hand and held tightly. The Dire Wolf lifted both knees to chest level and shoved them out against the man's body, but the Pudge was not swayed an inch.
Still holding Bane by the hand, the hulking mobster yanked him forward and dislocated that arm at the shoulder. He dropped Bane to the ground and stomped down at his head, and when the Wolf rolled out of the way, the Pudge kicked him viciously in the ribs, then twice again. Bone snapped. Even battered, the Dire Wolf scuttled back and used his good arm to help himself rise. He could not quite stand upright. With his right hand, he reached behind his hip and swung up the Colt .38.
"There's more to you than I expected," Bane growled. "But I have to draw the line somewhere."
The Pudge's wide face split in a wicked grin. "Forget it. You can't hurt me with that peashooter. Go ahead, take a shot. I'll laugh at you." He rushed forward with his open hands ready to clutch.
Bane fired three times at the huge chest. He saw the rubbery flesh indent and then straighten back out again without a mark. Three holes ripped in the yellow shirt and then the Pudge wrenched the gun from the Dire Wolf and flung it past them into the East River. This close, Bane could see the man was not wearing any armor under that shirt, the bullets had simply been unable to pierce that body.
Standing bent over with cracked ribs, his left arm hanging out of the socket, Jeremy Bane said, "My mistake was thinking you were just a big fat bruiser, I guess."
"You're lucky I'm in a hurry," the Pudge said. "Don't let me see you again or you'll take all night to die in my cellar." As he stomped back to the warehouse door, he chuckled, "I always figured you was overrated."
Left alone with the four stunned men, Bane stared for a second in disbelief at the giant form closing the door to the WIDE ATLANTIC COMPANY behind it. First things first, he stumbled over to a dumpster, readied his dislocated arm with his good hand and slammed hard against the metal surface. His arm popped back in and he grunted at the pain, but at least now he could walk. The agony in his ribs was nothing new after all the bullets he had taken over the years, which the Trom armor had mostly protected against. Back on Fulton Street, he managed to get in his car and start it up. His left arm was weak and throbbing but he supposed it made driving easier than if he had lost use of his right arm. In the rearview mirror, he saw the side of his fnace was swollen and the one eye was almost shut.
The trip back to 38th Street seemed to take ages. Bane got the Mustang stowed away, walked down the passage and up the cement steps to the front hall. His ribs were already beginning to seal, and feeling had returned to his arm. In the kitchen, he heated a mug of water in the microwave and stirred in a handful of dark purple leaves from a ceramic cannister. As he sipped the tagra tea, shock left his body and the pain ebbed to a dull reminder. It was tagra which gave Tel Shai knights their recuperative abilities. After twenty years of tagra and the Kumundu training, Bane's body had reached a point where it would rapidly bounce back from trauma that would be fatal to a normal Human. But like everything else, it had limits. He was not indestructible and he could be killed as many Tel Shai knights had been through the ages. A few times, he had come close.
Feeling a bit more normal, he was ravenous as usual. One price for his enhanced reflexes was a metabolism that always ran full blast. There was half a pepperoni pizza in the refrigator and he devoured it cold, then drank a bottle of cranberry juice. Still not done, he grabbed two bananas from an open basket over the sink. The Dire Wolf straightened up and felt the barest twinge where his ribs had been cracked. He headed down the hall to his office and started to pace. The Pudge was as fast as he himself was, something rare in the Midnight War. But the Pudge was also much stronger than Human, maybe at Melgar levels, and the way those bullets hadn't penetrated his hide indicated a degree of resiliency that would make him hard to harm. What was he? How did he get this way? Bane needed some information to plan a campaign.
Seating himself behind his desk, he started making phone calls to his network of researchers and reporters. A few he kept on retainer, but most were people who owed him their lives or the lives of their loved ones and they gladly repaid him with what information they had. At usual, he had the best results from Bleak, the bitter old man who had once been a major Midnight War fighter himself but who now was content to help from the sidelines. Bane reached him, only to be told to hang up. A few seconds later, the phone rang and Bleak was on the line.
"Sorry about that, I was too close to other people. This booth is in Grand Central. What's up, Dire Wolf?"
"I got beat up today."
"Are you joking?" Bleak snorted, "I didn't think that was possible."
"Oh, I've been thrashed a few times," Bane said. "No one is unbeatable. Naturally I want a rematch, so I'm hoping you can give me some information. New ganglord called Pudge?"
"Wait. The Pudge? I dunno, Jeremy, I normally wouldn't tell you to lay off someone but the Pudge? I don't know."
"Come on, Bleak. Give me something to work with. I'm going after him either way."
"All right. All right. I understand his real name is Sam Hodgens, supposed to be from Little Rock, Arkansas. 'Pudge' was a cruel childhood nickname because he was always fat. As I heard it, around puberty he exploded into a six foot tall three hundred pound beast that couldn't be hurt but who just loved to hurt others. He's just gotten bigger and meaner over the years. In the past few months, he started with some hired gunmen and has been taking over one racket at a time. You heard about what happened at South Street?"
"Yes." Just the one word.
"It's just the start of what's coming. That's about all I got, Bane. I tell you, be careful. This guy is a no-fooling monster and you can't underestimate him."
"Oh, I learned that the hard way," Bane said. "Come on, Bleak, give me a target for tonight. Some little thing of his I can bring down."
Bleak's voice hesitated. "There IS something going down tonight..."
III.
Two AM on a side street in Flushing, in an area where the signs in Korean outnumbered those in English. The big black SUV eased up through a parking lot to the back of a mini-mall. Everything was closed, of course, and yet a green metal door that said USED FURNITURE - NO ADMITTANCE opened and an old Korean man stuck his head out. He wore black slacks and a white long-sleeved dress shirt and he peered out warily as the SUV came to a halt.
Three men jumped out, none of them Asian. One was Italian-looking with thick wavy hair and a clasic Roman nose, the other two were Middle Eastern- Syrians, perhaps. Pudge seemed to have a deliberate policy of mixing up his crews in their background. The Italian man whispered, "Give us a hand, Park," and went to open the back of the vehicle.
"Let's make this quick, Joey," Park said. "I feel uneasy tonight."
"You should!" snapped a third voice from behind a storage bin. As the one called Joey darted his hand to the holster under his light windbreaker, a booted foot whipped in a reverse circle that broke his jaw and dropped him to the floor. Bane hopped lightly over the fallen man got between the two Middle East thugs, who managed to get their 9mm automatics up before he crashed their heads together with lethal force. The crunch of skulls cracking had a finality to it. Even before they fell, the Dire Wolf lunged and caught Park by the shirtfront before the man could run.
"Don't kill me. Don't kill me, mister!" the old man cried as he tried to wriggle free of fingers that gripped like steel.
"Maybe I won't have to," Bane said. "You are just one step on the ladder, aren't you? Where is the rhino horn going?"
"I can't tell you anything. The fat man would torture me. I've seen him do it to those who talked."
"You're not selling traditional remedies at a used furniture store! Your job would be to take the product to an apothecary, probably Chinese in Manhattan, and get your cut. The whole matter of rhinos being endangered and being wiped out to make phony medicine doesn't concern you at all, does it?"
"Let me go. Please, they forced me to do this..."
"Yeah, right." Bane spun the man around and hit him just once but very hard at the diaphragm level. All the air left the Korean's lung in a gush and he sank to a sitting position on the ground. The Dire Wolf watched him for a minute and decided he would be able to catch his breath in a minute. The two Syrians were dead and Joey the Italian was senseless with a jaw that would need some extensive surgical work. Bane went to the back of the SUV and found a canvas bag with a padlocked top, big enough for a bowling ball. He hefted it, judged the weight, but spent a few minutes searching the SUV for another sample of the product. Nothing. Taking the bag, he strode over to the other end of the mini-mall where his Mustang was parked and got in. He was moving as if he hadn't been beaten that morning. Heading back to Manhattan, he parked in the garage beneath the KDF building and took the bag of powdered rhino horn upstairs with him. There were a thousand concealment niches in the building. Bane picked the lock on the bag and took out the heavily wrapped powdered rhino horn, replaced it with a device from the armory and locked it again. He considered just destroying the horn; it was illegal to have it and just keeping it left him open to charges of possesson of stolen property as well as trafficking in forbidden animal products. But it might make a useful bargaining chip. Finally, Bane locked it away in a compartment inside the fish tank's false bottom. The starfish with a red eye in its center watched him resentfully.
It was getting near dawn. Bane felt he was going to make some progress now. Trotting up the stairs to his rooms on the third floor, he took a hot shower and dressed in a fresh uniform of the black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. As usual, he wore the flexible Trom armor under his clothes and as usual he kept the matched silver daggers sheathed to his forearms. His .38 was at the bottom of the East River by now, but he got his spare and threaded a new holster to his belt. The second gun was a short-barrelled Smith & Wesson Detective Special and he wasn't as accurate with it but it would have to do. Going back down to the office on the first floor, he stretched out on the couch, breathed deeply and slowly and was asleep in a few minutes.
At ten to nine, the front doorbell woke him. With only the few hours sleep he ever needed, Bane was instantly alert and jumped off the couch. Heading for the door, he picked up the canvas bag and left it on a cabinet where it would be visible from the doorway. The bell rang again. Bane swung open a big wooden panel on the wall next to the door and thumbed the intercom button. "I'll be right there," he said, "Have a seat." He hit the button that unlocked the outer door, then turned on the monitor screen to see the Pudge squeeze into the tiny vestibule. Two gunmen were with him, but there wasn't room for them with him already in there.
The room was barely big enough to hold the bulk of the Pudge himself. There was a bench, a ceramic vase on a shelf and a framed oil portrait of Kenneth Dred. Bane activated the sensors and Trom devices more sensitive and detailed than an MRI went into play. Chemical analyzers read traces from exhalation and body particles, pressure plates in the floor measured weight, powerful X-rays hummed. Bane looked at the screen with great interest. It appeared as if the Pudge were almost as solid as a baked potato, with his internal organs squeezed into a compact mass deep inside the torso. He did not have true blood... chemical analysis showed he circulated a thick plasma instead. Weight was four hundred and thirty-eight pounds. Blood pressure was 160 over 110, wow. The Dire Wolf decided he needed to study this scan later, but it showed the Pudge was not a Human at this point.
"Just one more minute," he said pleasantly. A red light blinking over the screen showed someone was touching the rear exit. This was by the kitchen, opening out into the back of the alley between the KDF building and the building next door. The door was reinforced with sheets of steel and the window back there was bulletproof plastic, so he wasn't worried about common thugs breaking in. At the bottom of the control panel was a row of toggle switches and he flipped the one marked THREE. Then he closed the panel back over the monitor and went to open the inner door to reveal a furious Pudge.
"You don't have an appointment," he said. "But come on in."
"I ought to kill you right now," said the brute. He was still wearing Navy blue sweatpants and was barefoot, but he had changed to a loose tan pullover shirt. Those hazel eyes squinted with murderous rage, then blinked as he saw Bane standing there calm and seemingly unharmed after the beating he had taken the previous morning.
"There...there ain't a mark on you?"
"I guess you don't hit like you used to, Sam," Bane said. "Come on in and we'll negotiate."
"Don't call me Sam! Sam Hodgens is dead, there is only the Pudge!" As he took three steps into the hall, Bane closed the door on the two gunmen who had come into the vestibule, locking them out there.
A strange thing happened to the Pudge as he stepped into the front hall. His feet froze to the polished wooden floor. With a comical expression on his brutal face, he shifted his weight and grunted but could not move from where he stood. For a few seconds, he struggled but there was nothing within reach to grab. "Some kind of trick..." he spat.
The Dire Wolf did not explain, it was a secret only three people besides himself knew. In 1972, Kenneth Dred had placed a powerful Melgar taliman known as the Yellow Shield under the floor. It was a five-sided ensalir plate five feet to each side, and gralic attacks could not materialize over it. The Pudge was alive because gralic force somehow reinforced his body and allowed normal functions, but his hostile energy was stalled by the Yellow Shield.
"You can move if you stop thinking about killing me," Bane said. "Think pleasant thoughts."
Enraged so his face was purple, the Pudge stopped and listened for his men outside but heard nothing. "Give me what you stole last night and we're even," he managed to growl. "We don't need to cross paths again."
"Yeah, well, the World Wildlife Foundation isn't happy with you. Listen, Pudge, I want to know how you got this way. Normal crooks are not my area, I deal with the supernatural and the paranormal. That's all I want."
"Yeah? Okay, fine. My old man was a useless drunk that raised me in a trailer. Except when he threw me out to bring his sluts home. When I was fifteen, I got a job mowin' the lawn for these weird old guys called the Lundborgs. Everyone was afraid of them, the whole town steered away from the property."
"The Lundborgs," said Bane. "Red Sect.. of course."
"Oh, you heard about them. They was wizards or sorcerors, whatever you want to call'em. Crazy old coots. They took a shine ta me cause they said I had darkness in my heart and they asked me what I wanted. I said I just wanted to be the real me, only more so." The Pudge started trying to move his feet again and cursed.
"So they put a spell on you. You became more of what you already were. Listen, Sam..."
"Knock it off with that 'Sam' crap already. If I could reach you, I'll pull your face off."
Bane did step a bit closer. "There are ways to undo spells. How would you like to be normal again?"
"Hah! What for? I'd still be four hundred pounds but without my strength. What would I do, work in a circus? Forget it, sonny. Right now, I've got two hundred men that jump at my every word. I can order out for women, any kind I want. I got more money than a bank. Being the Pudge has been very good for me!"
The Dire Wolf shook his head. "Okay, one more question and I'll give you back your loot. How many men have you killed yourself? Not by ordering them executed but by yourself?"
"How the hell should I know? I didn't keep count. Maybe a hundred? Why would I keep score. Gimme that bag and let me outta here."
"I suppose I should," Bane said. "I imagine I'll read about you in the papers." He stepped over to pick up the canvas bag and handed it to the monster without getting too close. The Pudge snatched it away and hefted it thoughtfully.
"Not that I don't trust you, sonny," he began to say as he gripped the lock on the zippered clasp and snapped it off easily. "But mebbe I should make sure." He ripped the bag open and peered inside as, with a dull thump, a spray of thick brown goo gushed out right in his face. The Pudge dropped the bag, reeled back against the coatrack to knock it over and fell to the floor with a crash that Bane felt six feet away. The huge man pawed at his face, making muted strangling sounds. He couldn't get a grip on the rubbery membrane that had hardened over his face, although he tried desperately.
Standing well back, Bane watched stoically. This was a device he had created ten years earlier but never used. It had been intended for an Okali creature called the Kirlan that could spit venom ten feet. Back in those days, the KDF had had to face a lot of bizarre and deadly beasts that folklore never hinted at. He wasn't happy about resorting to the adhesive membrane but it was all he could come up with. Bullets were useless, the anesthetic darts wouldn't affect that hide, he doubted if even chains could hold the Pudge, judging by the way he had broken that padlock. And slugging it out would mean getting killed himself.
The Pudge's last few minutes were an agonized panic as he rolled and thrashed. Then the obese bulk went limp. Bane watched for another few minute, not seeing the chest move at all. He was in no hurry. Ten minutes went by. Going into the medical room across the hall, he came out with a few devices. A handheld Trom sensor showed skin temperature at 87 and dropping. No heartbeat. There was no way to breathe through that impermeable plastic that coated the monster's nose and mouth. It had been twenty minutes since the ganglord had opened that bag and Bane finally let out a relieved sigh.
Still a few more things to take care of, he thought. He walked back to the kitchen at the end of the hall and peered out the window. There in the alley, a white man and a black man sprawled face down where they had fallen. That spray of the anesthetic gas would keep them out for at least an hour, and they would be nauseous and useless for awhile after that. Good. The anesthetic spray over the entrance and exit always worked well.
Bane walked slowly back to where the body was lying. From the medical room, he dragged out a folding white linen screen and set it up to block off line of sight from the doorway. Then he drew the Smith & Wesson and opened the door to the vestibule. Both thugs gave a start, one started to go for his own gun but froze as he saw he was covered.
"It's all over," the Dire Wolf said. "Your boss has decided to stop his activities. You won't see him again. Two of your boys are sleeping in the alley behind this building. Go haul them away and get out of here."
"Let us talk to the big guy," demanded one thug. He was heavyset himself, with a big beer belly and two day's beard. "We gotta get our orders."
"MY orders are for you to go while I let you live." There was no threat in Bane's voice, no glare in the pale eyes. He was just speaking the truth and they realized it. "If the Pudge has a lieutenant, tell him he's in charge now. Move!"
The two gunmen reluctantly stepped outside and the door locked itself behind them. Bane watched them standing outside, talking uncertainly, then he closed the inner door. Suddenly he felt tired. He had burned off enough adrenalin for the day. He inspected the Pudge again, found no signs of life, and returned the folding screen to the medical ward. The Dire Wolf went to the back door and saw the two goons dragging their colleagues to where they had backed the black SUV into the alley. Good. Most likely, without the heavy hand of the Pudge on them, the new network of gangs would just fall apart. The reign of this King of Crime had sure been short.
Dropping wearily to sit on the stairs where he could see the big carcass, Bane rubbed his face and suddenly had a new worry. He was going to need some help. This wasn't the first corpse he had been faced with secretly disposing of, but it certainly was the biggest.
3/19/2014
8/19-8/24/1992
I.
It had been two days since the South Street Seaport Massacre. At dawn, the bodies of seventeen gangsters had been discovered piled up behind a fish market. Most had been shot with semi-automatic fire, but four had been killed by having their heads crushed, or in one case, pulled off entirely. They were all members of the Irish gang headed by the Doherty Cousins, and now the area they had formerly controlled had new thugs continuing the same brutal extortion and rackets. These usurpers were a mixed crew of different races and nationalties, something rare in the badlands, united only by their leader... the Pudge.
In his office at the former KDF headquarters on 38th Street, Jeremy Bane read every detail in the papers and received dozens of phone calls from his network of researchers. The underworld was in an uproar such as had not been seen since the 1970s. The Dire Wolf normally didn't operate against normal Human crime, but the Pudge was bizarre and vicious enough to catch his interest. He was described as monstrous, bigger than a Sumo, heartless and violent. Curious, Bane began to gather information and even tentatively plan what to do if he tangled with this brute.
At just before noon, Bane hung up the phone and swung his swivel chair around to get up from behind his desk. With his enhanced metabolism, he was hyper and restless at the best of times. He began to pace his office, checking on the creatures from Ulgor in the fish tank, straightening the magazines on the coffee table, pulling the heavy curtains aside to glare out at a muggy stagnant day. He had begun to think the days of the great villains were history now. Wu Lung, Karl Eldritch, John Grim and the others of their rank were dead or hiding. But this new threat certainly seemed imposing enough. A month before the mass killing at South Street, six leaders of a Jamaican drug ring had been found in the same condition, most of them beaten into almost unrecognizable pulp, and the next day, agents of the Pudge stepped in. This attempted consolidation of the rackets was nothing new, but it seldom got this far before fragmenting again.
Bane decided to go out and stir things up. He was so recognizable, a tall gaunt man with pale grey eyes who dressed all in black, that his presence on the streets might itself send a message. As always, he wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes and the matched silver daggers where sheathed on his forearms. Usually, he carried one of the KDF silent anesthetic dart guns but he thought about the Pudge and reconsidered. He switched for his long-barrelled Smith & Wesson .38 revolver and examined it closely before holstering. Suddenly eager, he went down to the underground garage barely big enough to hold two cars. Cindy had taken the Buick Regal upstate to Albany, so that left the Ford Mustang for him. Fine. He had not extensively reworked the cars, just adding some Kevlar panels and hidden compartments for various weapons. Bane rolled up the concrete ramp with its sharp turn at the top, went out the alley and pulled out onto Lexington Avenue. Now he abruptly felt alive.
Heading south, he kept turning over what he had heard about the Pudge. Even taking exaggeration into consideration, the man seemed to on the borderline of Human, maybe over it. At Fulton Street, he found a parking spot and wandered through the area which would always smell like fish. There was the stained cinder block building with a wooden sign WIDE ATLANTIC COMPANY, and a dozen cars parked in front. No one was in sight, though, there did not seem to be any activity even on a Wednesday afternoon. Bane walked on to the property as if he had been invited, went down an alley between the main building and a smaller warehouse and came out facing a dramatic view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Here, on a paved area storing wooden pallets and barrels and tarps, four men jumped up as they saw him approach.
Bane reflected it was odd to see a mixed bunch of goons. Most gangs still operated within general ethnic lines. But here were two tall black men, a short chunky Latino, and a biker with a blond beard and tattooed arms. They formed a loose line as they spotted him. One of the black men said, "You got a problem?"
"Everyone's got problems," replied the Dire Wolf. He glanced around. "That must be where the Doherty crowd got executed. That blood's not coming out right away."
"It'd be a better world when people mind their own business," said the Latino in a gentle voice.
"Yep, it would be but it's not likely to happen." Bane saw how the four arranged themselves and he had already planned the fight. Like a chess master, he figured his fights a few moves in advance. They were all armed, but standing too close to him.. almost within arm's reach. The two black men were also standing too close together. The Latino moved to get behind him, and that was the signal for the blond man to reach behind him and pull out a 9mm Browning. He opened his mouth for the final threat, but before he could speak, Bane had closed the distance in a fencer's lunge and yanked the gun from the man's hand with a savage wrench. In a backward continuation of the same movement, the Dire Wolf crashed the Browning across the blond's jaw and then spun around to fling it hard at the Latino. The gun crashed into the man's face and knocked him down and even as he started to fall, Bane was pouncing on the two black men. Everything had taken place in less than a second and they were reacting by pulling Glocks from their waistbands. Bane got between them and launched a flurry of eight punches in two seconds, so rapid it sounded like drumming. The men reeled and dropped.
None of these goons were badly hurt, as far as Bane intended. With his enhanced speed and Kumundu training, even a good fighter seemed to be moving sluggishly. Next he rounded up their guns. The Browning, two Glocks and a Colt .32 revolver from the Latino, who he now decided was Cuban. All four weapons went far out into the East River as the splashes echoed. The Dire Wolf dragged the Cuban over closer where he could keep an eye on all four of them at once. Then he straightened with heightened awareness as he felt a presence. Wheeling toward the cinder block building, he saw the green metal back door was open and there stood the Pudge.
II.
Not much over six feet tall, the brute would weigh well over four hundred pounds. It was not all in the bowling-ball shaped torso, either. The arms and legs were thick and solid. Despite his huge size, the man stepped quickly through the wide door and began walking toward Bane with as much smoothness as any normal person. The Pudge wore Navy blue sweat pants and a loose yellow polo shirt over a white T-shirt. He was barefoot for some reason. Both his hands and feet were oversized even for a hulk like himself.
Despite the immense threatening bulk striding toward him, Bane was most aware of the menace in the expression. The Pudge did not have a shapeless face, it was square and hard, with thin lips pressed together. The double chin was bigger than the real chin, but the face framed in the fat was solid. Short light brown hair sat on top, and angry hazel eyes glared out at him with murderous hatred. As he strode across the lot, the Pudge spat out a cigar butt to one side.
"Well," said Bane casually, "I guess we don't need to introduce ourselves."
"What do you want?" demanded the Pudge in a rough, uneducated voice. "I'm busy."
"I bet you are." Bane stepped two feet to the side, where he could watch both the Pudge and the thugs who were stirring and trying to get up. "I thought we should get a look at each other."
"Forget it! I got no time for you today. Stay out of my face and stay healthy." The brute turned on one wide foot and was about to leave when Bane said, "It's not that easy."
The brute exhaled sharply. "Yeah. I can see everything has to tick me off today." Suddenly he was lumbering straight at Bane, open paws reaching out clutching angrily. It was surreal to see something so big move so fast. As the Pudge got within reach, the Dire Wolf stepped to one side and drove his boot down to the back of the monster's knee, intending to knock him off-balance for a punch to the back of his neck. To his surprise, the kick had no effect and the Pudge caught him with a swing of one flat hand that caught Bane unbraced and sent him tumbling.
Even as he touched the concrete, Bane was up on his feet but the Pudge had pounced forward and crashed a broad open hand to the face that landed like a two-by-four. For the first time in years, Bane lost the advantage in the fight. He faded to one side and threw a lightning backfist that his monstrous opponent caught in an open hand and held tightly. The Dire Wolf lifted both knees to chest level and shoved them out against the man's body, but the Pudge was not swayed an inch.
Still holding Bane by the hand, the hulking mobster yanked him forward and dislocated that arm at the shoulder. He dropped Bane to the ground and stomped down at his head, and when the Wolf rolled out of the way, the Pudge kicked him viciously in the ribs, then twice again. Bone snapped. Even battered, the Dire Wolf scuttled back and used his good arm to help himself rise. He could not quite stand upright. With his right hand, he reached behind his hip and swung up the Colt .38.
"There's more to you than I expected," Bane growled. "But I have to draw the line somewhere."
The Pudge's wide face split in a wicked grin. "Forget it. You can't hurt me with that peashooter. Go ahead, take a shot. I'll laugh at you." He rushed forward with his open hands ready to clutch.
Bane fired three times at the huge chest. He saw the rubbery flesh indent and then straighten back out again without a mark. Three holes ripped in the yellow shirt and then the Pudge wrenched the gun from the Dire Wolf and flung it past them into the East River. This close, Bane could see the man was not wearing any armor under that shirt, the bullets had simply been unable to pierce that body.
Standing bent over with cracked ribs, his left arm hanging out of the socket, Jeremy Bane said, "My mistake was thinking you were just a big fat bruiser, I guess."
"You're lucky I'm in a hurry," the Pudge said. "Don't let me see you again or you'll take all night to die in my cellar." As he stomped back to the warehouse door, he chuckled, "I always figured you was overrated."
Left alone with the four stunned men, Bane stared for a second in disbelief at the giant form closing the door to the WIDE ATLANTIC COMPANY behind it. First things first, he stumbled over to a dumpster, readied his dislocated arm with his good hand and slammed hard against the metal surface. His arm popped back in and he grunted at the pain, but at least now he could walk. The agony in his ribs was nothing new after all the bullets he had taken over the years, which the Trom armor had mostly protected against. Back on Fulton Street, he managed to get in his car and start it up. His left arm was weak and throbbing but he supposed it made driving easier than if he had lost use of his right arm. In the rearview mirror, he saw the side of his fnace was swollen and the one eye was almost shut.
The trip back to 38th Street seemed to take ages. Bane got the Mustang stowed away, walked down the passage and up the cement steps to the front hall. His ribs were already beginning to seal, and feeling had returned to his arm. In the kitchen, he heated a mug of water in the microwave and stirred in a handful of dark purple leaves from a ceramic cannister. As he sipped the tagra tea, shock left his body and the pain ebbed to a dull reminder. It was tagra which gave Tel Shai knights their recuperative abilities. After twenty years of tagra and the Kumundu training, Bane's body had reached a point where it would rapidly bounce back from trauma that would be fatal to a normal Human. But like everything else, it had limits. He was not indestructible and he could be killed as many Tel Shai knights had been through the ages. A few times, he had come close.
Feeling a bit more normal, he was ravenous as usual. One price for his enhanced reflexes was a metabolism that always ran full blast. There was half a pepperoni pizza in the refrigator and he devoured it cold, then drank a bottle of cranberry juice. Still not done, he grabbed two bananas from an open basket over the sink. The Dire Wolf straightened up and felt the barest twinge where his ribs had been cracked. He headed down the hall to his office and started to pace. The Pudge was as fast as he himself was, something rare in the Midnight War. But the Pudge was also much stronger than Human, maybe at Melgar levels, and the way those bullets hadn't penetrated his hide indicated a degree of resiliency that would make him hard to harm. What was he? How did he get this way? Bane needed some information to plan a campaign.
Seating himself behind his desk, he started making phone calls to his network of researchers and reporters. A few he kept on retainer, but most were people who owed him their lives or the lives of their loved ones and they gladly repaid him with what information they had. At usual, he had the best results from Bleak, the bitter old man who had once been a major Midnight War fighter himself but who now was content to help from the sidelines. Bane reached him, only to be told to hang up. A few seconds later, the phone rang and Bleak was on the line.
"Sorry about that, I was too close to other people. This booth is in Grand Central. What's up, Dire Wolf?"
"I got beat up today."
"Are you joking?" Bleak snorted, "I didn't think that was possible."
"Oh, I've been thrashed a few times," Bane said. "No one is unbeatable. Naturally I want a rematch, so I'm hoping you can give me some information. New ganglord called Pudge?"
"Wait. The Pudge? I dunno, Jeremy, I normally wouldn't tell you to lay off someone but the Pudge? I don't know."
"Come on, Bleak. Give me something to work with. I'm going after him either way."
"All right. All right. I understand his real name is Sam Hodgens, supposed to be from Little Rock, Arkansas. 'Pudge' was a cruel childhood nickname because he was always fat. As I heard it, around puberty he exploded into a six foot tall three hundred pound beast that couldn't be hurt but who just loved to hurt others. He's just gotten bigger and meaner over the years. In the past few months, he started with some hired gunmen and has been taking over one racket at a time. You heard about what happened at South Street?"
"Yes." Just the one word.
"It's just the start of what's coming. That's about all I got, Bane. I tell you, be careful. This guy is a no-fooling monster and you can't underestimate him."
"Oh, I learned that the hard way," Bane said. "Come on, Bleak, give me a target for tonight. Some little thing of his I can bring down."
Bleak's voice hesitated. "There IS something going down tonight..."
III.
Two AM on a side street in Flushing, in an area where the signs in Korean outnumbered those in English. The big black SUV eased up through a parking lot to the back of a mini-mall. Everything was closed, of course, and yet a green metal door that said USED FURNITURE - NO ADMITTANCE opened and an old Korean man stuck his head out. He wore black slacks and a white long-sleeved dress shirt and he peered out warily as the SUV came to a halt.
Three men jumped out, none of them Asian. One was Italian-looking with thick wavy hair and a clasic Roman nose, the other two were Middle Eastern- Syrians, perhaps. Pudge seemed to have a deliberate policy of mixing up his crews in their background. The Italian man whispered, "Give us a hand, Park," and went to open the back of the vehicle.
"Let's make this quick, Joey," Park said. "I feel uneasy tonight."
"You should!" snapped a third voice from behind a storage bin. As the one called Joey darted his hand to the holster under his light windbreaker, a booted foot whipped in a reverse circle that broke his jaw and dropped him to the floor. Bane hopped lightly over the fallen man got between the two Middle East thugs, who managed to get their 9mm automatics up before he crashed their heads together with lethal force. The crunch of skulls cracking had a finality to it. Even before they fell, the Dire Wolf lunged and caught Park by the shirtfront before the man could run.
"Don't kill me. Don't kill me, mister!" the old man cried as he tried to wriggle free of fingers that gripped like steel.
"Maybe I won't have to," Bane said. "You are just one step on the ladder, aren't you? Where is the rhino horn going?"
"I can't tell you anything. The fat man would torture me. I've seen him do it to those who talked."
"You're not selling traditional remedies at a used furniture store! Your job would be to take the product to an apothecary, probably Chinese in Manhattan, and get your cut. The whole matter of rhinos being endangered and being wiped out to make phony medicine doesn't concern you at all, does it?"
"Let me go. Please, they forced me to do this..."
"Yeah, right." Bane spun the man around and hit him just once but very hard at the diaphragm level. All the air left the Korean's lung in a gush and he sank to a sitting position on the ground. The Dire Wolf watched him for a minute and decided he would be able to catch his breath in a minute. The two Syrians were dead and Joey the Italian was senseless with a jaw that would need some extensive surgical work. Bane went to the back of the SUV and found a canvas bag with a padlocked top, big enough for a bowling ball. He hefted it, judged the weight, but spent a few minutes searching the SUV for another sample of the product. Nothing. Taking the bag, he strode over to the other end of the mini-mall where his Mustang was parked and got in. He was moving as if he hadn't been beaten that morning. Heading back to Manhattan, he parked in the garage beneath the KDF building and took the bag of powdered rhino horn upstairs with him. There were a thousand concealment niches in the building. Bane picked the lock on the bag and took out the heavily wrapped powdered rhino horn, replaced it with a device from the armory and locked it again. He considered just destroying the horn; it was illegal to have it and just keeping it left him open to charges of possesson of stolen property as well as trafficking in forbidden animal products. But it might make a useful bargaining chip. Finally, Bane locked it away in a compartment inside the fish tank's false bottom. The starfish with a red eye in its center watched him resentfully.
It was getting near dawn. Bane felt he was going to make some progress now. Trotting up the stairs to his rooms on the third floor, he took a hot shower and dressed in a fresh uniform of the black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. As usual, he wore the flexible Trom armor under his clothes and as usual he kept the matched silver daggers sheathed to his forearms. His .38 was at the bottom of the East River by now, but he got his spare and threaded a new holster to his belt. The second gun was a short-barrelled Smith & Wesson Detective Special and he wasn't as accurate with it but it would have to do. Going back down to the office on the first floor, he stretched out on the couch, breathed deeply and slowly and was asleep in a few minutes.
At ten to nine, the front doorbell woke him. With only the few hours sleep he ever needed, Bane was instantly alert and jumped off the couch. Heading for the door, he picked up the canvas bag and left it on a cabinet where it would be visible from the doorway. The bell rang again. Bane swung open a big wooden panel on the wall next to the door and thumbed the intercom button. "I'll be right there," he said, "Have a seat." He hit the button that unlocked the outer door, then turned on the monitor screen to see the Pudge squeeze into the tiny vestibule. Two gunmen were with him, but there wasn't room for them with him already in there.
The room was barely big enough to hold the bulk of the Pudge himself. There was a bench, a ceramic vase on a shelf and a framed oil portrait of Kenneth Dred. Bane activated the sensors and Trom devices more sensitive and detailed than an MRI went into play. Chemical analyzers read traces from exhalation and body particles, pressure plates in the floor measured weight, powerful X-rays hummed. Bane looked at the screen with great interest. It appeared as if the Pudge were almost as solid as a baked potato, with his internal organs squeezed into a compact mass deep inside the torso. He did not have true blood... chemical analysis showed he circulated a thick plasma instead. Weight was four hundred and thirty-eight pounds. Blood pressure was 160 over 110, wow. The Dire Wolf decided he needed to study this scan later, but it showed the Pudge was not a Human at this point.
"Just one more minute," he said pleasantly. A red light blinking over the screen showed someone was touching the rear exit. This was by the kitchen, opening out into the back of the alley between the KDF building and the building next door. The door was reinforced with sheets of steel and the window back there was bulletproof plastic, so he wasn't worried about common thugs breaking in. At the bottom of the control panel was a row of toggle switches and he flipped the one marked THREE. Then he closed the panel back over the monitor and went to open the inner door to reveal a furious Pudge.
"You don't have an appointment," he said. "But come on in."
"I ought to kill you right now," said the brute. He was still wearing Navy blue sweatpants and was barefoot, but he had changed to a loose tan pullover shirt. Those hazel eyes squinted with murderous rage, then blinked as he saw Bane standing there calm and seemingly unharmed after the beating he had taken the previous morning.
"There...there ain't a mark on you?"
"I guess you don't hit like you used to, Sam," Bane said. "Come on in and we'll negotiate."
"Don't call me Sam! Sam Hodgens is dead, there is only the Pudge!" As he took three steps into the hall, Bane closed the door on the two gunmen who had come into the vestibule, locking them out there.
A strange thing happened to the Pudge as he stepped into the front hall. His feet froze to the polished wooden floor. With a comical expression on his brutal face, he shifted his weight and grunted but could not move from where he stood. For a few seconds, he struggled but there was nothing within reach to grab. "Some kind of trick..." he spat.
The Dire Wolf did not explain, it was a secret only three people besides himself knew. In 1972, Kenneth Dred had placed a powerful Melgar taliman known as the Yellow Shield under the floor. It was a five-sided ensalir plate five feet to each side, and gralic attacks could not materialize over it. The Pudge was alive because gralic force somehow reinforced his body and allowed normal functions, but his hostile energy was stalled by the Yellow Shield.
"You can move if you stop thinking about killing me," Bane said. "Think pleasant thoughts."
Enraged so his face was purple, the Pudge stopped and listened for his men outside but heard nothing. "Give me what you stole last night and we're even," he managed to growl. "We don't need to cross paths again."
"Yeah, well, the World Wildlife Foundation isn't happy with you. Listen, Pudge, I want to know how you got this way. Normal crooks are not my area, I deal with the supernatural and the paranormal. That's all I want."
"Yeah? Okay, fine. My old man was a useless drunk that raised me in a trailer. Except when he threw me out to bring his sluts home. When I was fifteen, I got a job mowin' the lawn for these weird old guys called the Lundborgs. Everyone was afraid of them, the whole town steered away from the property."
"The Lundborgs," said Bane. "Red Sect.. of course."
"Oh, you heard about them. They was wizards or sorcerors, whatever you want to call'em. Crazy old coots. They took a shine ta me cause they said I had darkness in my heart and they asked me what I wanted. I said I just wanted to be the real me, only more so." The Pudge started trying to move his feet again and cursed.
"So they put a spell on you. You became more of what you already were. Listen, Sam..."
"Knock it off with that 'Sam' crap already. If I could reach you, I'll pull your face off."
Bane did step a bit closer. "There are ways to undo spells. How would you like to be normal again?"
"Hah! What for? I'd still be four hundred pounds but without my strength. What would I do, work in a circus? Forget it, sonny. Right now, I've got two hundred men that jump at my every word. I can order out for women, any kind I want. I got more money than a bank. Being the Pudge has been very good for me!"
The Dire Wolf shook his head. "Okay, one more question and I'll give you back your loot. How many men have you killed yourself? Not by ordering them executed but by yourself?"
"How the hell should I know? I didn't keep count. Maybe a hundred? Why would I keep score. Gimme that bag and let me outta here."
"I suppose I should," Bane said. "I imagine I'll read about you in the papers." He stepped over to pick up the canvas bag and handed it to the monster without getting too close. The Pudge snatched it away and hefted it thoughtfully.
"Not that I don't trust you, sonny," he began to say as he gripped the lock on the zippered clasp and snapped it off easily. "But mebbe I should make sure." He ripped the bag open and peered inside as, with a dull thump, a spray of thick brown goo gushed out right in his face. The Pudge dropped the bag, reeled back against the coatrack to knock it over and fell to the floor with a crash that Bane felt six feet away. The huge man pawed at his face, making muted strangling sounds. He couldn't get a grip on the rubbery membrane that had hardened over his face, although he tried desperately.
Standing well back, Bane watched stoically. This was a device he had created ten years earlier but never used. It had been intended for an Okali creature called the Kirlan that could spit venom ten feet. Back in those days, the KDF had had to face a lot of bizarre and deadly beasts that folklore never hinted at. He wasn't happy about resorting to the adhesive membrane but it was all he could come up with. Bullets were useless, the anesthetic darts wouldn't affect that hide, he doubted if even chains could hold the Pudge, judging by the way he had broken that padlock. And slugging it out would mean getting killed himself.
The Pudge's last few minutes were an agonized panic as he rolled and thrashed. Then the obese bulk went limp. Bane watched for another few minute, not seeing the chest move at all. He was in no hurry. Ten minutes went by. Going into the medical room across the hall, he came out with a few devices. A handheld Trom sensor showed skin temperature at 87 and dropping. No heartbeat. There was no way to breathe through that impermeable plastic that coated the monster's nose and mouth. It had been twenty minutes since the ganglord had opened that bag and Bane finally let out a relieved sigh.
Still a few more things to take care of, he thought. He walked back to the kitchen at the end of the hall and peered out the window. There in the alley, a white man and a black man sprawled face down where they had fallen. That spray of the anesthetic gas would keep them out for at least an hour, and they would be nauseous and useless for awhile after that. Good. The anesthetic spray over the entrance and exit always worked well.
Bane walked slowly back to where the body was lying. From the medical room, he dragged out a folding white linen screen and set it up to block off line of sight from the doorway. Then he drew the Smith & Wesson and opened the door to the vestibule. Both thugs gave a start, one started to go for his own gun but froze as he saw he was covered.
"It's all over," the Dire Wolf said. "Your boss has decided to stop his activities. You won't see him again. Two of your boys are sleeping in the alley behind this building. Go haul them away and get out of here."
"Let us talk to the big guy," demanded one thug. He was heavyset himself, with a big beer belly and two day's beard. "We gotta get our orders."
"MY orders are for you to go while I let you live." There was no threat in Bane's voice, no glare in the pale eyes. He was just speaking the truth and they realized it. "If the Pudge has a lieutenant, tell him he's in charge now. Move!"
The two gunmen reluctantly stepped outside and the door locked itself behind them. Bane watched them standing outside, talking uncertainly, then he closed the inner door. Suddenly he felt tired. He had burned off enough adrenalin for the day. He inspected the Pudge again, found no signs of life, and returned the folding screen to the medical ward. The Dire Wolf went to the back door and saw the two goons dragging their colleagues to where they had backed the black SUV into the alley. Good. Most likely, without the heavy hand of the Pudge on them, the new network of gangs would just fall apart. The reign of this King of Crime had sure been short.
Dropping wearily to sit on the stairs where he could see the big carcass, Bane rubbed his face and suddenly had a new worry. He was going to need some help. This wasn't the first corpse he had been faced with secretly disposing of, but it certainly was the biggest.
3/19/2014
