Part I
Jericho Blake stepped out of the Tabula Rasa hotel into the cold, foggy London night. He belted the black trench coat closed, but left the buttons undone, for easier access to the shoulder holsters beneath. As the moon was nothing but a thin sliver, it's wan light could not make it through the fog, thus the streets were pitch dark outside the limited range of the street lights. But Blake did not remove his Ray Ban Aviator glasses as he crossed Ealdwic Park with his long, relaxed stride, seemingly unconcerned with any possible threats from the darkness around him.
As he walked by the bright lights glaring from Ealdwic station - now closed, and turned into a marketplace, among other things - he thought about the small gathering he had just left. He was starting to get a feel for the dynamics within the Toolbox. His new coworkers were as varied as you would expect from the collective's name. And you do expect certain personality types in this kind of work. Still, the leadership was friendly enough. And all the women in short skirts were a bonus for Blake.
Soon he reached Covent Garden station, and slowly made his way down the steps. As it was not yet midnight, there were quite a few passengers waiting for the train, mostly young people seeking the Piccadilly night life. The tall, sandy haired man dressed in black and wearing shades at night drew looks from some of the young women, particularly the more goth inclined, but his grim expression kept any interaction at bay.
He waited less than ten minutes for his train, and soon got off at Piccadilly Circus Station. There he blended into the crowd of party- or oblivion- seekers as he switched to a south-bound train. Shortly after midnight, he left the last train to arrive for the night at the Elephant and Castle station. He climbed the long stairway up into the cool night air, anticipation building as he neared his goal.
The streets in this unfortunately crime-ridden area were essentially empty at this late hour, except in streets where bars and nightclubs were clustered together. Here, people hungry for thrills or desperate for money were plentiful, and unknowingly - or knowingly in some cases - easy prey for urban predators of more than one variety. Jericho Blake stayed in the darkness as much as he could, wishing to avoid any unnecessary interruptions.
He was not altogether successful. He ignored entreaties from tired- looking soiled doves and sellers of illicit pharmaceuticals. Trouble started as he walked by the abandoned, half demolished Heygate Estates. The blocky, neo-brutalist compound was once hailed as the future of urban living, but was now an abandoned warren en route to demolition. But Jericho was not musing on the foibles of urban renewal when he heard the expected challenge from the figures he had sensed approaching him in the darkness. "Hold it right there, cabrón!"
Blake stopped as at least half a dozen thugs approached him. They seemed to be mostly Latinos wearing gang colors, and conspicuously armed with knives, chains, and even a couple of bats festooned with nails. No firearms he could see -- this was England, after all. He stood tall and seemingly unconcerned as they surrounded him. "You are in Los Toros territory, gringo!" They hefted their weapons menacingly as they approached. "Let's start with your wallet, watch, and cell, and then we see what happens."
Jericho Blake looked around at them, a thin smile on his face. "Am I supposed to be scared here?" The gangbangers' leader blinked. "Que carajo dijiste, gringo maricón?" He reached out to backhand Jericho. But the Illuminatus was already moving. His left hand came up to catch the thug's wrist in a crushing grip, then quickly flipped him to the ground and smashed a fist into his face in a classic jujitsu throw. The others were stunned at first, then roared in fury as they brandished weapons and charged.
Blake weaved away from the first be-nailed bat as he drew a tanto-style combat knife. As the bat came up again, he stepped in close and stabbed the goon in the throat. He flipped the dying ganger around as he removed his knife, to shield himself from another studded bat. As the nails sank into the now-corpse's back, Jericho hurled it towards the guys in front of him, thereby tripping them up. Sensing others behind him, he did a clean backward roll and ended up on one knee, thrusting over his right shoulder as he did, straight into the guts of the nearest attacker.
His left forearm came up to block a chain whipping towards his head from the other goon at his rear. As the chain wrapped about his arm, he stood, pivoted, and tugged on the chain in one smooth movement. By the time the thug thought to release the chain, Jericho's keen knife was slashing through his jugular and trachea. Only three 'toros' remained facing Blake. He stood calmly, the knife in his right hand dripping blood, his left hand reaching up to straighten his Aviators.
Their leader still out cold, half their number down in seconds, the gang members came to a decision. The bravest one spoke up. "Ok, you puto bastardo. You can go. But you better not come back here!" But to their dismay, Jericho Blake smiled grimly as he shook his head. "Sorry, boys. But I saw your gang tat. That means none of you leave here alive."
They were starting to ask why when Blake, his face devoid of emotion, rushed forward to kill them.
*************************************************************
Jericho Blake stepped out of the Tabula Rasa hotel into the cold, foggy London night. He belted the black trench coat closed, but left the buttons undone, for easier access to the shoulder holsters beneath. As the moon was nothing but a thin sliver, it's wan light could not make it through the fog, thus the streets were pitch dark outside the limited range of the street lights. But Blake did not remove his Ray Ban Aviator glasses as he crossed Ealdwic Park with his long, relaxed stride, seemingly unconcerned with any possible threats from the darkness around him.
As he walked by the bright lights glaring from Ealdwic station - now closed, and turned into a marketplace, among other things - he thought about the small gathering he had just left. He was starting to get a feel for the dynamics within the Toolbox. His new coworkers were as varied as you would expect from the collective's name. And you do expect certain personality types in this kind of work. Still, the leadership was friendly enough. And all the women in short skirts were a bonus for Blake.
Soon he reached Covent Garden station, and slowly made his way down the steps. As it was not yet midnight, there were quite a few passengers waiting for the train, mostly young people seeking the Piccadilly night life. The tall, sandy haired man dressed in black and wearing shades at night drew looks from some of the young women, particularly the more goth inclined, but his grim expression kept any interaction at bay.
He waited less than ten minutes for his train, and soon got off at Piccadilly Circus Station. There he blended into the crowd of party- or oblivion- seekers as he switched to a south-bound train. Shortly after midnight, he left the last train to arrive for the night at the Elephant and Castle station. He climbed the long stairway up into the cool night air, anticipation building as he neared his goal.
The streets in this unfortunately crime-ridden area were essentially empty at this late hour, except in streets where bars and nightclubs were clustered together. Here, people hungry for thrills or desperate for money were plentiful, and unknowingly - or knowingly in some cases - easy prey for urban predators of more than one variety. Jericho Blake stayed in the darkness as much as he could, wishing to avoid any unnecessary interruptions.
He was not altogether successful. He ignored entreaties from tired- looking soiled doves and sellers of illicit pharmaceuticals. Trouble started as he walked by the abandoned, half demolished Heygate Estates. The blocky, neo-brutalist compound was once hailed as the future of urban living, but was now an abandoned warren en route to demolition. But Jericho was not musing on the foibles of urban renewal when he heard the expected challenge from the figures he had sensed approaching him in the darkness. "Hold it right there, cabrón!"
Blake stopped as at least half a dozen thugs approached him. They seemed to be mostly Latinos wearing gang colors, and conspicuously armed with knives, chains, and even a couple of bats festooned with nails. No firearms he could see -- this was England, after all. He stood tall and seemingly unconcerned as they surrounded him. "You are in Los Toros territory, gringo!" They hefted their weapons menacingly as they approached. "Let's start with your wallet, watch, and cell, and then we see what happens."
Jericho Blake looked around at them, a thin smile on his face. "Am I supposed to be scared here?" The gangbangers' leader blinked. "Que carajo dijiste, gringo maricón?" He reached out to backhand Jericho. But the Illuminatus was already moving. His left hand came up to catch the thug's wrist in a crushing grip, then quickly flipped him to the ground and smashed a fist into his face in a classic jujitsu throw. The others were stunned at first, then roared in fury as they brandished weapons and charged.
Blake weaved away from the first be-nailed bat as he drew a tanto-style combat knife. As the bat came up again, he stepped in close and stabbed the goon in the throat. He flipped the dying ganger around as he removed his knife, to shield himself from another studded bat. As the nails sank into the now-corpse's back, Jericho hurled it towards the guys in front of him, thereby tripping them up. Sensing others behind him, he did a clean backward roll and ended up on one knee, thrusting over his right shoulder as he did, straight into the guts of the nearest attacker.
His left forearm came up to block a chain whipping towards his head from the other goon at his rear. As the chain wrapped about his arm, he stood, pivoted, and tugged on the chain in one smooth movement. By the time the thug thought to release the chain, Jericho's keen knife was slashing through his jugular and trachea. Only three 'toros' remained facing Blake. He stood calmly, the knife in his right hand dripping blood, his left hand reaching up to straighten his Aviators.
Their leader still out cold, half their number down in seconds, the gang members came to a decision. The bravest one spoke up. "Ok, you puto bastardo. You can go. But you better not come back here!" But to their dismay, Jericho Blake smiled grimly as he shook his head. "Sorry, boys. But I saw your gang tat. That means none of you leave here alive."
They were starting to ask why when Blake, his face devoid of emotion, rushed forward to kill them.
*************************************************************