The Rising Dawn # 17— "The Fraternity and the Polis"
- David Parker
- Oct 2, 2023
- 4 min read
[Short stories. Images generated by hotpot.ai]
Zane Frederick was known as The Magister, and to be honest, he mostly traded in violence. His brotherhood had won control of a number of precincts in Rook City, and he sought control of the whole city. His rival was the Irish Mob boss, “Danny Boy,” McGrills, who was known to botch the singing of his namesake; calling him Danny Boy to his face was often a fatal, or at least injurious, mistake. The Magister had garnered a brotherhood of religious gangsters, a secret criminal society known as The Fraternity, although among themselves they were the Snakebites.
They were called this because the initiation was to endure the venom of an adder for a set period of time before being fed the antidote. After being tattooed and sworn in, they received secret military training from the Fraternity, having access to a facility that trained them to be nearly as deadly as US Marines and Special Ops, of which they had in their number. Even their professional hackers and spies were required to endure the snakebite, as well as complete the Boot (military training).
They were feared in every precinct, and Athens District was simply called The Precinct, referring to the one in Zane’s control.
Recently, they were corralling organized flash mobs of thieves in the precincts controlled by McGrills, taking a share of the yield of the contraband, but mostly just to make the Irish mob look like they had no control of their districts. This would foment discontent and sow discord, especially since the businesses already paid protection money.
The Magister made use of every race and nationality, in the Greek fashion of the Polis: Add to the Polis, and you were in. Take away from the Polis, and you were out. Otherwise, the number of actual Grecians were few.
Zane’s Fraternity, which he inherited from his grandfather, specialized in hitmen, and hence were held in terror. If you wanted it done cheap, you could take a risk with a rival mobster. But if you wanted it done, period, you paid The Magister. Otherwise, it was a simple matter of out-selling cocaine and other substances, sourced from undisclosed vendors.
Frederick’s anger was aroused, as the carefully planned rings of flash robberies had been thwarted by the Sentinels, who were associated with the Rising Dawn. Outliers, they called them. The street kids with their hammers and crowbars, even their guns, were no match for Brawler, their robot, their she-devil, and Ruppert, and The Magister refused to say the word “Gallant” unless it was completely necessary.
Zane Frederick hated Outliers, freaks of nature who didn’t understand mob etiquette. They caused problems everywhere, and were bad for business. His nephew, called The Study, had fallen in with an Outlier, the family member best forgotten.
Leesha Stellar, The Ice, didn’t need to come in person, usually. But they were organizing a major operation in retaliation against the Dawns.
“So, The Ice. Do we have access to Whacks?” He referred to the advanced weaponry used by The Shop, powered by Blue Energy.
“The Wulf was unwilling to part with any,” she said, and Zane was nonplussed. He was used to things not going his way all the time. She continued, “But we have connections with The Sphinx. He has a good source of Outlier Blood, and his drugs are head and shoulders above The Shop.”
“Get me all of it. How much?”
“He can supe up about fifteen hops.”
‘Hop’ meant “hoplite,” an ancient Greek word for a soldier in a phalanx. Zane, though his name suggested otherwise, was Grecian. “Hoplite” was code, which most of the police pretended not to know. The name, Magister, was also Greek.
“And they can go toe to toe with those crooks?” Even though he was the crook.
“They’re hardly criminals. But I was wondering if I might have a taste.”
“Of the drugs? You’re already a killing machine.”
“They’re gonna make me jealous.”
“What are these drugs named?”
“They call it the Drive. They say it awakens your ether.”
“Sure. Whatever that means.”
At length, they made arrangements to secure the Drive, top secret, especially concerning Danny-Boy McGrills. The last thing they needed was suped up Irish mobsters. The Magister had always preferred quality over quantity, although McGrills was resourceful with his numbers, and quantity had a quality of its own. But if they got their hands on The Drive, it could destroy everything he worked for.
He lit up a cigar. His hops rarely got iced, but against the Dawn Society, they had been sent packing a few times. Grego, the immigrant that got ahold of his nephew, was one of them. Maybe he could win back Porter, The Study, if the Trainer was dealt with. But as for now, cocaine wouldn’t be amiss, and he adored his grinders with Kalamata olives, and he made a point to source well-made Ouzo, which was essentially unobtainable for most of the Polis. Or anyone. His health was waning, but his mind was sharp, and what was the point of money if you couldn’t have nice things?
The Magister thought in wonder what kind of hellcat The Ice would be if she got access to The Drive.
*-------------------------------------------*
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