The Industrialist

"Business, you say," The goon asked.

"Black market business. I have a supply of merch if he wants," Lance responded.

"What kind of merch? Powder?" Rigor teased. "Dealers, are we?

"The Unitech merch that he advertised," Lance replied, ignoring Rigor.

The goon did not answer but he gestured both visitors to invite them for an inspection and took themselves at the end of the stairs where the door stood.

Rigor did the inspection, he insisted. He trained his hands over Damian’s body without missing an inch, except for the groin of course. He had these deathly stares towards Damian during his search but the latter effortlessly complied, emotionless and arms widespread.

His handgun was already submitted in the box full of other weapons, knives, handguns, even iron knuckles, and other small weapons easy to smuggle inside Bloomforge border security.

Despite the hostility, Damian’s face had maintained nonchalance, like he could twist Rigor’s neck for a split second. Lance and Damian had alternative stares as if they were communicating telepathically, the former restraining the latter to implode with his brute force towards the foolish perp.

Apparently, the deed was easy to execute. Damian had this typical ex-soldier built while Rigor had the opposite. Rigor seemed to have suffered hunger every day and relied on drugs to keep himself strong, mentally, and energetic. His bony facial features suggested that he was in his early forties, or maybe younger but the drugs could have accelerated his aging.

’This Mafia could have dealt drugs in the black market,’ Lance thought.

Lance heard stories about a party drug that overdosed three girls on rage party night. The drug was called Synapz. Jonaz Enterprises probably had dealt these drugs inside Bloomforge and spread them to adjacent Sectors.

Which made them more dangerous.

"You’re good, pretty boy," Rigor turned to Lance and the latter followed as Damian did. He spread his arms and legs apart.

"Elementary, are we?" Rigor said, his hoarse voice sounded like a gargle up close. "Young to be in this neighborhood. I hope you know what you’re doin’ kid. Pretty boy would not be around all the time to protect you."

Rigor was thorough, hands clasping his lanky limbs hard never missing an inch, except his crotch. Rigor’s hand found the strap protruding against his upper clothing and training to his back where his knife was holstered.

"Something fishy about you, kid." Rigor chuckled menacingly. "What do we have here?"

Lance did not respond and let the perp took out his knife in a scabbard from the straps.

"Wooh, nice weapon. Uncommon level." Rigor struck the air with the knife still holstered in its scabbard. It was apparent that this perp liked to play with knives, his expression says it all. "I would like to keep this for myself."

Rigor laughed softly. His eyes never left the kid.

"You can’t do that. It has sentimental value," Lance responded. "Besides, that knife does not suit you. It looked way too good for you."

Rigor laughed preposterously, and his stares pierced to the kid after.

"Rigor," the larger goon reprimanded. "Submit the weapon will yah and let’s get on with this."

Rigor followed suit without further bullying.

"Your face I would remember, fishy," Rigor said to Lance as the former opened the metallic door. "Easily, I say." He emphasized.

The larger goon told them the directions to Jonaz’s office.

Lance and Damian pressed on a constricted concrete tunnel-like entrance. Graphic vandalism filled the well-smoothened concrete, dim red lights illuminated the space causing him to be disheartened and discouraging his pace.

"Having second thoughts, kid?" Damian asked as soon as he realized.

"No," Lance responded despite knowing that Damian was right. This was a necessity, a significant way of marketing his Zelkian production. He could not transport Zelkian Abominant, or any Abominant, into Sectoral Border inspections, otherwise, the Governing Laws Department (GLD) concretized these laws that one would be incarcerated. "We proceed as planned."

He gained faster steps this time into the constricted way and towards the door located at the opposite end.

"Ready, kid?" Damian asked as his palm was ready to push the door open.

Lance only nodded and Damian pushed the door open. To their surprise, they were greeted with a calmer environment. The ominous graphic vandals on the walls and the dim red lights were replaced by comforting music and a refreshing set of overhung penlights.

It was a larger room with high ceilings heaved with sophisticated couches and dining tables. The walls seemed to neutralize the place with a comforting glow - the absence of any graphic abstract vandals sophisticated the place.

The unpainted walls had a rustic finish as if emulating close to a wooden design. There was no wood furniture or even wooden walls. All were concrete and metallic.

They don’t have trees, remember.

Despite the absence of wood, the interior design managed to duplicate wooden features in corners and wall borders through the artistic use of paint. Expensive bottles of wine and spirits filled a bar at the opposite end of the well-arranged dining cubicles. Behind the array of expensive bottles placed on depressed cabinets, a bluish glow radiated refracting varied colors against the beverages.

The LED lights were spaced and designed to achieve tranquility, not bright enough to awaken the resting nerves, but to soothe hurting souls.

Lance felt the vibe. It was way more different than what was outside.

’Bloomforge underground,’ Lance thought.

"Welcome, guests," The bartender said as they ambled in a carpeted floor. His voice was welcoming without a hint of hostility. Only friendliness. His suit clads with a black silky suit, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Despite his sociable demeanor, his arms portrayed otherwise.

They were demonic tattoo designs all over them that ran along his fingers, deftly wiping kitchen knife smeared with little red liquid.

’Probably blood,’ Lance thought upon the sight of it.

At the far end corner, settled three bodyguards, assuming as they have similar clothing, with their attention striking towards the two guests.

On the other end, farther from the goons, a larger and more comfortable dining partition encircled five upper-echelon citizens – jewelry on their wrists and neck, pastel-colored clothing, wine glasses on their table, and a bulk of slimy flesh in a dish.

The woman server, clearly a commoner, poured a bright pinkish liquid into their empty wine glasses. As the liquid was dispensed, a thick pinkish smoke appeared as it touched the glass, floating downwards, creeping to their feet, and filling the bottom of their table as if they were in a pinkish cloud.

Lance had never seen such a beverage in his entire life. Strands of pinkish smoke crept to their feet as well, like it was alive, its smoky ends extended like arms reaching, to find solace or an exit to a cruel slavery. The pinkish smoke encircled to Lance’s feet and it crept to his nostrils.

It had a different smell; it was incomprehensible that he could not explain at first. For a second, it smelled like metallic trash, identical to the scrapyards, and as it subsided, it was already aromatic – like the lady’s perfume that the middle-classers wore.

Despite the aroma, his vision seemed to blur for a second. His mind floated a bit to a succumbing rest. Seemingly, his limbs limped to his sides as if energy escaped him.

His sanity was challenged, and the surroundings vibrated accompanied by throbbing waves of pain at the center of his forehead.

’Synapz,’ Lance overcame and relied on his mental strength. Damian felt the same but he stood still without the smoke affected his stance, his face concerned with the flaccid kid.

The five customers seemed delighted with the smoke, their laugh echoing towards the high ceilings. Right after, the server poured another liquid, a white viscous liquid flowed from a different bottle to the bulk of slimy flesh, as large as the soccer ball on a porcelain dish.

The server handled the bottle so deftly that the liquid was poured, even though it was high from the dish but avoided splattering to the encircling customers. As the liquid bathed the slimy flesh, it moved. A few tentacles unrolled from the bulking flesh like it was alive. It stayed on the plate, fortunately.

Lance gagged upon the site of it, gruesome to even fathom. However, the customers were at their peaks of joy.

"Ah, you are lookin’ for Jonaz?’ The Bartender asked.

"Yes," Lance replied. The bartender pointed to the door at the far end. He was not sure if the slimy flesh of dish just moved because it was triggered by the liquid or just the effects of the drug, Synapz.

"That door will take to him after a flight of stairs. Please proceed, guests," The bartender said.

They continued to press on, passing through the center of the restaurant.