//------------------------------// // Laughter // Story: Virtues // by Sir Alexander Wolfgang //------------------------------// The long narrow halls echoed with the last shrieks, and cries of hope. People were brought to this place, tricked into coming, dragged if they had to be. No one came willingly but the people responsible for their captivity. There was, on the top floor, an office. In this office sat a strange, old, foreign man. He spoke a throaty voice, like a creature who lurked in the depths of the deepest caverns. “I’m not so sure those pups are worth the fifty thousand.” He said, hinting at his inner greed. Across from him sat a woman. She dressed as you might expect a homeless person to dress, or perhaps someone insane. Her bright pink hair, on the sides, was held close to her scalp in tight plaits, while on top it stayed poofy. It was all pulled together in one big ponytail, with a little sticking out from under the front of her knit cap. “Really?” She asked. “Because I’m pretty darn sure they are. I mean, sure they might not be strong, or anything, but I’m sure you’ll get a buyer on that pinkette. I mean, you saw her, she’s practically gold, when it comes to sex slaves. And those kids? Well, theres no shortage of perverts, am I right?” She gave a big toothy smile to finish her pitch. “True, very much so.” He peered through his wire frame glasses, eying the woman up and down, like a piece of meat. “So,” she began, “are we making the deal,or not?” The man sighed heavily, as he reclined back into his cheap office chair, crossing his legs. He didn’t say anything for the longest of time, and the woman could only stare back at him, and his wrinkly grey skin. He was like an animal. Like a dog. Like a man unfit for humanity. “I suppose.” He finally said. “Great,” the peppy woman stood, and offered a hand out to him. He looked at it for a moment. He took her hand, and shook it. He continued to stare up at her with a piercing, and hollow gaze. His eyes were like bright yellow lights, with small pinprick pupils that were the opening to a deep black abyss. An abyss that swallowed all hope. “Stop by tomorrow, and I will have your payment ready.” “Awesome! See ya’ then!” She bounced out of the room, and to an elevator, leaving the man all alone in his office. He looked over his diamond ring, it sparkled with the slightest glimmers of light. The woman skipped along the street, cold air hardly slowing her down.The snow had melted, but it’s remnants remained. She loved it with all her heart could love, and just a little more than that. She loved everything that much. Never would she be down, and never would she seep into a cold depression, just like every other person in this drab city of sinners. As she strut along, people passed her by. People of all shapes and sizes. People young and poor, and people old and rich. People who smelled funny, and people who smelled like roses. Bums, whores, and saints. Blacks, whites, yellows, reds, and every other type of person. She loved it here. The diversity of it all. So many people to see, and so many friends to make. Even if you’re going to sell them to a group of savage mongrels as soon as you can. The buildings that reached way up into the sky, and the muck, and filth that ran deep into the slimey gutters, and sewers. She loved everything about this place, and she just wanted to see every bit of it before she had to leave again. She had been to Manehatten before, but never too long. Just long enough to enjoy the splendors of the city, and do what she does. Laugh, and have a good time. She was a vagabond. And a vagabond will never settle down. Within the hour she found herself back at the Folkvangr Fields park. The park was packed to the brim with almost all of the city’s homeless, in a five square mile plot of land. Being homeless in Manehatten changed you. It hardened you. Almost like it made you a warrior of sorts, that must turn your tattered collar to the cold night air in an awkward, but quiet desperation just hoping to survive to see the sunlight hoist itself above the horizon. It either made you a warrior, or it destroyed you from the inside out. Made you insane, like there was some parasite milling about your insides, just eating away at your mind, until you become almost feral. A slave to your own freedom. But having your own place of residence was taxing to the soul, as well. You don’t live in Manehatten unless you sacrifice a part of yourself, like a token to the gods. They were just as dead as any homeless person. Dead on the inside. A skin shell pulled over the frame of a human. Either way, you became the dead. Not dead in a physical sense, but as dead as the living could be. People with homes could say they lived in a land of paradise compared to the scrappy people of Folkvangr. They did. But they too were dead. Both lived meaningless existences, void of even the slightest iota of purpose. Dust in the wind. Like clockwork they filled the streets, taking up space, breathing almost toxic air, letting life sap away from them little by little. The park itself yearned for the days when it was a place of beauty. Before its grass became so lifeless, and its trees withered, and died. Before its paths, bridges, and fountains became dull, dry, and without what used to make them something great. And this is where the homeless lived. Somewhere that was a shadow of itself. An environment that truly reflected it’s inhabitants. Those who became cold and distant to the world, waiting to join the great black oblivion just like every other person who had taken their first and last breath. The woman with vibrant pink hair, hidden under a ratty knit cap, settled down under a tree. That tree had once stood high, and glorious. Now its branches twisted high, bare of any leaves. They were long, erratic, black, and seemed as if they wanted to touch the sky. Or perhaps be graced with the gracious gift of life once more. All around the park were small groups of people, going about their day. Talking, and what not. Thinking about what tomorrow will bring. Hoping it takes them away. They had realized long ago that preparing for tomorrow was pointless when you didn’t know what it held in store for you. She opened her courier bag, then pilfered through the many papers, documents, and the occasional wrapped snack. From deep within she pulled out a small, battered laptop. It was red, with the occasional grey streak. It was a laptop you would expect a homeless person to own, if you’d expect a homeless person to own one. She opened it, and the screen lit up immediately. She clicked here, and she clicked there. She typed the words that would bring her to a the very deepest parts of the internet. The darknet. The darknet was a horribly macabre networking of websites that would let you find everything you can’t find on the other side of the internet. Since there is not monitoring it you can buy drugs, guns, stolen goods, porn that is in every way, sick, and depraved, hire hitmen, find people you would want to meet, and of course, purchase humans. She found the particular site she needed. It was called: DiamondDogFlesh.com. At the top of the page was a grouping of silhouettes that looked half human half canine. Above them was the Diamond Dog logo. A dogs mouth, with the teeth colored to look like diamonds. Below these graphics was a paragraph that essentially described the purpose of this sight. In short: Buy these people before we send them elsewhere. The woman browsed through the website. She found what she was looking for. The newest people that were to be sold like cattle. These bastards had already uploaded pictures of the people this woman had sold them. She was astonished at how fast, and apparently proffesional these degenerates were. Next to pictures of other people, most of which were attractive young women, were two pictures side by side. There were pictures of two children. Both girls. One with red hair, a yellow shirt, and dirty jeans, and one with swirly pink and white hair, in an expensive, though ripped, shirt, and black skinny jeans. Under the pictures it had their names. The redhead was named Bloom. The other one was named Sheeni. Next to their names were their prices. Thirty grand for each. She looked deep into their eyes. They were like little pits of hopelessness. Tears lined their faces, streaking the layer of filth on their cheeks. The look on their faces were the kind of faces people make when they are certain that they will die. A cold glaze, that somehow sent the message of pure fright, and that only the most soulless of creatures could truly stare back at in an unflinching stare. To make a purchase you must email the website. You must give the names of those you wish to buy, and set a date, and place to make the transaction. The woman made a few clicks, and all of a sudden she was typing out an email. Hello! On your website I noticed two little beauties I must claim for the collection. I find the price to be well below a reasonable price. How about we meet on the Acionna bluffs, just north of the city. The 19th of Ylir. I’ll be waiting with your money around, oh say, midnight? Please get back to me and confirm this purchase. Oh, and as for names? Just call me Mr. Larson. She sent the email, then tucked her laptop back into the confines of her bag. From out of it she pulled a quilt her mother had sewn for her. It was pink, and glitzy. Next she pulled out a pink plush pony, that she snuggled with every night. The pony was what the woman imagined she would look like if she were a pony. So cute and bubbly. Both these things had been hers since she was a small child growing up on her parents farm. She almost worried about someone trying to steal these from her. But then she remembered that she had her own personal protector. Every night she had slept in the park, he had been there for her. Sitting next to her was an old toothless man, obviously one of the many homeless here. His suit was brown, and stained with time, face hidden behind the grey bush of his beard. Atop his crown was a black knit cap, with white and green hair poking out from under it. This man had taken a liking to the pink haired woman. And what else? This man had fits of insanity where he genuinely believed himself to be an alligator. Or a lizard. She called him Gummy. She took great comfort knowing that she could sleep through the night under his vigilant eye. And finally, using her courier bag as pillow, the woman curled up into a ball, holding her plush close, and pulling the quilt firmly around them both, she let the lovely hand of dreams caress her mind. Gummy stared aimlessly, occasionally flicking his tongue out to taste the air. Morning was here. A newspaper rode the wind, letting itself glide across the air until it collided with a sleeping woman’s face. She woke up, instantly. She brushed the page away, but before the wind could carry it away again she snatched it off the ground. She read the title: Four Slain, Two Vanished She blinked for a moment, waking herself up, then wiped away a bit of drool creeping down her face. She scooted so that her back was against the tree behind her, but letting the quilt stay over her legs. Gummy was curled into a ball to her side, gently snoozing. She began to skim through the article. It was simply tragic. Some criminals had a scuffle, taking a child in the crossfire. Apparently the child was being held hostage, alongside two others. The other two escaped. According to the article two detectives were investigating a crime syndicate, and that is what triggered the massacre. The woman maintained a certain level of indifference. She couldn’t do anything for any of the people murdered, so a few shed tears wouldn’t do any good. She crumpled the paper into a ball, and tossed it away, no care for where it might end up. She stood, and put away her quilt and plush. The air was still chilly, but gradually warming as time ticked by, second by second. She hopped the low stone wall not far away, and continued her merry trip towards her destination. People dodged her, or she they. She zipped between businessmen, and slid through crooks, running down the sidewalk, seeing a bright and cheerful world that was her playground. Finally, she stood looking across the street. There stood a white, four story building. No one had ever questioned it. Why would they? It was tucked away near the docks, positioned so as not to be disturbed. To be on its own, and so that the people inside could conduct their business. The woman waited for a car to roll by, then she crossed the street. “You were right, my dear!” The old wolfish man said, grinning. Exposing unusually sharp canines. “‘Bout what?” The woman asked, plopping down into the chair across from him. “About those little girls,” he heaved a heavy black case onto his desk. “We’ve already arranged for them to be sold off to a new owner. I sent the confirmation email just a about an hour ago.” “Really?” The woman took the case and sat it next to her on the floor. “Both of ‘em?” “Yes. Both.” He relaxed into his chair. “Well, I hope they get treated okie dokie.” She giggled to herself. “Yes,” he waved his hand through the air as he spoke, “well it’s much better than what would have happened had they not been purchased.” The lady cocked her head to the side, “Ya’ know, you never told me what you guys do with the folks you don’t sell.” “I think it’s best for both of us that I keep it that way, don’t you?” She leaned forward, into an almost pleading position, “Come oooooooooooon, we’ve done business every time I’ve stopped by in Manehatten, you can trust me!” “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it-” “Oh, you don’t like me?” She jerked back as if she were offended. “No, it’s-” “Do I smell bad,” she sniffed her armpit. “No-” She put a finger into his face “You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?” “Hush!” He finally yelled. “Are you insane?” She leaned back into her chair, crossing her legs, then said simply: “No.” “Listen, I’ll tell you.” “Oh, you will?” She put her hands to her face, “No recon work for me, I guess.” “Hush now, or I won’t say a word more.” She zipped a metaphorical zipper on her lips. “Excellent.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “We are an international group. We have stakes in many different interests, but trafficking humans is the most financially rewarding of all of them. This is not the hub to purchase people. We have many throughout the globe. Almost have of the people we come into ownership of, we ship off to mine the tunnels, and cracks in a small desolate country called Karge. My home country, as a matter of fact.” “Ooooooooh, what do they mine? How do they get there? Are there dogs in the tunnels? What does international mean?” “Zip it!” “Oh, sorry,” she giggled, shyly. “Alright, as I was saying, they mine diamonds, and precious gems. The earth below Karge is rich in them. The only real competition we have in regards to these gems is a fellow operating in a country far to the north, on the border between Equestria and Helheim, all through the Crystal Empire. An old bastard of a man. We tried to operate with him, but the malanky fool brushed us off. ” “That is so cool,” she was in awe of some sort, “especially the references to norse mythology!” “What?” The vagabond reached out, and hugged the man “See ya later!” And she was gone. He maintained puzzlement as he watched the woman shut the door, copious amounts of pep in her step. She certainly was a queer one. He simply sat in his chair, relaxing now. The man sat there. Just thinking. Thinking about the old man in the north. How it must be a hell what his slaves go through. All of them worked in a land of freezing ice, and where the snow was a never ending torrent, as if the sky was breaking away, and small chips fluttered down from the beyond.. But he realized he was in the exact same business, doing almost the exact same things. Somehow he still felt a bit of righteousness in his ways. He didn’t know how, but he did. Somehow, he did. As the woman skipped down the halls, she noticed a commotion ahead. She stopped. Before her was a woman being escorted by two guards. The woman had light pink hair, and wore rags that looked old, and dingy. Like filth. The slave made eye contact with the woman. She defied the guards, and stopped. For a long moment the woman studied this slave’s body. It was the one she had sold yesterday, the one who looked like a model, with the grace of a butterfly. It was Fay. Only a day in captivity, and Fay was clearly a damaged person. Her eyes were red, and her face was streaked with mascara. On her body were more than a few cuts, and bruises, several still fresh, oozing blood. Her hair was turning grey, now. How? She was still in her twenties. But regardless, grey strands of hair were discerned from the rest of her messy pink mane, giving the sign of an all too great stress. “W-Why?” she muttered. Her words were useless. That instant a guard grabbed her by her hair, and flung her into the floor, spit on her, while the other shouted insults at her. They looked up expecting to see the happy young woman, but only saw an empty hallway leading to an office, where lives were ruined. Snow fell like ash after an apocalypse. A large, stout man sat leaned against a van, looking out over the ocean atop the Acionna bluffs. He checked his watch. Midnight. Any moment now someone would roll up, and give him sixty thousand dollars for two nuggets of precious cargo. He heard tires rolling over earth, under the sound of waves crashing into the rocks along the coast. He took one final drag on his cigarette, then tossed it out to sea. On the far side of the van, his partner stepped out, holding a pump action shotgun. They both walked to the back of the van as headlights approached like the eyes of a demon after their lives. The blinding lights of the car disappeared, but only for a moment. The other vehicle was but twenty feet away from the two men. Then, the lights came back on. The men were stunned, for now there stood a figure in front of the lights, casting an eerie shadow. The large man spoke. “Are you Larson?” No response came, nor did any movement. “You deaf?” He became slightly angry. “Who are you?” He began to come unnerved. Still there was no response. Only a shadow dark silhouette to stare into. “I’ll ask one more time,” The man said in a hushed, menacing, tone, “Who the fuck are you?” From the silhouette came a childish laugh, like a young toddler was present. It sent chills down the spines of both men, freezing them where they stood. A loud roar came from the shotgun, and the silhouette just stood, a gaping hole in it’s torso, light shining through like end of a long bleak tunnel. The laughing ended as the man pumped his gun. He shot again, this time at the legs. The silhouette fell forward. It landed, not with a thud, but a like a piece of paper. The car’s headlights cast light onto it, denouncing it’s status as a silhouette, revealing it to be a simple cardboard cut out. The men looked at each other. Both were dumbfounded, and a loss for words. Again, they heard the sound of tires rolling over dirt. They looked behind them, and saw the taillights of their van vanishing into the night, leaving them alone, confused, and enraged. The large man sat on the ground, as his friend muttered curses, and shouted in anger. And he just laughed until he could laugh no more.