Killian Peepel
From The Encyclopedia of Pointless
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Contents |
Prologue
It was cold and dark at the edges of the city. The night chill cut through my coat and bit into my skin, clawing at the only warmth left in this forsaken place. In the distance lights twinkled, an everlasting reminder of my duty. The badge in my coat felt heavy, heavier than you'd think it would feel, heavier than anything else in this life. It was heavy with my duty, and heavy with the souls of those who got in the way of my duty. Tubbo Police Department, it said, in gleaming brass. To serve and protect. To protect those lights there, on that horizon. The lights of Tubbo City.
My name's Killian Peepel. It says that on my badge, too. That name has about as much meaning to me as other words like happiness or warmth. The cold winds billowed around me on a mission, sinking their claws into me and taking the last warmth I had. I drew my faded coat closer, hanging onto it like my last bit of humanity as the cruel wind grabbed at it. Sirens in the distance, carried by the wind from those distant lights reminded me of why I was out here in the cold.
Chapter 1
"Hey! Kil!" That was Paul, my latest partner. "Could you come out here for a second?" He ducked his head out of my office door. Something seemed different about him. His voice, his demeanor, everything about him screamed he was hiding something, trying to act casual when the situation was anything but. I was cleaning my .45 when he interrupted me, but by the time he ducked away I had the gun back together and was sliding a fresh clip into place. I racked the slide and carefully crept up to the door. There were shushed, excited voices on the other side. These guys were obviously not professional assassins.
I took a deep breath and kicked the door down and dove sideways. No shots yet, but then I saw him: a tall man in a dark coat. He was my first target. He said, "Surprise, Kil!" and reached into his coat, but I was too fast for him. Before he could pull out what was in his coat, I filled him with enough lead to take care of his next of kin too. The man's knees buckled, and as his body hit the ground I could see he was holding a crumple of paper. His position was safer than where I was, so I ran to him and took the opportunity to take a look. It was tickets to a Butterballs game. I couldn't imagine why he'd have those, but I pocketed them anyway. Maybe I'd take the kid for a day at the park. I heard footsteps approaching from my left, so I flattened against the wall and readied my hardware to pick them off as they came into view.
"Kil, what are you doing?" From my right? Where did they come from? I spun and fired without bothering to get a good glance and a couple of my shots went wide, hitting inches from their mark. Then I saw it was a couple of pencil-pushers, Bob and Dick or Rob and Rick or something like that. They must not have heard the gunshots, they weren't even armed. I let loose at them and ran like the devil himself was on their tails. I might have winged one of them, I don't know. If I see him again I'll finish him off. There's no sense in making a guy suffer. I slid another clip into my .45 and spun to meet my next foes.
A wave of realization had spread throughout the precinct like hot iron. Those feet to my left were armed to bear, with vests and shotguns. They weren't sure where I was going to be, though, and I used that to my advantage. In the time it took them to spot me I already had one guy down with a bullet in his head. The other two opened up at me but they only caught my coat. I was behind a desk before they could shoot again. Then I heard another voice. "Killian, calm down. Nobody wants to hurt me."
The voice was Michelle Gorbez, one of our top detectives. She was a Latino with wild flowing black hair to match her wild temper. I'd trust her with everything but my guns. We had even seen each other a couple times, in years past, but she couldn't stand all the killing. She never hardened her heart to the needs of others. I guess now she was planning on talking me down, but I had other plans. I gave her a slug to the gut to make sure she didn't try anything funny, then I pulled out one of the grenades from my coat and tossed it over my shoulder and straight at her and her SWAT goons.
While they shouted "Grenade!" and scattered like mice before the cat I took the opportunity to run across the office and duck into the first door I saw, and ended up in Commissioner Jackson's office. He was dozing on his desk. The poor fool didn't know what hit him. The last thing he felt was my barrel on the back of his head, and then I covered his desk with fresh brains. Before the goons could regroup and squeeze off a few more rounds in my direction I picked up the Commissioner and tossed him at the window. He broke two more things that day, the window, and then the fall from his second-floor office. We landed on one of the patrol cars parked outside, luckily close to my own car. After muttering a thanks to the Commissioner, I rolled off of him and stepped into the car. I climbed in, turned the ignition, and drove off like it was just another day at the office.
Because it was.
I didn't drive far, just to a safe spot I knew I could wait until darkness. One of my buddies owns a warehouse down on Industry Drive, where he does some business I don't ask about. I drive my car through one of the overhead doors and wait for night to fall. The warehouse was dark and everything was covered in a layer of dust. Looked like business was slow. I raided the break room fridge anyway and started a pot of coffee. I always hated the waiting. The phone rang, which surprised me. The way business looked, it had to be somebody who knew I'd be here.
I yanked the phone to my ear and listened.
"Uh... hello?" It was a woman's voice on the other end. It seemed familiar, like out of a long-forgotten dream.
"Who are you? What do you want?" I demanded. I didn't appreciate anyone I didn't know calling me "Honey."
"Kil. So you are there. I thought we talked about this already. I don't want to have to keep bailing you out all the time." Her voice was less sultry now, more of an annoying falsetto.
"You better tell me who you are!?" I yelled into the receiver like it were Satan's own little black box.
"I'm Connie, Kil Your wife! The only reason you're not locked away someplace with padded walls!"
"That's impossible." It couldn't be true. These were sweet promises the voice was tempting me with, but I knew better. "My wife died three years ago in a brutal murder by a bunch of drug addicts!"
"No, Kil, I'm your wife, and we've been married for three years. Remember? Remember Jackie's third birthday last week?" The only things I could remember were cries of pain and the smell of fresh blood. Oh, and brightly colored balloons.
"Jackie! She's alive?" No, that couldn't be either. I remembered too well what I found in Jackie's bedroom that fateful night three years ago. "No, that's impossible! Who are you, tempting me like this?"
"Jackie's still alive." the voice soothed, "We're all still alive. Nobody's dead. Your family is safe and here and we all want you to relax and just come home. Do you understand that?"
I thought over the situation carefully. I wanted to believe what she was saying, I would give anything to have my family back. But how could it be true? I was so confused. Killing people wasn't supposed to be this complex.
"Well... I don't know about my family, but I'm pretty sure all those people at the Precinct are dead." I smiled in satisfaction. They'd think twice about throwing another surprise party.
"Precinct? No, thankfully nobody's dead this time. Ted's in intensive care, but the doctors are optimistic. Said something about maybe you two would get to go to that game after all." I felt the tickets in my pocket. So that was his plan. An ambush at the ballpark.
I mulled it over for a moment. Some of the things she said got to me. Was my family really dead? Now that I thought about it, I wasn't really sure. Maybe it was just one of those First Person Shooters I was remembering. "Okay," I decided at last, "I'll be home tonight. We'll figure things out then." I dropped the phone back on the hook without bothering to wait for a response.
In the corner of the factory, hidden by a few loose wall boards, I kept a little stash of guns. I filled my coat with ordinance and also pulled out my trump card: a Colt Commando with a silencer. Whatever waited for me at my home they wouldn't expect this much firepower.
I left my car a block away and crept up on foot, keeping to the dark shadows between the houses of the neighborhood. I crept up to my back door and unlocked it as quietly as I could and slid inside. The house was dark and quiet, but I noticed little details about my surroundings that alerted me that something was up. Little messes I remembered from this morning were now squared away and tidied up. Obviously somebody has been here.
I crept into the family room and heard nervous breathing from behind the couch. I didn't even take time to think and fired my Colt from the hip, raining bullets into and around the couch. I wasn't precise, but the Colt did its job. The dog yelped and ran faster than any pooch I had ever seen. Seemed healthy enough as it streaked past and out the dog door.
"Was that a silencer?" a voice whispered from up the stairs. I whirled but there was no target.
"Yeah." I whispered back.
"Thanks. Jackie's asleep and I don't want to wake her." I crept back to the couch and took a position in the corner. The Colt was pressed against my shoulder, and I judged from the weight it had about half a clip left. Enough to finish this job, I reckoned.
I saw a blur of movement up the stairs and something small thumped beside me. It looked like a beer can. Boy, could I use a beer about now.
It wasn't a beer can, of course not. It clicked and then started spraying a cloud of gas that hit me like a ton of bricks. Tear gas. It hit me hard before I could try to escape and I coughed and spluttered, momentarily forgetting my other worries.
My eyes were streaming so I didn't see the fast-moving shape dart down the stairs and around me. I felt a gun at the back of my head and tightened up despite the gas.
"That's it, Kil. I've had it with you!" The voice was low and venomous, but I recognized it as the same voice as the one on the phone. "Drop it."
I put the Colt on the ground and kicked it away. "Take off your coat." the voice commanded, and I did. I dropped the coat next to me and it landed with a dull thud. I felt a little better with all that hardware off me, but now I only had my concealed .38 Special, the other one in my calf holster, and my three knives. The voice told me to take these out too, like it had read my mind.
"Now." it said, satisfied that I was now unarmed, "Turn around."
My eyes had cleared by then, and I saw Darth Vader holding a 9mm at my head. The tear gas was gone now and I blinked the tears out of my eyes as Vader took off his helmet. It wasn't a helmet, now that I realized it, it was a gas mask. The face behind it was feminine and very angry.
Without taking her eyes off me or lowering her barrel she grabbed a picture from the end table and held it at me. "Look!" She shouted, "See? I'm you're WIFE!"
I stared at the picture, then at her face. A bullet hole went cleanly through the head of the woman in the picture, but it was me standing next to her, holding her shoulders and smiling. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" I was still skeptical, "Computers can do some amazing things nowadays."
She sighed. "How could I ever make you understand? We're married! Remember?" She dropped the picture and pointer the ring on her middle finger at me.
I did remember one thing: Jackie! "Show me Jackie!" I shouted.
She nodded, "Okay... but be quiet." She smiled nervously, but I could smell her fear.
She motioned for me to go first, so I turned around and slowly walked up the stairs. My sixth sense told me this woman's aim never wavered the whole time.
I walked to Jackie's door and quietly pushed it open. Jackie's room was cool and dark. A gentle lullaby was playing from some corner of the room, but the truth hit me like the five o'clock express. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. "SHE'S NOT HERE!" I screamed, turning to face the woman. She scowled at me like I had done something wrong, but she holstered her pistol. I was confused, for a moment, but then came the angry grumbling sobs from a toddler prematurely awoken from sleep.
The woman covered her face with her hands and sighed. "I'll leave you to your long lost daughter, Kil," she said, giving me a dirty look. "I'll go pick up the family room.
"Hey," I called to her, "put something on the stove." Killing people can work up an appetite like nothing else. She didn't respond as she walked back down the stairs, so I turned to look at the girl. Freckles: check. Her mother's eyes: check. Cute smile: well, she wasn't in the smiling mood at the moment. So, I reached down, scooped her up, and shouted, "Daddy's home!"
She looked at me like a cow looks at an oncoming train. "You shot mommy again?" she asked. The kid was really catching on about all this killing stuff.
"Not this time, dear," I corrected her. After all, I never got even got a good chance tonight. I normally don't try to kill the ladies. Except for Gorbez, that Wal-mart associate, and the really slow broad at the post office.
She stated matter-of-factly, "Mommy doesn't like it when you shoot her." She still hadn't smiled.
"Yes," I said, "I know. But sometimes... daddy gets a little confused. And angry. And bloodthirsty. But really, who doesn't?"
My excuses went right over her head. I sighed, she probably would never really get the whole killing thing, no matter how much I tried to teach her. "I'm... just glad you're safe." I finished lamely. She didn't reply. The silence said it all. I'd be in the doghouse tonight.
I knew it'd be the couch tonight, It was always the couch after days like this. When I tucked Jackie back in and came downstairs, though, there was no couch. I looked questioningly at Connie, and she just pointed out the front door. I looked, and there it was on the curb, ready for garbage day tomorrow.
I was impressed. It took three guys and a screwdriver to get that couch in here when we bought it.
So, there it goes. And here I am. The yard can be such a nice place in the summertime, children laughing and splashing in the pool, but in the winter it undergoes a horrible transformation. It turns evil, cold, unforgiving, like the depths of the ocean. The city may never sleep, but I sure do, and on a shot-up couch on the curb is no place to sleep.
I looked up and saw the bedroom window mocking me with a vision of warmth and loveliness. It called to me, and I was powerless to resist. I scrambled up the nearest tree, and out onto the branch that came close to the window. Inside I could see my wife getting ready for bed. I sat on the cold branch and looked forlorn. After a moment she saw me, opened the window, and stuck her head out to give me one last verbal assault. "You shot three family pictures," she raved, "that $500 painting you bought from the police auction, and the television!" I also made a lot of holes in the furniture and walls, but I wasn't about to point it out. "So," She concluded, "No sleeping in the house!" At least she threw my coat at me before she slammed the window and yanked the curtains closed. I slunk back to the couch and pulled the coat around me before I realized she was probably trying to knock me off the branch.
I huddled under the coat and reflected on my predicament. Tubbo City's lights twinkled with cold fire, their dim light revealing flakes of snow whirling around me. I'd have to remember my family was still alive.
Chapter Two
It was still dark when I awoke. The chill was everywhere. My joints felt old and arthritic from it. My consciousness was still hazy, with tattered remnants of a dream still fluttering from it. I tried to grasp one, but it was gone. Only something about... stuff. No good.
There it was again, the thing that woke me up. Something was pushing against my couch, pushing it across my yard and leaving ruts in the new snow. Sleep still called to me, and I knew this was it. I could either investigate it or pull my coat back around me and drift off again.
Whatever it was honked. I decided to investigate.
I sat up on the couch and looked. It was a black sedan, the sort of thing you'd see some crime kingpin driving around in. Now that I was upright their headlights shined in my eyes, but I could still see three people inside it. They must have been drunk out of their minds, or worse. They honked again, and I heard slurred laughter from inside. I started to reach into my coat to pull out a pistol and was surprised to find one already in my hand. I leveled it at the driver and pulled the trigger. The laughter stopped after the pistol crack faded into the snowy night. There was muffled yelling and I heard the car engine rev up. I rolled off the couch an instant before it flipped over and the car mounted it like something out of the Discovery Channel. When I was back on my feet I fired again, this time hitting the back tire. It popped and started flopping uselessly on the snow, leaving the sedan stranded on top of the couch like a beached whale.
I tore the passenger's side door open and ripped the man from his seat. He looked a lot more sober than he had sounded only moments before. I took a quick glance inside and saw a neat hole in the driver's forehead, and a terribly messy one on the other side of his head. The guy sitting behind him looked shell-shocked, but otherwise he was fine.
I stuck my gun in the passenger's face. "Who sent you?"
"What?" The man was dazed, only a little better mentally than his buddy in the back seat.
"Don't tell me you just happened to bump into my couch on your way home from some party. I want a name!"
The guy wasn't getting it. I pressed the barrel of the gun in his eye.
"Ohlordpleasedon'tdon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillmeplease." he moaned as my barrel pushed harder and harder into the eye.
"A name! Give me a name!"
"Vin... Vin Sachalo." This name was like a bucket of cold water to the guy in the back seat. He let out a short little sound like a dog getting his tail run over and bolted out of the car. I nailed him to the asphalt with a shot in the back of the neck.
The passenger went back to his moaning litany and I considered putting the barrel back in his eye, which was already turning a nasty purple. I didn't have to, though. I knew who Vin was. Some small-time gang-banger that I had always suspected but never had anything important enough to take him in for.
This was definitely important enough.
"You drove into the wrong couch tonight, punk," I said, "And you better hope throwing Vin under the bus was worth it." He was crying now, big crocodile tears out of his good eye. I tossed him to the curb like so much old garbage.
"Somebody will be by in the morning to pick you up," I mumbled, then walked to my car and drove off.
Vin's bar was nothing to speak of. The half-empty bottles of liquor behind the counter had enough dust on them to qualify for a grant from the EPA for soil erosion prevention. The bar was empty, too, and silent as a grave. The only other soul in the room as I shuffled in out of the cold was a kid, no older than mid twenties. His head floated in a little pool of drool as he sawed his way through the table.
When the door banged shut behind me, locking away the chill of the city, it startled the lookout into alertness.
"Who you?" he asked inarticulately. He got a lot more awake once he realized the thing inches from his face was cold steel. He didn't get more articulate, though. His only comment on the situation as he saw it was "Guh."
I let my muzzle do the talking. His body flipped backwards from his perch and left a bloody arrow pointing to my next destination: a side door leading to a back room. I could hear excited activity muffled on the other side.
I kicked the doorknob once hard, sending half of it skittering across the barroom. The door slowly fell open with a melodramatic groan of protest. I shambled in to the room, arms stretched in front of me and each hand full of deadly ordinance. It was dark in the room, but not too dark for killing. Several, at least three, men were sitting at a round poker table. An unfamiliar voice welcomed me and told me I was expected.
"We arranged the little couch escapade, you see," the voice went on, "We know you're the only lawman to speak of in this hole of a town, so naturally we all would like to have a chat with you before we proceed with any business here."
"Watch out." I mumbled, "I'm sleep whacking. It's dangerous to wake me up."
The voice was silent just long enough to give away his surprise. He looked at the man next to him, who shrugged helplessly.
"Look, he's telling the truth. His eyes are closed!" a third man offered unhelpfully. This voice I recognized as being one of Vin's goons. Probably running bodyguard duty tonight, the poor stiff.
Unfamiliar Voice stood up from the table and walked closer. His features swam out from the darkness like a dream. European. Short brown hair. He was several inches shorter than me, and then it hit me with a start. This was just a kid! Even younger than the lookout I just plastered. Couldn't be older than 18, his features said. Something about his eyes and his voice said otherwise, but the body doesn't lie.
"Those peashooters don't scare me," Unfamiliar Voice swaggered, "They're nothing compared to what my Brother packs." Something about the way he said Brother made it clear it was a capital B. Unfamiliar voice reached out and snapped his fingers in my face. "No more games, Killian. Wakey Wakey!"
Now, there aren't many things that make me really angry. Supermarket checkout lines. Jaywalkers. People with more than two cats. Nazis. Worst of all, however, is people who say "Wakey Wakey." For his reward, Unfamiliar Voice got two bullets in his head, with expedited delivery.
The room exploded into activity. Instantly the three other men in the room jumped into action, and two of them fell just as quick. I saved the last one because I wanted a few answers. It was the man that shrugged when Unfamiliar Voice looked at him.
"You killed him. You killed Tim." I didn't even have to ask a question and already I had a name.
"Who is your daddy?" I asked, "And what does he do?"
"Papa Lenelli." He said simply, and that was enough. I knew who Papa Lenelli was. Big time mob boss, with nearly all the Midwest under his control. Naturally he'd want to exploit the lack of competition in Tubbo thanks to my work. Maybe he thought he could bribe me, or just dispatch me quick. The man kept babbling, in shock at what just happened. "You killed Tim. Killed him. All gone."
"All gone." I agreed, and turned away. This one wasn't worth the bullet.
"He'll come!" the man suddenly shouted, "He'll come and you'll find your reward! Nobody commits a sin against the Lenellis and gets away with it! You better watch your back! You'll learn to fear the name of-"
Hell, maybe he was worth it after all, if to just shut him up. You use guns enough, you learn how to make people nice and quiet.
I searched around the room, and found a safe under a desk in the corner. I’m no safecracker, so I left it alone with a couple sticks of dynamite to see if the two could come to a mutual agreement. They did, and when I came back to check on them receipts were falling all over the room like snow. I snatched one that looked interesting, and sure enough it was from a thrift store, listing a bunch of items that sound like an inventory of your grandma’s living room. I grab more receipts, and get similar lists. Finally I find a lease for a warehouse down by the docks. None of it added up. Why would the mafia be buying random antiques? I pocketed the evidence and made my getaway.
Chapter Three
I needed a place to lie low and collect my thoughts, but the chips were coming down and I knew I didn't have any time to spare. I decided what I really needed was somebody else who could do the thinking for me while I ran down the next lead. There was one expert on the mafia I knew could give me a hand, trouble was I gave her a slug to the gut earlier at the precinct.
I strolled in Tubbo General like I owned the place and tapped on the reception desk to alert the bleary-eyed receptionist. This guy looked like the type that would happily ignore a room full of people if he could get away with it.
"Can I help you?" He yawned.
"Yeah, I’m looking for Michelle Gorbez. What’s her room number?"
"Sir, do you know what time it is? This isn’t even the right SHIFT for visiting hours. Ms. Gorbez surely asleep right now. Come back later."
The receptionist looked ready to start ignoring me again, but I had other plans. I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. I may not be as strong as some of the kneecappers I’ve tussled with, but I can be awfully compelling if I jam a pistol in somebody’s eye. So naturally the receptionist is once again giving me his full attention. Unfortunately for him, he was still not doing what I asked him to do. Instead he was just yelling and screaming for help.
I was about to crank our relationship up a notch when lucky for him a doctor enters the situation.
"Oh my," he says, "Mr. Peepel! Please, leave that poor man alone and come with me." Finally, somebody that understands the gravity of the situation. I drop the receptionist and give him one last cold glare to remind him I’m not joking before I follow the doc into the hospital.
"I’m so sorry, Mr. Peepel," the doc explains, "It’s just that some of our employees don’t realize what I vital asset you have been to this Hospital." It’s true, I’ve given these guys enough work to rival some of the biggest city hospitals. They’re so good at patching up holes in people they could get Cheesecloth to stop leaking. I explain to this doc that I’m looking for Michelle Gorbez and he takes me along hallways to her room. The whole place is white and gleaming, which makes me feel out of place. Thankfully Michelle’s room is nice and dark. The doc closed the door behind me for privacy. I love it when people give me the respect I deserve.
I strolled over to a chair next to the bed and waited. Michelle might not be a killer, but she was still a cop with cop instincts. She woke up and almost instantly her hand was under her pillow searching for something that wasn’t there.
"Kil." She said, confused but awake. "What-you tried to kill me!"
What is it with women and stating the obvious? "Yeah, that’s all casings under the bridge. Listen, I’m onto something and I need your help."
"You tried to kill me!" Her voice was getting increasingly shrill, never a good sign. She sat up, which was obviously painful for her. I pulled the receipts from her pocket and sprinkled them on her.
This was enough to calm her down for a moment. "You been killing old ladies again?" she asked as she examined the papers.
"Sort of," I admitted, "except these were Mafia guys."
She got to the warehouse lease. "This is an awful lot of junk. They must be storing it here."
"I'll check it out," I said, "In the meantime you call around and see if you can figure out why these guys would want all this junk." I stood up and headed for the door.
"Hey, Kil?" she said before I could walk out the door, "I hope you get shot and die."
I left the hospital smiling.
Still Continued Some More
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