FLASHBACK (Duke's Belt) [PCW]

LARRY GOWAN WAS SOBER for the first time in months, although being in a place like this, it was hard to imagine. This was where Shawn's body had been found, according to the official reports: a warehouse off Old Water Street. The WCWF World Title belt was still missing— having been taken after Shawn had been shot in cold blood. Gowan had managed to pry all of this out of Ray Chandler, promising that he wouldn't make any attempt to solve the mystery on his own.

The lie still made him sick as he swallowed hard, pausing beside the building. On the heels of the nausea came a creeping sense of foreboding. The dock was deserted. Forklifts and piles of crates could have housed any manner of vermin... from rats to the criminals who'd dispatched his brother. Gowan was betting on the latter, as he skulked through the shadows. This was the place, even if the locale was unfamiliar, the stench wasn't. Sawdust and rotten fish. His stomach rolled, not just from the smell but because of the memory it brought with it. He could see Shawn on that gurney again, pale and lifeless.

The Walther P5 nestled in the small of his back, a cold and deadly weight, within easy reach, but not totally visible beneath the short leather jacket he wore. Every step, he cursed his shortsightedness, as the zippers jingled, and the leather creaked. Small sounds really, next to the wind rattling the metal sheets that covered the roof of the aging warehouse building.

He had no clue what he was doing, or why he'd even come here, nor did he have the first clue about marksmanship. The gun was Brad's, stolen from his bags while he was sleeping. It would likely be missed, but right now, Gowan didn't really care.

All he knew was that he had to get his hands on that belt— if Duke was going to give the person who recovered it the next shot, it had to be him. At first he told himself that it was for Shawn's memory. He'd died because of that belt. He'd given his life for it and it seemed only right. Only fair. This had stopped being about Shawn a long time ago, but he hadn't realized that. Almost like he didn't realize he was being followed.

The watcher kept to the same shadows, moving slowly, his weight thrown forward so his feet made no sound on the uneven ground. His breathing was shallow; he could have been sleeping for all the noise he made. He made no move to quicken his pursuit; he knew precisely where his quarry was headed— he had, after all, brought Gowan here.

Gowan on the other hand, blundered his way towards the door, looking like a fool; he may as well have painted a bright bull's-eye on his back. The door was open slightly, swinging in the chill wind that came off the water, stinging his face and hands with the spray. Gowan hesitated, and then reached out a hand to push on the door. Nothing happened. No gunfire. No shouts. Just that eerie silence.

Conveyor belts lined the walls, some still covered in blocks of ice that were slowly melting, puddling on the floor. The stench of fish in this room was overpowering, and totally disgusting. He pressed one hand over his nose, breathing shallowly through his mouth as he eased through the room. A sound drew his attention, faint music playing from the direction of the back office— with a new destination in mind he continued on past crates of curly sawdust, piles of stinking nets and then finally through another door, this one unlocked as well.

"H-hello?" His voice was quiet, even though it sounded loud to his ears.

He got no reply but silence. It seemed odd to him that the place was deserted, the whole thing feeling more like a trap. If there was a trap, he was as good as dead already— the scars on his wrists were testimony to that much. He shouldered open the door, stepping inside with authority that died the second he saw the interior. Déjà vu hit him like a brick to the head, making him take a step back. He'd been here before, he was almost sure of it.

At first he didn't see the black briefcase on the desk, only the faded and tattered green blotter. A single wooden chair sat in front of the desk and he knew just looking at it, that it had uneven legs. Feeling sick, he backed up slightly, turning around just as the static on the radio resolved itself into an old, familiar song— Love Me Tender by Elvis.

It had to be a coincidence.

It had to be...


The Christmas lights on the tree were twinkling, the tinsel rustling in a slight breeze from the window that was open a crack. A skinny eight-year-old boy sat on the carpet-covered ottoman, staring down at his own reflection in the glossy finish of the black acoustic guitar that rested beside his father's chair. Muted in the background, Scrooge was on the television, a changed man on Christmas morning.

"Will you play something?" The boy asked his father, his voice soft although he had a smile on his face.

This was a usual ritual for them. The man reached down and grabbed the guitar by the neck. "You wanna help me with this, Larry?"

Nodding, the boy scrambled off his perch and got on his father's lap. The guitar was settled down on his knee as his father reached around him to pluck a pick from the dish on the table. Pausing for a moment, with an exaggerated look of confusion, the man looked at the boy.

"Shoot... I forgot what I was going to play. What should I play, Champ?"

"Play Elvis, Daddy!"

Grinning, his father strummed the opening chords of Love Me Tender, singing along in his rich tenor voice. The boy smiled, singing along intermittently before the peaceful moment was broken by the jangling of the phone on the end table. Setting down the guitar gently, the man reached over and snatched up the phone. "Hello?"

Slipping off his father's lap, Larry returned to his previous perch, pretending not to listen to his father's side of the conversation.

"Bill!" He paused, listening, "really? You think Terry can be our third on this? How many? Right on... I’ll meet you there." He hung up the phone and looked down at his son, oblivious to the hurt expression on his face. "Hey, kiddo... you'll be alright for a while on your own, won't you?"

Even though he felt like crying, the boy nodded. "I'm EIGHT... not a baby."

His father reached out and ruffled his hair. "Bill and I are gonna make some quick cash tonight. There's a poker game down at Rudy's... don't tell your mother where I went, okay? I can trust you, right, kiddo?"


"You don't have to do this, Lawrence." Chauncy's words rang in his ears, making him flinch. He still hadn't forgiven him after the fight they'd had— despite the fact that Chauncy had been on the first flight out when he'd heard about Shawn.

"I do," he whispered to himself, knowing that he needed to see this through. Shawn deserved that. The gold deserved that.

With a roar of anger, his foot lashed out, connecting with the chair, sending it skidding across the concrete. He didn't care how much noise he made. There were no answers here in this empty building.

That Elvis song was still playing, reminding him of the last time he'd seen his father. He knew he'd told Shawn that story— was this a sign?

"Shawn?"

"Larry?" The voice was faint, almost a whisper in his ears.

He whirled around, the gun held out in a badly shaking hand, and there was nobody there. The room was empty. He spoke aloud, addressing the darkness, his voice trembling. "Wh-who's there?"

Silence. Only that same oppressive lack of sound answered his query. It was then, that he spied the case sitting atop the desk. It was familiar; after all, he'd purchased it for Shawn's birthday, last year. A silly gift, really... but what did you buy for someone who had a house full of all the crap money could buy?

The black leather was embossed, bearing the initials SS in gold on both latches.

Answers, it seemed, were forthcoming after all. He set down the gun atop the blotter. With hands that were remarkably steady, given the situation, he pressed the twin buttons, a strangely satisfied smile on his face as they popped free.

The lid seemed to weigh a ton as he fumbled to open it. He expected to find money inside. He wasn't disappointed. But, resting atop the neat stacks of bills was something else. Polaroids. Dozens of them, all were showing the same image from various angles: the title belt, wrapped around Shawn's waist, blood flecks marring the pristine gold, tarnishing its innocence.

Polaroids.

Had he done this?

With a low sound of horror, he backed away, stumbling over the fallen chair, falling hard on the concrete floor, seeing stars and smelling that cloying stench of fish and wet sawdust.

The man stepped out of the shadows, his face hidden beneath the brim of a battered fedora. He chuckled at the sight of Gowan, floundering like a fool.

Gowan groaned, dragging himself up from the floor. A dead end, it seemed. He didn't notice his company until the man spoke in a low voice, one filled with menace, and the promise of a horrible death to come.

"You should've stayed away."

Gowan's eyes flicked to the man, and then to the gun on the desk. In a blur of movement, he dove for the desk, and the man charged too, easily tackling Gowan. They both slid across the desk, taking the briefcase with them, and they landed on the floor, amid a shower of bills and photographs. He squirmed in the larger man's grasp, trying to escape the pinioning arms that felt like iron bars sheathed in flesh. The back of his head slammed against the floor, his teeth gnashing his tongue. He tasted blood, and then the man's hands closed around his throat. Gowan brought his knees up, kicking with all his might, knocking his assailant backwards. The gun went off as Gowan's head rapped against the floor with a sickening thud. Everything went black before the gun had stopped smoking in Gowan's hand.


The sun had long since set and the dark night was pressing against the skylight's dirty glass. Larry Gowan sat in the semi-darkness, under the baleful glow of that single exposed light bulb, waiting for the man with the guns to stir. To be fair, the man tied naked to the chair had holsters— the guns had been taken from them when Gowan had come to, finding the man passed out and bleeding on the floor. The lucky shot hadn't killed the stranger— the bullet had gone through his knee cleanly.

He'd tossed the guns in the water, instantly regretting the impulsive move. Rummaging through the rest of the warehouse had yielded the most clichéd of weapons, but it would do in a pinch.

"I should've brought smelling salts," the soft voice spoke from the gloom behind him, making Gowan turn slowly. His exhilaration faded, replaced with wariness as he spotted an unfamiliar figure standing in the shadows. Slim. Petite. Curvy. She laughed as she moved further into the space, her features visible now— it was Kaitlynn McIntyre— Brad Jackson's ex-wife.

"I didn't call you," Gowan said softly, shaking his head, regretting that as it started pounding. The bump on the back of it was huge, after all.

"No," she admitted that in a low voice, her gaze sliding to the man in the chair, "Jax sent me. So, is he dead?"

"I..." Gowan paused, "I'm not sure."

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "God, you're just awful at this, aren't you? C'mon, Larry... get up."

Rain lashed at the window, drawing his attention as he looked at his captive. The man was securely tied, his hands bound to the desk, which it turned out, was bolted to the floor. He'd used some of the heavy nylon rope from the other room— a regular MacGyver.

The man groaned, stirring slightly, and Gowan visibly tensed, awaiting the inevitable. He looked like a wild man, his hair tangled and unkempt, and flecks of blood decorating his pale face. It was rather unsettling, like seeing the poster child for a sociopath. His eyes were cold, flat and dead— that was the most disturbing aspect. Gowan's usual sunny disposition had been snuffed, leaving this dispassionate and disturbed stranger. Kitty stopped beside him, her free hand ruffling his hair as though he was a child.

The man's eyes fluttered open. Brown met hazel and then pale blue in order. "What the hell's this?"

Gowan rose from his cross-legged perch, glancing at Kitty. "She's a friend."

"I've got nothin' to say," he muttered stoically, his eyes fixed on Gowan. "You didn't kill me—"

"A mistake I'm more than happy to rectify," Kitty snapped, the gun in her hand remarkably steady. "I think you should answer him."

"I didn't kill you, yeah," Gowan said softly, walking towards the desk. "And you're welcome for that. I'd say it was strategy on my part, but the truth is that I've never fired a gun before today."

The man opened his mouth to reply, and reconsidered his words when he saw the flash of silver in Gowan's hand: an ice pick. Gowan leaned against the desk, turning that sharp weapon over and over in his hands, the flash of light glinting in his steely gaze. When he spoke again, it was with a voice more chilling than a bucket of ice water followed by an arctic wind.

"We're going to play a little game here, okay? Since I don't know your name, nor do I really want to, I'll call you George. I'm sure you've played this game before. Truth or dare... but these are my rules." His gaze flicked to where Kitty stood. "You tell me the truth, George... and I won't have to do a little exploratory surgery on your knee with my little silver friend, here." The words were like something out of a bad detective story, but the look on Gowan's face was very far from comical.

"Fuck you," the man spat, laughing at Gowan.

Before he could lash out with the weapon, Kitty was there, impossibly fast. She put herself between them, her eyes boring into Gowan's. "Wait outside, Larry. I can get the information from him."

He nodded, already horrified by what he'd nearly done. She waited for him to leave and then turned back to the captive man. "He loves his brother," she said softly, tucking the gun into the waistband of her jeans. "I'm sure you can understand that, right?"

The man nodded, watching her warily. Silence crackled between them, and then she stalked towards him. Folding her arms across the low cut sweater just made the vee between her breasts deeper. Her thumb caressed the textured grip of the hunting knife. The serrated blade winked in the light as she slipped it from the sheath on her hip. "I could cut you," she whispered, a manic gleam in her eyes, "I could, and nobody would even care— nobody'd come to help you. That guy outside? He'll want to, but he'll probably let me get away with a little bloodshed if it gets him closer to finding Shawn's killer. Do you know who Shawn Stevens is?"

The man shook his head and she leaned in closer. "Liar," she hissed, "that's his briefcase on the floor," she nudged it with her toe. "That's him in the picture with the belt around his waist. Do you think I'm stupid, sweetie?" The anger vibrated in every word. She could cut his throat now, watch his life gurgle away— the only thing keeping her temper in check was the fact that she knew Gowan would flip out.

"I want to know who did that to him," she snarled contemptuously, "tell me where to find the man responsible." She leaned in closer, running her fingertips over his well-worn features. Maybe in another lifetime she would have been attracted to him. She'd always gone for the men who looked like they'd actually lived, instead of those baby-faced pretty boys.

You should kill him. That voice whispered in her ears, just a subtle susurration of an impulse. Trouble was, she really, really wanted to. Fuck someone. Kill someone. It was all the same these days.

She realized she was smiling, grinning so hard her teeth ground together, and her cheeks burned with fire. She ducked under his arm and then straddled his lap, kissing his lips. Her tongue plunged into his mouth, the metal ball of her tongue ring clicking against his teeth. At first he protested, and then she ground down against his lap. He groaned.

"Mmmm, you want to tell me, don't you Georgie?" She breathed the words against his lips.

He nodded.

"You want me to let you go?" She smiled sweetly, pulling back from the kiss, her lips reddened from the pressure. "Do you want to touch me?" She made a sound close to a purr, low in her throat as she licked his earlobe. "We can go all night long, sweetie. You just have to tell me what you wouldn't tell him. Can you do that?"

One small movement of his head became a nod. "Yeah," he muttered.

"Wonderful. Then, the first question is this: are you one of the bastards that killed Shawn?"

The man shook his head, "no... on the level, it wasn't me. I was just supposed to drop off the briefcase an' watch the guy. If he came in here, I was supposed to rough him up a little... tell him he shoulda stayed away."

"Good boy," she whispered, patting his cheek. "Now give me a name. Who killed Shawn?"

"Bruno."

"Well look at that, you just bought yourself a brownie point, Georgie! Doesn't change the fact that you're scum... or that you were going to kill Larry just a few hours ago."

"I wasn't—YAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGHHHHHHHH!"

The last was a scream of pain as Kitty drove her knife deep into the man's wound, twisting it. "That wasn't a question, honey. Now tell me who has the belt."

Larry Gowan stood outside, watching the black water ripple against the pilings. He could hear the man screaming, cringing at the sound as tears filled his eyes. "Please don't kill him," he whispered, hoping that the crazy brunette didn't bring down more innocent blood on their heads. He fell to his knees, his stomach churning. If he'd remembered to eat, he'd have vomited. He flinched when he felt a hand gently touch his back, realizing it was Kitty before she spoke.

"We're looking for a guy named Bruno. Apparently he's the bouncer at a club called Vida Loca. Crazy Life, how fitting, eh?" She chuckled, trying to make light of it but neither of them smiled.

Now they had a destination...


At ten minutes past last call, the behemoth of a man stepped outside the club, breathing a sigh of relief as he tilted his head up to the heavens. It was still raining— had been off and on for the last two days. He let the cool drops wash down his face as he sparked his lighter. Tonight, he'd drawn the short end of the stick, watching the door. Sometimes they let him tend bar and he liked that a lot better than nights like this when people showed up, wanting a part of the rough trade, wanting to meet with the boss in the back office. People came and went at odd hours of the night. He was the brawn, the enforcer. Tonight he stood in the shadowy alcove, smoking his joint with a smile on his face.

He heard a sound behind him, and whirled around, his hand going for the Taser he had clipped to his belt. The alley was silent, and then a mangy tabby jumped out of the shadows, hissing disconsolately in his direction before streaking off down the alley. He relaxed visibly. Just an angry pussy, he thought. He didn't get to ponder just how right he was on that observation as he suddenly felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his back. Her breath tickled the back of his neck, as she hissed beside his ear.

"Don't make a fucking sound," she whispered sweetly, shoving the gun harder into his back. "or I'll blow your fat ass to bits."

He couldn't tell it was a girl; her voice was gravelly, almost masculine. Bravado, and the belly full of beers he'd been sneaking all night kept him from complying with her wishes. He reached for the Taser as he ducked and whirled to face his assailant, only to find that it wasn't there. He saw the blur of movement, a split second before she caught him with a lariat that bounced his head off the brick. He staggered, dazed and then the butt of the pistol slammed into his temple, spilling him back into the alcove. She pinned him against the door, making sure he didn't fall.

"Goddamn it," she'd hit him too hard; he was going to pass out. She kicked him in the balls, bringing a bleat of pain, and then she was pressed up against him like a lover, holding the Taser in front of his nose. His eyes were open, although blurred with tears of pain, but he could see the immediate threat up close and personal as the blue lightning crackled between the two contacts. He couldn't see her face; a dark hood obscured this, and the only thing he could see was one tangled strand of ebony hair hanging over an eye that looked gold. "Bruno, right?"

He said nothing but the look in his eyes was enough to let her know that he was the one.

She looked away, nodding before she met his eyes again. "Alright, stud, tell me what I want to know, and you'll live to see breakfast."

He shook his head, and bucked at the same time, trying to shake her off. She held on, and as he thrashed, she pressed the Taser against his mouth, grinding it against his teeth, mashing his lips. Electric pain sizzled through his head, rattling his teeth, reminiscent of the pain of biting on tinfoil when he was a kid. He jerked, making nonsensical sounds in his throat before going still. He was still conscious, albeit barely. She cast the Taser aside, and backhanded him sharply, bloodying his mouth further.

He groaned, twisting and trashing, still jerking from the shock. The woman vanished as he slumped into a seated position. In her place was a man with fine features and a shock of blue in his bangs. "Hi, Bruno."

"Gnrahghhhh." The sound was a garbled groan, almost a spasmodic retching.

"I've seen you before," Gowan whispered, his eyes narrowing in recognition. "I just can't put my finger on where."

"Y..." Bruno coughed, "you're s'posed to be dead."

Gowan blanched, shaking his head, "dead? No."

Bruno reached up, his hand twitching as he pulled at Gowan's shirt and that's when he felt the pain as the knife stabbed into his stomach. Gowan twisted it, staring into Bruno's eyes.

"This is for Shawn."

Bruno's mouth worked, and nothing came out. He looked like a fish out of water. "No, that ain't..." flecks of blood formed at the corners of his mouth, bloody froth.

"Right? Neither was what you did to Shawn, you piece of human shit." Gowan gave the knife another upward thrust, and felt the hot rush of blood on his hands as he shook his head. "Rot in Hell," he whispered.

He withdrew the knife and let Bruno fall, backwards through the door as the skies opened up again. When it rained, it poured. Bruno's suit jacket fluttered in the wind, revealing a hint of gold. Gold? Gowan tore at the buttons, and he spread the sides of the jacket open with a smile. There, around Bruno's enormous waist was his prize. THE GOLD. Duke's WCWF World Championship belt, still sporting the dried flecks of Shawn's blood. He tore it from the dying giant, and ran back down the alley with Kitty at his heels. Nobody came after them.

Bruno was dead before the pair made it back to the street, but Gowan didn't know it... nor did he care. On the corner he stopped and fell to his knees, looking down at the gold in his hands. It felt so warm, so solid and real— he felt nothing but a disconnected sort of elation.

It was probably shock.

Kitty shifted from one foot to the other, looking back down towards the club, watching as their neon sign went dark for the night. "I think we're in the clear," she murmured to him.

"An eye for an eye," he replied, his voice breathless. The wrongs had been righted now; Shawn's death had been avenged, "Duke can have his stupid belt back."

"Then you get the shot, Larry." She reminded him, as if that mattered. "At Revenge, you'll face Duke."

He ran his hand over the filigree, feeling the bumps. It felt and looked right to him— he didn't notice the gold peeling off along the edges, sticking to the drying blood on his fingers. There was a stamp on the back that said MADE IN KOREA. He didn't see that as he cradled the belt to his chest, weeping for his lost brother.

The belts were likely all fakes— million-to-one odds that Duke had the real one locked away somewhere. It was all a sick game, but he didn't know how badly he'd just been played. He saw the blood on his hands, recoiling in horror. Looking up at Kitty, he was almost distraught. "Don't," the word caught in his throat as he swallowed a lump he didn't know was there, "d-don't tell Stanley... o-or..."

"I won't tell Chauncy," she replied, "I won't tell anyone, honey. This is our secret and I'll take it to the grave if I have to."

"Th-thanks." His head dropped, the tears streaming down his cheeks as his narrow chest heaved to pull in a full breath.

Kitty dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around him as he finally let his grief loose. "Shhhh," she crooned, "everything will be okay, Larry."

It wasn't and it wouldn't be for a very long time.