Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

With a quick exchange of glances, Ivan and Damien followed behind. Hanatar was hunched over a table, plucking ice cubes with a pair of tongs and putting them into a fabricated crystal glass. He dumped a healthy quantity of booze in before taking a long sip. As the alcohol swirled around his tongue and burned a trail down his throat, Hanatar closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh.

“What is it you want me to do?” Ivan asked, still wearing a calm expression.

The crime lord gestured towards the entryway with his glass. “I want you to get out there. Find out who’s railroading my shit,” he jammed two fingertips into his temple, “and deal with it. Make this whole thing go away.” Taking too vigorous a swig, he fell into a coughing fit. His two employees watched, one passive and one concerned, as Hanatar recovered, red-faced. With a strained expression, he finished speaking. “I don’t care how it gets done or who needs to disappear.”

Wiping his mouth and still recovering, Hanatar turned away. Neither he nor Damien, who was too concerned with his boss’s well-being, noticed the troubled expression cross Ivan’s features. It vanished before anyone looked his way.

“Are you still here?” Hanatar asked, seeing Ivan not yet departed. “Get your fat ass moving!”

With a somber nod and no indication that he was bothered by the shouting or the insult, Ivan stepped out of the room.

Hanatar took another drink. “Jesus. Surrounded by idiots.”

Damien, unsure of what to say, let out a nervous giggle.

“Shut up,” his boss said, settling down onto a thick leather chair.

A month passed.

Voux Hanatar spent a considerable amount of time in tortured anguish and half-liquored delirium. Aside from Ivan, he had ten more of his best people out digging for a solution to destroy the case. He heard almost nothing.

Brooding, angry, and aware that every move he made was watched, recorded, and scrutinized, business decisions fell into the capable but ambitious hands of his underlings. Due to his constant outbursting and heavy drinking, Hanatar’s own wife decided to take an extended vacation until her husband calmed down or was sent to prison.

Constant pressure was felt on all sides, as three-quarters of the news reports seemed to be focusing upon his imminent demise. His blood was in the water, the sharks were circling, and Hanatar was getting more and more nervous.

The only one remaining to comfort the disturbed employer was Damien. The constant presence of the ass-kissing, not-too-bright fellow was almost more than Hanatar could bear.

The month went by in anguish for the prominent criminal, and he was starting to wonder if he was running out of options when Ivan finally returned.

The deafening roar of ship engines shook Hanatar out of a restless slumber. His panicking, half-asleep mind warbled about the apocalypse before he recognized the disturbance enough to generate his usual enraged disposition. “Who in holy hell is low-flying over my home?!” he screamed to no one, words inaudible over the ear-splitting racket. His rage and confusion tripled when a thud resounded on the roof.

With a huff of air and a lingering whine, the engines cut out. Hanatar burst from his bedroom, hastily adjusting the cord on his lush bathrobe. After half a moment’s consideration, he ran back into the bedroom, wrenched open the desk, and grabbed the flechette pistol concealed in a side compartment. As he charged back down the hall, Damien emerged from his own room, rubbing his face. “Whosere?” he asked, eyes widening as he saw his employer carrying a weapon.

“Some dead prick is all,” Hanatar said as he moved towards the stairs which lead to roof access. He knelt behind a column and aimed the weapon.

An individual, large in stature and face concealed in a pilot helmet, moved down the stairs, carrying something which appeared to be a body over his shoulder.

Hanatar, bare knees spilling out of the bathrobe, snapped the pistol up towards the figure. “Move and you’re dead, asshole!”

The individual stopped and held one hand out. He started fumbling at the clasp of his helmet.

“Ah, ah!” Hanatar stood up and took a few steps towards them. “Let’s just move nice and slow. Now I don’t know who you are or why you landed your shit-mobile on top of my house , but give me one good reason why I shouldn’t peel off your flesh and wear it as a cape!”

A noise sounded from behind him, and Hanatar swiveled, very nearly pulling the trigger on the approaching Damien, who held an energy rifle. Heart thudding in his chest and adrenaline spilling into his blood, Hanatar heard a clatter on the staircase. Realizing he’d turned his back on the intruder, he spun around, squeezing the trigger.

The ceiling above the figure exploded as Hanatar’s poorly aimed shot punched through it. A shower of plaster fragments and dust rained on the man, easily recognized now that his helmet, the source of the clatter, finished its roll down the stairs.

“I have done as you asked,” Ivan said, appearing unfazed that his employer nearly shot him.

Hanatar’s jaw fell wide open. “What the? Who in…? Why did you land on my house? Who is that? ” He pointed at the body.

Continuing his path down the stairs, Ivan moved past his gawking employer and confused associate, saying, “This is the man who has given you trouble.”

“The man… who…?” It took a moment for the exasperated Hanatar to realize to whom Ivan was referring. “Wait a second, are you serious? ” Ivan didn’t respond, moving down the stairs at the end of the hall. “Goddammit, this is not happening.”

Hanatar and Damien followed behind. Ivan had brought the body down to the main floor and into the sitting room, laying it upright on the sofa.

“Jesus Christ!” Hanatar screamed, veins throbbing on his neck. “I told you to take care of it! What part of that implied that you should bring the corpse back to my home and soil my furniture with it! ”

Ignoring the shouting, Ivan produced a small capsule from a pouch on his clothing. “This man is not dead,” he said, breaking the casing in half and waving it under the captive’s nose.

With a snort, a man who appeared familiar to Hanatar awoke. Angry, shaking, and brandishing the pistol, the crime lord watched as the man’s head lazily glanced about the room. “Wheerrmi?” he slurred.

“Why…?” Hanatar took a deep breath, trying to still the rage. “Why did you bring this guy here?” He spoke between clenched teeth. “Do you realize my house is under constant surveillance by the GSA, or is that massive body of yours just filled with all kinds of dipshit?”

Still not acknowledging the shouting and anger of his employer, Ivan gestured, “This is Barian Dreger. He handled the slaving portion of your business enterprise. Two months ago, he was quietly arrested. Shortly after, he was granted courtesies by the GSA in exchange for information about you.”

Fear and realization dawned in the captive’s eyes. He made as if to rise, but Ivan put out a hand and shoved him back into the seat.

“That’s great ,” Hanatar spat, no less furious. “That’s fantastic, but it doesn’t explain shit . Was I not clear? Did I not ee-nun-cee-ate enough for your tiny brain to comprehend, or are you actually as dumb as you are ugly?” He jabbed the weapon at the prisoner. “I wanted him gone. I wanted him dead . I wanted him gently floating in vacuum or vaporized in a fusion reactor. I most certainly wanted no evidence of his presence anywhere near me. I did not. Not. NOT . Want this man brought alive to my home! ”