Demolir L'empire - Part 2

March 16, 2015: Shift makes his final move against Richard Dackleman, but there is an unexpected surprise in store for him. (graphic content)

18 rue de la Paix - Paris, France



  • Richard Dackleman
  • Dackleman's ho's and thugs
  • One undercover HYDRA agent

Mood Music:
"A chacun sa manière" by Booba feat. Kery James

There were times when it was difficult to determine how much cocaine, how much expensive booze, how much cold hard cash he sat on in that place. The penthouse itself was paid for in cash; regulators' palms had been easily greased, and those lucrative taxes paid by way of some clever, offshore money laundering. It's amazing what one could accomplish by way of train, Amsterdam and Switzerland.

Richard Dackleman sat upon his fallen Empire; a man of impossible wealth, holed up in a fine penthouse upon a throne of hookers, blow, and Louis Roederer Cristal. Nobody asked questions; not the DJ on the other end of the room, nor the men who ran his errands and fixed his food, nor the women who paid him the attention he'd become addicted to. They were well paid with cash in hand and everything they could have ever asked for. Those who had asked questions, well. Even the waters of Le Seine had their dark borders.

Dackleman had long since forgotten what time it was. He often did. Life had become something of a blur; the New York networks had given up on him, the Gotham families considered him a leper, and the global network slept without hope that the kingpin would ever rise again. The penthouse, booze, women, drugs… it was all he had left.

"You want some more coke?" Leaving his expensive chair, Dackleman snatched up a chalice filled to the brim. He crossed the room to a pair of strung out models, burying his hand in the mound of white powder, before dashing it into their faces. The women, sprawled out together upon a couch, grabbed what they could from the air, trying to get it into their noses. Unconventional, yes, but Dackleman wasn't without a heart; he set the chalice down upon the table, atop a large, circular mirror, and produced an exacto knife for the cutting. Maybe the bitches would cut themselves. Would have been good riddance; he'd become bored with them. "Live, for life is nothing, girls."

"Funny you should say dat."

The DJ looked up, his face having been generally concealed by expensive street clothes, headphones, and a black NY Yankees ball cap. Silver eyes peered from beneath the bill of that cap, leering across the room toward his mark. The laptop was left to play, the headphones discarded, boots bringing him out from behind the decks until he stood before Dackleman's white leather throne.

"What the fuck?" Dackleman pointed toward the the turntable-laptop combo. "The fuck am I paying you for, boy? Get your black ass behind those decks and out of my face, you're spoiling my view!"

The DJ smiled wickedly. "I'll be out of yah face soon enough. Dere's… something I want you to see, first." Out from his pocket, he produced a photo. A knowing smile led the gesture of reaching out, offering the photo to Dackleman, who snatched it away with a scowl.

"… the fuck?"

"Her name's Melody. Don't you remembah? Perhaps you need a littah remindah."

The DJ raised his arm, fingers splayed out toward Dackleman's face. First fingers, then the hand itself transformed into tendrils of black, floating forward until they filled Dackleman's nose. When the crime lord resisted, the smoke only forced it's way deeper with much more ferocity.

Kwabena took a step closer. If the muscle had noticed, they weren't doing anything; their guns would only hit their boss, and frankly, they had grown not to like him, anyway. The transformation crawled up his arm. shirt sleeve going limp as more smoke poured into Dackleman's mouth and nose, while the mutant drew closer and closer, until he was close enough to whisper into Dackleman's ear.

"I told you. I would rip yah empiah apaht from de inside out."

One of the women shrieked when, without warning, Kwabena's entire body became smoke. The DJ clothing fell to the ground; Dackleman, gagging and choking, found himself stuck in place as every last bit of it poured into his mouth and nose, until the smoke was gone. Eyes grew red, wet with tears as they stared off toward the inevitable. The lot of his posse looked on, fearful of what may come next.

Suddenly, Dackleman lurched in his seat. A gurgling sound brought the first blood, spilling out from his mouth and nose to coat his chin. Trembling hands reached for his midsection, while pain-stricken eyes turned to look at his women.

Dackleman gasped, then burst to his feet in a frantic motion. He looked down at himself, fingers scrawling at his chest and midsection until the coughing took him, each violent clap expelling blood and flesh in a spray across the room. Then, he fell to his knees, looking down as a pair of fists came bursting from his chest, covered in gore.

The woman screamed, a blood curdling cry balanced by the silent shock of her coked out partner.

Looking back, Kwabena couldn't be sure whether it was his own savagery or something else; something darker at play. The reformation from smoke to solid caused his nemesis' body to be torn asunder, leaving him standing amongst a pile of limbs, flesh, and skin reduced to shreddings. Vengeance had gripped his soul for so long, but a bullet would have worked splendidly. Something unnatural was at play; he could feel it deep within. This was not his style, but something about it felt oddly natural. Hands open, he looked down at himself, the uniform covered in fresh blood, bits of bone and dripping entrails. For a fleeting moment, he found himself reveling in it, twisted though it may have been, until the sound of slow applause came from the other end of the room.

"Monsieur, bravo!" It was one of Dackleman's guards, clapping his hands while approaching Kwabena from the penthouse door. "I say, bravo!" The guard looked Kwabena up and down, smiling wickedly. "When they told me you had some darkness in you, I couldn't possibly have imagined this."

Something has gone horribly wrong, for when Kwabena tried to change… nothing happened.


"Surpris, bon monsieur?"

The 'guard' grinned wider still, while raising a small pistol and taking aim. "Donc je suis."

The poison dart found it's home in Kwabena's neck. He reached for it, but before anything could be said or done, he collapsed.

The 'guard' came forward, perched over his prey with an accomplished smile. The dart was removed and eyed with appreciation, before he looked back toward the snoozing Ghanaian in conquest.

"Welcome home, Odame."

(to be continued…)

Back to: RP Logs

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License