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Quirky Row Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2024-03-15 17:00:06 +0000 UTCChapter 3: Old Friends
(Monday, August 23rd, 2123)
After leaving the courthouse, Playa and Johnny stole a police car. They ditched it a few blocks away from the Courthouse and then stole another car, which they also abandoned after driving it for only a couple minutes, but the third car was one of Johnny’s get-away vehicles that he’d stashed in a garage before being arrested, and this one they took all the way to their destination.
“Thanks for busting me out, Playa. Eesh would have killed me if I got sent to prison. And the chair,” Johnny said with a chuckle as they drove off.
“You’re still with Aisha? Good for you two,” Playa said with a smile.
“Yeah. I mean, it got a little tricky what with me being on Death Row and her on the Down Low after faking her own death, but ya know, we found a way to make it work.”
“How long were you in jail, anyways?” Playa asked.
“Two years and thirty-one days,” Johnny replied.
Two years?! Fuck, Johnny!” Playa exclaimed.
“Yeah, right? It’s weird, people inside were taking bets on how long I’d last, what with all the guards and other prisoners out to get me, but when Troy took over as Chief of Police, all that shit stopped. Guess he’s more forgiving than I am,” Johnny said with a huff.
“Troy is chief of police?!” Playa gasped.
“You better get with the times, Playa! Julius is missing, Ben King wrote a bestselling autobiography, Dex is… well, Dex is Dex, he ditched town soon as you went under only to sign up with Ultor. But the real kicker is Troy. In a couple months he went from an undercover cop to chief of police. And word on the street is he’s obsessed with finding out what happened on that boat between you and the Alderman.”
“Wait, so Troy wasn’t the one who planted the bomb on Richard Hughe’s boat?” Playa demanded.
“Nope. I investigated the matter myself. Found nada. No one seems to know who did it. It’s a damn mystery and nobody’s taken any credit for it,” Johnny Gat revealed.
“Johnny, what the fuck happened?” the former gang boss demanded, looking out the window. The streets looked the same, but there were subtle differences. Changes that couldn’t be explained by a mere month-long coma trip. “How long was I out?”
“Playa… Phil, it’s been five years since the fight on Richard’s boat,” Johnny revealed solemnly.
“What the fuck?!” Playa shouted. “I’ve been out for five whole years?!”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Johnny said.
“Damn it,” Playa moaned, smacking his forehead against the glass. “No wonder everything looks different, and why no one seems to recognize me.”
“Well, that, and your face is… different,” Johnny replied.
“Huh?” Playa uttered.
“Skin grafts and facial reconstruction surgery. You survived the bomb, but barely,” Johnny said grimly. “Nose is off, cheeks too… eyes are still the same, though.”
“Well, shit,” Playa muttered, looking at his reflection more closely. “I didn’t realize…”
He noticed they were driving into an upper-class neighborhood, which made Playa frown some more.
“Hey, Johnny, is this really where the Saints are holed up?” he asked, confused, but Johnny chuckled.
“Naw, this is where Aisha lives,” he said, pulling into a driveway in an upper-middle-class suburb. “Just wanted to let her know I’m safe before anything else.”
“Ah, right, I gotcha,” Playa nodded. “Nice digs.”
“Yeah, fame and fortune have their perks, even if she’s technically dead as far as the world is concerned,” Johnny said. “Well, come on in. Want a beer?”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Playa nodded. “Food too. Whatever you have lying around the house.”
“I think Aisha has a bag of Cheesy-Stix somewhere,” Johnny mused as he led his friend and boss into the house and the living room.
It was a really nice place, clean and orderly, with framed pictures on the wall of Johnny and Aisha, as well as the Third Street Saints. Playa felt a pang as he saw a photo of him and Lin standing together, the two leaning on each other while next to them Johnny had his arms around Aisha’s waist.
‘That was the last time I saw her,’ Playa realized.
“Hands in the air, shitbag,” a woman demanded from behind, and he quickly threw his arms up as he felt the muzzle of a gun press into his spine.
“Whoa, now, Aisha, let’s not be crazy, here,” Playa said, turning around slowly. He then blinked. “Damn, you look great!”
“How do you know who I am?!” Aisha demanded, poking the shotgun into his stomach. “And thank you, I try my best.”
“Whoa, whoa, Aisha! Calm down!” Johnny shouted, rushing back into the room.
“Johnny, baby?” she gasped.
“It’s me,” he assured her. “And that’s Playa.”
“No way, Phil Playa?!” the former music star exclaimed, giving Playa a double-take. “I didn’t recognize you at first! You’re too skinny!”
She then frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Get this, Aisha. Our boy here wakes up from a five-year coma, and what’s the first thing he does? He breaks outta prison, then busts me out of that damned kangaroo court. Oh, and he beat up the Number Four Hero in the process.”
“Only Number Four?” Aisha scoffed. “That is a total disrespect! You deserve at least my sister on your ass if they wanted to keep you in jail!”
“Right?” Johnny laughed. “So, yeah, I’m home and Playa’s alive. What a day!”
He then tossed Playa a beer, before opening the one in his hands and plopping down on the couch, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. “Now come on, let’s relax!”
“Put your feet up on my furniture again and I break ‘em,” Aisha warned Johnny, who slowly took his feet off of the coffee table.
She smiled, before giving Playa a fond look. “We all thought you were dead,” she admitted. “We heard rumors about you being in a coma, but thought that was just it. Rumors.”
“Well, I almost was dead,” Playa admitted darkly. “That bomb fucked me up more than I realized if they had to change most of my face to save my life.”
“So that’s what happened,” Aisha mused, sitting down on the couch next to Johnny. She gave him a kiss, and leaned into him. “Glad you’re back. Both of you.”
“Me too,” Playa sighed. Then he raised an eyebrow at the pair. “You said something about your sister?”
“You remember Maya, right? My kid sister,” Aisha asked, and Playa nodded slowly.
“Didn’t we save her from the Vice Kings? A sex trafficking operation, right?”
“Yeah, they were using her to keep me in my contract,” Aisha said darkly, before smiling. “You guys saved her, though. And it seems to have inspired her, as she’s now a hero!”
“Really?” Playa uttered, surprised.
“Yup! Number One Hero in Stilwater and the state of California, and in the Top Twenty of the whole US of A! She goes by the Silver Swan nowadays.”
“Damn, that’s amazing!” Playa said, applauding her meteoric rise. “Just five years and she’s already gotten that far?”
“I know! I’m so proud of her!” Aisha said happily.
“She’s one of the few people who knows Aisha is still alive, too. Helps to have a person on the inside,” Johnny said with a smirk.
“Still faking your death, huh? With the Vice Kings kaput, I thought you’d come out.”
“Nah, I like it this way. More privacy and less hassle. No taxes, either! And I still make music, they just release ‘em as ‘unreleased’ songs I never finished or got around to publishing before my death,” Aisha said with a smirk.
“Ha! Love it!” Playa said, toasting her with his beer. He then turned serious. “So. The Saints. What’s the sitch?”
“Bad. There’s barely anybody left, and our territory is all but gone,” Johnny said with a sigh. “With you gone and Troy knowing everything about the gang, the police and heroes ran roughshod over us. Then the new gangs came, wanting a piece of the action.”
“The call the year after your fall The Stilwater Olympics,” Aisha said dryly. “‘Cause of everyone fighting and all that.”
“There were a couple standouts. The villain known as Labrinth was damn near close to taking over Eastside, till Ultor came in and stomped him flat. After that, the gangs settled for leaving ‘em alone. Now it’s the Brotherhood in the south, the Ronin to the north, and the Sons of Samedi in the west,” Johnny said.
“I heard a bit about them from the punk who broke me out,” Playa admitted. “But I don’t know much. Give me the lowdown.”
“Right. So, the Brotherhood. Assholes one and all. Quirk supremist bunch, also racists. They hate Heteromorphic Quirks and non-whites. Neo-nazis crossed with rednecks,” Johnny said. “They run the docks in the south, and like ninety percent of the truckers in the city pay ‘em protection fees. They also do chop shops, tattoo parlors, and protection rackets, but their big money maker is gun running. More than half the guns in the city came from the Brotherhood.”
He took a sip of beer before continuing. “They’re led by this villain called Maero, aka Ink Demon. Got ink. Lots of it. And he can bring ‘em to life, summoning whatever tattoos he’s been inked with as if they were real. Dangerous, but they can be destroyed with a well-placed bullet.”
“Sounds like a lovely bunch of people,” Playa said dryly.
“Yup. Then there’s the Ronin. Eesh and I technically live in their territory. They own the most out of all three gangs and are the richest as well,” Johnny said. “Mostly Asian, specifically Japanese. Pretty sure they’ve got ties to the Yakuza. Their leader is a punk-ass kid who’s wet behind the ears. Shogo Akuji. Calls himself “Thunderstorm.” Has some sorta electricity-based Quirk. Little twit. The real problem is Shogo’s muscle, a dude named Jyunichi, or ‘Katana.’ He killed the Sixth Ranked Hero three years ago, and has crippled another eight in his time here. Ruthless, but also has wits as sharp as the sword he uses. And then, there’s the Sons of Samedi.”
Johnny rubbed his face. “They’re the smallest of the three gangs, but they’re tougher than one would assume. Most of ‘em are druggies. The Sons run the biggest drug ring in the city, and control the University and everything surrounding it. Their boss, the General, can remove a person’s sense of pain with his Quirk, and with a few choice drugs, they turn themselves into frothing berserkers. That’s how they’ve been able to hold on in the face of the Brotherhood and Ronin as well as the heroes. And there’s a couple other gangs of course, minor ones that keep to themselves or serve under the umbrella of one of the so-called Big Three.”
“Well, damn,” Playa said with a frown. “And the Saints are gone?”
“We’re a non-entity,” Johnny said, the admission drawing a grimace from him. “Easily the weakest of the gangs. We have maybe a dozen people, a single building, and a few thousand bucks in the war chest.”
“Fuck,” Playa groaned. Before sitting up straight, a fire in his eyes. “Well, screw that! No way am I going to let the Third Street Saints die like this! Not while I still live!”
“Yeah, that’s the spirit!” Johnny cheered.
“We need to make a statement. Show ‘em we’re not done!” Playa declared.
“Can’t it wait till after dinner?” Aisha pouted, then laughed when Johnny and Playa both said “No!” in unison.
“You two haven’t changed,” she noted.
“There’s a saying about old dogs and blowing stuff up,” Johnny replied, before fixing Playa with an intense look. “So, what’s the plan.”
“I’ve got an idea, but I need to know what I’m working with,” Playa replied. “I think calling a meeting is in order.”
“Where you gonna have this meeting?” Aisha asked. The boys shared a look with each other, than looked around the room.
“Oh, no!” she said, folding her arms. “Not in here! Not in my house!”
“I mean, it’s pretty spacious,” Johnny said.
“And the color’s really soothing,” Playa complimented.
“No, this place ain’t a gang hideout,” Aisha stated.
“Come on, Eesh,” Johnny pressed, but she looked away from him.
“Nope.”
“Well, guess we’ve got to find another place,” Playa mused.
“Yeah. Don’t worry though, I’ve got a Plan B,” Johnny said with a smirk, giving Aisha a side hug.
“Is it the building the Saints control?” Playa asked.
“It is!” Johnny said, flashing him a thumbs up. “We’ll go tomorrow. Bit late to grab everyone last minute.”
“Got it,” Playa nodded, before glancing over at the hostess. “So, what’s for dinner?”
