THE RETURN OF THE RED BUTCHER

THE RED BUTCHER ARRIVES

By midnight, the Iron Fangs were drowning themselves in noise, liquor, and smoke.

Their hideout was an old private party hall behind a closed warehouse in East Betford. The windows were blacked out. The music was loud enough to shake the metal roof. Men laughed with bottles in their hands, powder stained some tables, and smoke hung in the air like dirty fog. Some gang members gambled near the wall. Others danced badly, shouted over one another, and threw money at women who moved between them with tired smiles.

Broken bottles rolled across the floor. A man vomited near the back door while his friends laughed at him. Two others argued over a dice game until one slapped the other across the face. No one cared. This was their kingdom, rough, filthy, and full of men who thought fear was the same as respect.

At the center of it all sat Varen their leader.

He was broad, bald, and heavy-faced, with a thick gold chain around his neck. A half-smoked cigar rested between his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, but sharp. Around him were three women, two armed men, and his personal assistant, Malo, who stood close with a small black tablet.

Varen lifted a bottle. “Betford drinks because I allow it to drink.”

The men around him cheered.

“To Varen!”

“To the Iron Fangs!”

“To money!”

Varen laughed and took a long drink. Liquor ran down his chin, but he did not wipe it off. He liked looking careless. It made the younger men think he feared nothing.

Malo leaned closer. “Boss, the shipment has arrived.”

Varen lowered the bottle. “Which shipment?”

“The fresh one from the Uravian coast. Cultivated, processed, and packed. The cocaine is clean. Very clean.”

Varen’s smile widened. “How much is it worth?”

“Five million dollars,” Malo said.

Varen sat back, pleased. “That is good money.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make sure it is moved carefully,” Varen said. “I don’t want fools touching it. Send it through the right channels. Club owners, private buyers, rich boys, and those politicians who pretend they hate drugs in the morning and snort them at night.”

Malo nodded. “I will handle it.”

“If one gram goes missing,” Varen added, “I will remove fingers.”

Malo swallowed. “Nothing will go missing, boss.”

Varen laughed and looked around the hall. “Good. Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow, we sell.”

A drunken member near the table shouted, “Boss, give us one pack to test!”

Varen pointed at him. “You can test the bottom of my shoe.”

The table burst into laughter.

Malo waited until the laughter died down before speaking again. “There is another matter boss.”

Varen turned his head. “What matter?”

“It is about the fish seller.”

Varen’s smile disappeared slightly. “You mean the bastard who touched my men?”

“Yes.”

Varen leaned forward. “I heard he embarrassed them on the road. Four men beaten by one market rat. I should have broken their legs myself for letting one man embarrass them.”

“They were careless,” Malo said. “But we handled it.”

Varen tapped ash into a glass. “Handled it how?”

Malo’s eyes became cold. “We went to his stall and burnt it. He was not there. Lucky man.”

“Lucky?” Varen asked.

“For now,” Malo said. “But his place is gone. Burned clean. His two boys were inside the fire.”

One of the men at the table laughed. “Those little rats who carried fish baskets?”

Malo nodded. “They will not carry anything again.”

Varen stared at him for a moment, then started laughing. It was a deep, ugly sound. The men joined him because they knew that was what they were supposed to do.

“So the fish seller wanted to play hero,” Varen said. “Now he can sell ashes.”

Another thug lifted his glass. “To roasted fish!”

More laughter broke out.

Malo smiled thinly. “The market will understand now. Nobody touches the Iron Fangs and sleeps peacefully.”

Varen raised his bottle again. “Exactly. Taxes must be collected. Respect must be maintained. If one small man is allowed to stand, ten others will grow legs.”

He drank until the bottle was empty, then slammed it on the table.

“Music!” he shouted. “Why is my music not shaking the roof?”

The music grew louder.

Men danced harder. The strippers were more energetic. More bottles opened. Someone spilled liquor across a table and set it briefly on fire for fun before slapping it out with a dirty cloth. A few gang members were too high to stand properly. Others wrestled near the corner while the women moved out of their way.

Malo checked his tablet again. “Boss, once the cocaine moves, we can pay the eastern route and still have over three million clean profit.”

Varen grinned. “That is why I like you, Malo. You count money better than priests count sins.”

Malo bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, boss.”

Varen took another drink from a fresh bottle. “And the fish seller? If he comes crying?”

Malo smiled. “Then we bury him beside his stall.”

The words were still hanging in the air when the entrance door opened.

At first, no one noticed.

The music kept pounding. Men kept laughing. Smoke rolled across the room. But slowly, the men closest to the door turned their heads.

A man stood at the entrance.

His clothes were partially burned. His sleeves were dark with ash. His hair hung loose around his face, and his skin carried the smell of smoke, fish, and fire. He did not look drunk. He did not look afraid. He looked like pain had emptied him and left something colder behind.

One Iron Fang member frowned. “Who the hell is that?”

Another lowered his bottle. “Why does he smell burnt?”

A third man laughed. “Maybe the fool came from a trash fire.”

But the laughter did not spread.

Simon Gallagher had stepped fully into the hall.

His eyes moved across the room without hurry. He saw the bottles, the drugs, the money, the laughing men, the weapons near their chairs, and the faces of people who had killed two innocent boys and returned to drinking.

He said nothing.

That silence was worse than shouting.

One man near the entrance pointed. “Boss, someone walked in.”

Varen had just finished another bottoms up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned lazily toward the door.

His face changed upon seeing Simon.

The room began to quiet.

"Who the hell is that?" Varen asked.

Malo looked from Varen to the man at the entrance. Then his eyes widened as recognition struck him.

“Oh, oh…” Malo said, his voice dropping. “Sir, that is the fish seller.”