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nichenarratives · 8 months

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Hurricane Heller 9

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton

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[Trigger warning for strong references to violence, bloody descriptions and forceful imprisonment of an expendable OC]

9. Butcher for Hire

Once a primary producer of domestic chemical cleaners, the now defunct Solvay Process Company factory stands grimy on the outskirts of the city, towering over its surroundings and casting bleak shadows reminiscent of pollution it once spilled into the nearby river. Now it looms over Mordecai as he exits the vehicle, an isolated island of concrete amongst otherwise wild, natural ecosystems.

Mordecai gazes up at the abandoned building with dread in his veins, sharp eyes slit to study this new environment, his possible last destination. He swallows and draws his tail to the back of his legs, only to startle and spin back toward the car when the door slams closed behind him. The siamese smirks and offers a cursory wave before the engine revs.

Tires squeal and spin, kicking up gravel, then it's silent once more. Mordecai can feel his heart beating as he turns back to the factory, a rapid samba thrumming in his throat before it echoes in his ears. An overwhelming urge to go home hits then; an idiotic notion he could just crawl into bed, pretend this never happened and return to the tracks in the morning, somehow resetting the day's events and erasing them from history.

But of course, he can't go home. Even if he knew which way to walk, even if he could feasibly walk that far. There is no hard reset, either; in doing his job, 'Elijah Katz' made himself too valuable. Influential undesirables have taken notice and now he's on a very different path, one that might end today if he can't live up to unspoken expectations.

Leveling his gaze forward, he spots an open door, a fire exit left innocuously ajar on an abandoned building miles out of the city. It's an invitation, one the newly christened Isaiah Fitzgerald knows he cannot refuse. He takes a deep breath - a shakier one than he'll ever admit - and clutching onto the strap of his Father's satchel for support, finally steps inside.

Unsurprisingly, it's dark in the abandoned factory. Vaulted ceilings and high, industrial windows do little to light the floor level walkway he enters. Remnant scents of chemicals still permeate the air, tainting each new breath with a bad taste. Mordecai scrunches his nose and tries to keep his breaths shallow, not wishing to draw unknown substances that could be toxic into his lungs.

A steady drip-drip accompanies the click of his loafers over the cracked tile floor, echoing off the empty walls. Desks left overturned, papers abandoned to rot and unidentifiable wet patches are all carefully stepped around as he heads deep into the factory's carcass until, anxiety overriding an innate urge to keep a low profile, he calls out in an embarrassingly cracked voice. "Hello…?"

The response is a muffled yell from his right. Mordecai turns on the spot, though he doesn't approach immediately, taking a moment to extract and open his pocket knife. Leaving his letter opener tucked into a boot for emergencies, he finally takes slow, calculating steps towards the sound, eyes wide to saturate his vision and adjust to the low light.

Just around a corner, he finds the source; illuminated by a rare high window that shines directly onto the tiled floor, he finds a feline tied to a chair. Large black ears come forward as he approaches, eyes darting around the area for danger, the uncertainty of the whole arrangement raising his hackles and heightening his senses even as the restrained man gets louder and more desperate on his approach.

"There's the man of the hour," a slow, almost drawling tone declares from the left. Mordecai pivots, turning his knife on it in an instant, coming within inches of slicing another man's flesh. Another new face - a large, white feline with amberish eyes and black stripes around his muzzle that aren't echoed elsewhere on his pelt - smiles slyly. "Savage's new favourite Pussyfoot. What was it? Katz? Ritz? Fitz?"

With both old and new aliases mentioned, plus another he assumes was a possibility the siamese dug up investigating the non-existent Katz, this man must be associated with the company. A quick glance shows another time pin identical to the others and slowly, the tuxedo lowers the pocket knife to his side, not yet content to put it away. "Fitzgerald."

"Fitz," the man responds, apparently pleased with himself in creating a nickname, as he chuckles softly and places an arm around the tuxedo's shoulders. Mordecai tenses, but it doesn't stop this man pulling him into his own shoulder for an approving half-embrace, forcing close proximity. "Good, good. I hoped it wouldn't go sour in the car. I've heard things about you. Great things. Hopeful things. But enough of that!"

He lets go of the tuxedo. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"Get started with what, precisely?" Mordecai asks warily, his gaze briefly tracking to the now silently shaking man tied to a chair. A sharp scent of ammonia fills the air, likely from the residual gasses still present in the factory, but Mordecai still scowls at it, causing the prisoner to cower before the tuxedo turns his gaze back on the white cat. "Who are you? Who is he? Why am I even here?"

"You ask a lot of questions," the larger feline responds, then digs in his pockets. Mordecai freezes, anticipating a gun or a blade to be leveled in his direction, demanding something of him. His knife feels heavy as attempting to defend himself crosses his mind, until the white cat only pulls out two tools; pliers and a hammer. He offers them to the monochrome cat without pause, nodding to the prisoner. "Save it for him."

Mordecai sags and tucks his pocket knife away as he looks at the other feline. Body tied to the backrest and forearms secured to arm rests with thick rope, hope has abandoned the captive's eyes entirely. Large orange ears flatten to his head and whimpers shake free of a mouth gag as torture implements are offered to not a saviour, but another enemy.

Emerald eyes fall back to the tools, ones he'd used a dozen times to make small repairs to his mother's home, tools that never felt dangerous until now. Mordecai once again gets an urge to run, this time to his Rabbi. He burns to admit to his sins and take whatever retribution the wise man feels fit, if only to avoid this exact happenstance entirely, even though he knows he can't, that his life will end as soon as he tries to leave, the young Jew wishes he could.

Instead he stays rooted to the spot, then turns his gaze to the man offering him the implements, a last chance to avoid taking this irrevocable step down the awful road he's been on for five years. "I'm a bookkeeper, not a…" His vocabulary fails not because he doesn't have the words, but because saying them makes the situation feel too real. Tormentor. Torturer. Sadist.

"You were a bookie," the white feline corrects. His fur so out of place on such a vindictive man, a halo of white around his face sharply contrasting the dark soul he must house. He continues to offer the tools with a flat expression, serious and unyielding. "Now, you're whatever Savage wants you to be. Today, that's his interrogator."

That's the end of it; there's no arguing, no compromise, just orders. Almost too carefully, Mordecai pulls the satchel over his head and drops it to the floor, too distracted by his boss' new expectations to concern himself with how messy that is, and takes a few steps towards his accomplice.

Mordecai feels dazed, actively struggling with the reality of the situation as he reaches for the implements with shaking hands. Every teaching in his childhood should prevent him from taking and using them as Savage intends, but it isn't so easy to refuse when it's not just his soul on the line; all he can think about is his baby sister's coughs as she died, how it broke his mother, what it would do to her if another of his sister's passed… all far heavier than his own eternity.

He hesitates a second, then two, before stiffly taking them.

"Good," the white cat comments, lowering his hands. While he seems content to approach their prisoner, Mordecai can only stare down at the tools. Despite the moral weight they represent, they aren't as heavy as the tom expected, fitting easily into his palms as he grasps them. It's as he closes his hands around the handles the orange cat is freed of his gag. "Ready to sing like the canary you are, Micheal?"

"Please, I don't know nothin', Mister Gabriel! It was only-"

The gag is shoved roughly back into the lad's mouth, pleas for mercy swiftly silenced. "Guess not," the white feline says as he turns back to Mordecai, who has only just glanced up from the hammer and pliers, barely even contemplated their intended use before he's encouraged closer with the curl of a finger. "Micheal here is a little flea, feeding off information from a rat and taking it to the feds. You're going to get me the name of the rat, Fitz. By whatever means necessary."

His chest suddenly tight, Mordecai turns his gaze to the lad in the chair, who whimpers and quivers with fear, shaking his head no. Tears pool in terrified eyes, orange ears lay flat to his skull and feet curl against the chair legs, trying to appear small. Nausea and guilt swim in the tuxedo's gut for a moment, but he squashes it down again, forcing any sentiments away.

Backing out is impossible. It would end his life and perhaps, also his family's. He needs that information.

Mordecai inhales sharply, forces them deep down and nods to Gabriel, flexing his palm on the pliers. The teeth part and gnash together threateningly in thin air. "Are you planning to watch?" He asks, honestly curious now he's fully detached the tenants of his morals. He wants to get this over with as fast as possible, which will be easier without interference. "Or can I have some privacy?"

With a chuckle, Gabriel raises his palms between them. "If you want it private for your first rodeo, I won't stop you," he says with far too much enthusiasm for Mordecai's liking, then pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear. "I've needed a smoke since you walked in anyway. Just try not to kill him before he squeals, would you? I'll wait for you outside."

The tuxedo lets him leave, then waits even longer to be sure the pale feline is gone, only then does he turn back to the cowering prisoner. Micheal's whimpers grow louder as he approaches, the orange cat flinching away from his hand until it removes the gag, only to shiver when his ensuing yell is smothered by the same cloth held over quivering lips.

Terrified eyes meet steady greens as Mordecai crouches to his level, hand firm on the fabric over his sniffling face, gaze piercing and tone low. "I'm sure you've realised you're going to die,* he begins honestly, then presses harder as the sniffs become yowling wails. He doesn't want to hear it, in case it breaks his resolve, a growl infecting his tone. "Listen. This is an opportunity for you to make that inevitable demise less painful. Tell me who's feeding you information and I'll ensure a swift, painless death. That's all you have to do."

With a last pointed look, Mordecai releases the man's mouth and waits, an elbow resting on his thigh and fabric gag hung precariously from two claws, not wishing to touch more of it than necessary now it's been inside the lad's mouth. For the smallest of moments, Micheal looks like he'll comply, thick, quivering lips parted to speak before he starts to beg. "Please! I don't-!"

Mordecai shoves the gag back into his mouth almost too aggressively and stands, turning his back on the man to run his hand through his hair and desperately think. Tools left at the whimpering man's feet, Mordecai tilts his head back and he clutches at his scalp with both hands, closing his eyes to ask - to beg - Hashem one last time for His guidance.

Give me another way I can protect my family, a way my soul remains intact, anything, and I will take it without question.

Silence permeates the air around him, deafening and empty at once, destroying what remains of his faith as he's forced to face the reality that there is either no Hashem, or nothing that can be done to redeem his tainted soul. Emerald eyes open and stare blankly at the ceiling, faith leaching from his body, finally leaving Mordecai Heller an emotionally decrepit shell.

He turns back to Micheal with a cold glare, his ears rotated back and brows knit together. This man is his fall from grace, his severance from faith, one if many he's sure to have to handle once today is complete. For the first time in Mordecai's life, he feels hatred for this whimpering, pathetic man who forces his hand, and it shows in the way he stands and approaches his prey.

The orange cat sinks as far into his seat as his restraints will allow, yelling for help through his gag as retrieving the tuxedo tom retrieves his tools and stalks the last few feet, advancing in silent determination. If I must spill others' blood to safeguard those I care for, if I must be forsaken by God for protecting my family, then I spill it without remorse.

There's no enjoyment; the screams are deafening, the blood is repulsive, the snot messy, but thirty minutes later he has the requested information. Mordecai leaves without offering any words of closure or comfort, aware on some level he's too calm as he retrieves his satchel. His slow steps echo through the silent factory, a rhythmic click of the small heel his only companion until he slips outside.

Hearing the door creak, Gabriel turns to face the tuxedo, his expression dark. "You killed him, then?"

"He's fine. I'm efficient, not careless," Mordecai rebukes and without explanation, holds out a fisted handkerchief bundle to his co-conspirator. A little bemused, Gabriel accepts it, whereupon the tuxedo straightens his suit jacket, unaware of the speck of blood on his collar that perfectly matches his tie. "One of your bookkeepers is skimming funds and paying triggermen for information. Mr Herman Schmitt. He was just stupid enough to share it with Micheal, as well."

"Schmitt," Gabriel growls openly, then slaps the tuxedo tom heartily on the back. "Good job, Fitz. A roaring success, I'd say. Here-" He tucks a thick wad of money into Mordecai's jacket, patting it with a palm afterwards to make a point of it. "Here's compensation for a job well done, plus a little extra to call a cab from the phonebox a half mile down the road. I think you'll find it more generous than your other wage."

He then tries to return the handkerchief, but Mordecai takes a step back with a grimace, pushing his hand away with an index finger. "That's yours," he states, eyeing what used to be his pocket square with open contempt. "Call it a souvenir. I assume you don't not want evidence left behind, after all. If that is all, I'm going home. I need a shower."

With that said, Mordecai turns on his heel and walks briskly away, not looking back. The sooner he gets back home, the sooner he can strip off his work persona and do something to tforget what he did today. A few of his plants need a trim, and it's been a while since he buried his nose in a book in solitude. He needs to decompress before he gets so lost in Isaiah Fitzgerald, he forgets who Mordecai Heller is.

"Enjoy that raise! I'll be in touch with another job soon!" His new supervisor calls after him, then chuckles and turns back to the factory. Before he heads inside however, Gabriel can't help but open the handkerchief, then whistles, unexpectedly impressed with his gall. "You're not as squeamish as you look, are you, Fitz? Isn't that interesting."

Three freshly extracted claws rest in a white handkerchief, glistening in the morning sun, clumps of raw tissue yanked from their internal flesh housings on each root slowly dyeing the crimson

----

I know I don't usually do author's notes, but I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone that shares/ reads this post on both AO3 and here, and.especially those who leave feedback on the chapters. The positive reception and hype has made it so much fun to expand on this story and get the chapters out fast - hopefully well written too!

So thank you, and I hope you've enjoyed Mordecai's downfall. It's only going to get worse from here.

#mordecai heller #lackadaisy #fanfiction #lackadaisy mordecai #lackadaisy cats #fanfic #hurricane heller #no beta we die like atlas may #tracy j butler #niche narratives #hurricane heller chapter 9

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lordofdestructionm · 8 months

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@nichenarratives furthers the descent of Mordecai Heller

#lackadaisy #tracy j butler #lackadaisycats #mordecai heller #fanfiction #niche narratives #losing faith #losing religion #torture #gangsters #early 20th century

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bethestaryouareradio · 5 years

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Twenty Years of Growing Leaders

Read more: http://hosted.verticalresponse.com/672296/e577047be3/288055965/ac7221bc2f/

Miracle Moment®

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As we head into the third month of 2019, I look forward to growing more leaders through our fantastic volunteer opportunities and collaborating with individuals, businesses, and companies to make our world an even better place. I'm devoted to making a positive difference. . Will you help me, please? DONATE! https://www.paypal.com/us/webapps/mpp/search-cause?charityId=1504&s=3 Thank you for your participation. Heartfelt gratitude for the past twenty years! Here’s to the next twenty!

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http://www.BetheStarYouAre.org

http://www.BTSYA.org

PS: You are never too young or too old to make a difference! Be a Super Hero. Make a donation today! https://www.paypal.com/us/webapps/mpp/search-cause?charityId=1504&s=3

Our Charity Partner Reached a Major Milestone

Our literacy partner, The Reading Tub, reached a major milestone in December of 2018 when it published 3000 original book reviews. BTSYAis proud to collaborate with The Reading Tub to offer book reviews through our TEEN STAR Book Review Team. Congratulations to Terry Doherty Executive Director of The Reading Tub. Visit the published reviews here:https://thereadingtub.org/books/be-the-star-you-are/

THANK YOU to Disaster Relief Supporters!

BTSYA has been shipping resources to the survivors of California wildfires and most recently the Paradise Camp Fire. We want to recognize our supportive heroes:

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Please support Operation Disaster Relief with your donation.

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If you would like to make a direct donation to our giving fund, please visit our PayPal page!

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We appreciate a direct donation most of all via PAYPAL GIVING FUND at https://www.paypal.com/fundraiser/charity/1504.

Checks can be sent to PO Box 376, Moraga, California 94556

There are other easy ways that assist our mission and don’t cost you a dime!

1. AmazonSmile donates .5% of purchases http://smile.amazon.com/ch/94-3333882

2. Discounted books at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/shops/be_the_star_you_are_charity

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"Too much of a good thing is wonderful."

Mae West

Be the Star You Are! 501 c3, PO Box 376, Moraga, California 94556.

Celebrating 20 years of stellar service to the world!

Soar with us!

https://www.paypal.com/us/webapps/mpp/search-cause?charityId=1504&s=3

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goddessgardener · 5 years

Text

Twenty Years of Growing Leaders

Read more: http://hosted.verticalresponse.com/672296/e577047be3/288055965/ac7221bc2f/

Miracle Moment®

For my birthday this year, my husband gave me a fabulous card that read:

“It’s not how old you are…but the number of years you’ve made the world a better place.”

And he donated to my favorite charity-BE THE STAR YOU ARE!®

And, WOW!, these young people become astonishing leaders.

Danielle Wong has won numerous awards for her novel, Swearing Off Stars.

Bravo to the volunteers of BTSYA for being the stars they are!

Want to know how much we've contributed in 20 years of service?

In addition, we recently received our platinum badge from Guidestar. https://www.guidestar.org/profile/94-3333882

Cynthia Brian Founder/Executive Director Be the Star You Are!® PO Box 376 Moraga, California 94556 [email protected]

http://www.BetheStarYouAre.org

http://www.BTSYA.org

PS: You are never too young or too old to make a difference! Be a Super Hero. Make a donation today! https://www.paypal.com/us/webapps/mpp/search-cause?charityId=1504&s=3

Our Charity Partner Reached a Major Milestone

THANK YOU to Disaster Relief Supporters!

BTSYA has been shipping resources to the survivors of California wildfires and most recently the Paradise Camp Fire. We want to recognize our supportive heroes:

Diana Zimmerman

New World Library

Robin Mayhall

StarStyle® Productions, LLC

Dr. Brian Sheaff

Dr. Dwayne and Lena Martin

Michelle and Chris Heim

Mitch Heller and Hemisphere Partners

Gary Gongwer

Brian and Heather Rankin

Margaret Winslow

Sal and Susan Captain

Please support Operation Disaster Relief with your donation.

MORE WAYS TO GROW WITH BTSYA

If you would like to make a direct donation to our giving fund, please visit our PayPal page!

https://www.paypal.com/us/webapps/mpp/search-cause?charityId=1504&s=3

We appreciate a direct donation most of all via PAYPAL GIVING FUND at https://www.paypal.com/fundraiser/charity/1504.

Checks can be sent to PO Box 376, Moraga, California 94556

There are other easy ways that assist our mission and don’t cost you a dime!

1. AmazonSmile donates .5% of purchases http://smile.amazon.com/ch/94-3333882

2. Discounted books at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/shops/be_the_star_you_are_charity

3. Buy or Sell on EBAY:http://givingworks.ebay.com/charity-auctions/charity/be-the-star-you-are-501-c-3/1504/?favorite=link

5. Shop at over 1300 stores on IGIVE: http://www.iGive.com/BTSYA

6. BTSYA Logo Store: http://btsya.rylees.net

8. Designer Clothes to Buy or Sell: https://www.unionandfifth.com/charities/be-the-star-you-are-moraga-ca/shop

9. Buy “Read, Lead, Succeed” T-shirts and tanks $19.99 at StarStyle® Store: http://www.CynthiaBrian.com/online-store

10. Are you a gamer, lover of new software, or other digital content? Buy all of your favorites at Humble Bundle. http://ow.ly/cYs130iN6n4

"Too much of a good thing is wonderful."

Mae West

Be the Star You Are! 501 c3, PO Box 376, Moraga, California 94556.

Celebrating 20 years of stellar service to the world!

Soar with us!

https://www.paypal.com/us/webapps/mpp/search-cause?charityId=1504&s=3

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