Season 2 chapter 34
The Evidence
"Okay, so yeah," Kniya sighed, deciding to ignore the fashion debate. "You got jumped by The Democratic Ones. If you know who we are, and you know how we operate... do you have some proof?"
Malesh nodded in agreement. "If you know about these guys so well, and you survived a thirty-minute assault, do you have any kind of evidence against them? Visual confirmation is required before we retaliate."
"Yeah," Salesh said, reaching into the deep pocket of his cheap trousers. He pulled out a surprisingly intact, high-end compact camera. "I happened to have a camera on me at that exact moment of time. I couldn't fight back, but I managed to snap some photos of the gang members while they were hitting me."
He handed the camera to Kniya.
Kniya clicked through the digital screen. Sure enough, there were several blurry, chaotic photos of five angry teenagers swinging hockey sticks.
Kniya's arrogant, violent smirk slowly returned to his face. He handed the camera to Malesh and cracked his knuckles, the loud pop echoing over the noise of the amusement park.
"Alright," Kniya grinned, his eyes gleaming with pure adrenaline. "So now it's our time to get back into the college mindset. Let's go teach these little shits a fucking lesson."
"Wait, we are going to fight a group of teenagers?" Filoska asked, though she was already pulling her brass knuckles out of her designer purse.
"Absolutely," Malesh stated, handing the camera back to Salesh. "Which direction did they go?"
Salesh pointed a bruised finger down the main promenade, toward the food courts. "They went in the right direction. They said they were going to get funnel cake."
The Hunt
"Get up," Kniya ordered, grabbing Salesh by the shoulder and hoisting the bleeding billionaire off the bench. "You're coming with us."
They didn't waste time walking. Kniya led them straight out of the park's main gates and into the VIP parking lot. They shoved Salesh into the backseat of Kniya's massive, crimson-and-black armored luxury sedan. Malesh took the passenger seat, and Filoska climbed in next to Salesh, doing her best not to get his blood on her coat.
Kniya gunned the heavy engine, ripping the sedan out of the parking lot and driving slowly down the street bordering the right side of the amusement park, scanning the crowds through the tinted windows.
"Keep your eyes peeled," Kniya ordered, tapping his fingers aggressively against the steering wheel.
They cruised past three blocks of arcades, souvenir shops, and food stands.
Suddenly, Malesh raised a hand.
"Stop the car," Malesh ordered flatly.
Kniya slammed on the brakes. The heavy sedan lurched to a halt right next to the curb, just outside a massive, open-air diner.
Sitting around two pushed-together metal tables were the five college boys from the photos. They had their hockey sticks leaning against the chairs, laughing loudly and eating massive plates of fried food.
But they weren't alone.
Sitting at the head of the table, wearing a dark leather jacket and looking completely miserable as he aggressively chewed a piece of meat, was the guy in charge.
"Well, well, well," Kniya smirked, putting the car in park and reaching under his jacket to check his concealed shotgun. "Look who it is. The five little grunts... and the leader of The Democratic Ones himself."
The Ideology Check
The massive, crimson-and-black armored sedan idled by the curb.
Kniya popped his neck, spit his mint gum out the window, and opened his door. "Salesh, stay in the car and try not to bleed on the leather. We will handle this."
Kniya, Malesh, and Filoska stepped out onto the pavement. They walked slowly toward the open-air diner. The five college boys were laughing loudly around the pushed-together metal tables, slamming their hockey sticks against the ground in a rhythmic, obnoxious cheer. At the head of the table, the leader of The Democratic Ones was aggressively chewing a greasy piece of fried meat.
As the three billionaires approached, the laughing died down.
The leader wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. He grabbed his heavy, tape-wrapped hockey stick and pointed it directly at Kniya's chest.
"Who the fuck are you?" the leader demanded, his gang of five grunts immediately standing up behind him, gripping their weapons. "You are standing on our turf. Are you democratic, or are you monarch? Tell me your ideology right now!"
Kniya didn't even flinch at the tip of the hockey stick. He just casually looked at it, then looked the teenage gang leader dead in the eyes.
"We are democratic," Kniya stated calmly, his voice carrying the heavy, absolute authority of a man who actually ran the country. "But you cannot beat anyone because of their ideology. It is not allowed. You jumped a guy who didn't even care about your stupid street politics."
The leader scoffed, stepping closer. "Not allowed? We are The Democratic Ones! We do whatever the fuck we want! If you are defending that neutral piece of trash, we will beat the shit out of you too!"
Malesh, standing perfectly still next to Kniya, slowly adjusted his dragon-themed tie. His face was a mask of cold, deadpan disrespect.
"You don't do whatever you want," Malesh said flatly. "I know your story. A guy pooped on the face of you while you were sleeping."
The Paparazzi Revealed
The entire diner went dead silent.
The five grunts stiffened, terrified to even look at their boss.
The leader's face instantly drained of color, before flushing a violent, furious shade of red. He gripped his hockey stick so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared at Malesh. He looked at Malesh's cold, dark eyes. He looked at his short, simple shirt and his flat, unbothered expression.
Suddenly, a horrific memory flashed in the gang leader's mind.
When he had been wiping the biological waste off his face at the fountain, he had looked up at the nearby bushes. Through a tiny, pinpoint hole in the leaves, he had seen a camera lens flash. And right behind that lens... was a guy with dead, emotionless eyes.
"You..." the leader whispered, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated rage. He pointed a shaking finger at Malesh. "You are the guy! You were the one peeking through the hole! You took the photo of me! You are responsible for all the shame I got in the papers!"
"The lighting was excellent," Malesh replied smoothly.
"I will fucking kill you!" the leader roared, raising his hockey stick high into the air.
The Diner Brawl
The leader swung the heavy wooden stick directly at Malesh's head with lethal force.
Malesh didn't even blink. He casually stepped half a pace to the left. The hockey stick completely missed his face, smashing down onto the metal diner table and shattering a plate of fries into a hundred pieces. Before the leader could pull the stick back, Malesh drove a devastating, perfectly placed punch straight into the teenager's ribs.
The sound of bone cracking echoed through the diner. The leader gasped, dropping to one knee.
"Get them!" one of the college boys screamed.
The fight instantly exploded into total chaos.
Two of the grunts rushed Kniya simultaneously. Kniya didn't pull his gun; this was a street fight, and his old instincts from the Seistain slums were wide awake. The first boy swung a stick at his knees. Kniya vaulted over the swing, grabbed the boy by the back of his collar, and violently slammed his face directly into the diner's ordering counter.
CRASH! The glass display shattered.
The second boy tried to tackle Kniya from behind. Kniya spun around, caught the boy's swinging arm, twisted it until the shoulder popped, and delivered a brutal knee strike straight into the kid's stomach. The boy threw up his fried food instantly, collapsing into a heap.
"You guys are literally strong!" the leader coughed, struggling to stand back up and clutching his broken ribs. He looked at Kniya tossing his top enforcers around like ragdolls.
Meanwhile, a boy with a shaved head and a heavily taped stick locked his eyes on Filoska.
"I'll take the bitch out!" the short-haired boy yelled, charging at her with his stick raised like a baseball bat.
Filoska didn't panic. She had spent thirteen years surviving Kniya and Malesh; a college kid with a stick was nothing. She stood her ground in her designer shoes. As the boy swung the stick at her head, Filoska swiftly ducked underneath the heavy wood.
Using his own forward momentum against him, she pivoted on her heel, raised her leg, and delivered a ruthless, agonizingly precise kick directly into his main point.
The impact was sickening.
The short-haired boy's eyes bulged out of his skull. He dropped his hockey stick, let out a high-pitched, breathless squeak, and instantly collapsed onto the concrete, curling into a tight fetal position and crying for his mother.
The gang leader, clutching his ribs, stared in absolute horror as his third man went down.
"This woman is also so strong!" the leader yelled, entirely demoralized. "What the fuck are you people?!"
Kniya grabbed a metal chair, swinging it like a weapon to block an incoming strike from the fourth boy, before kicking the chair directly into the kid's chest and sending him flying backward into a trash can.
Kniya dusted off his simple blue shirt, breathing heavily but smiling with pure adrenaline. He looked down at the terrified gang leader.
"We are helping him," Kniya declared, pointing back toward the armored car where Salesh was watching. "Because we realized your face, and it is not good to punch anyone just for their ideology! And frankly, you guys suck at fighting!"
The last remaining gang member, a tall, lanky kid, looked at his four friends groaning on the ground. He looked at Filoska fixing her hair, Malesh adjusting his dragon tie, and Kniya cracking his knuckles.
The kid dropped his hockey stick, put his hands in the air, and slowly backed away.
"Fight's over, boss," Kniya grinned, walking toward the gang leader, who was still kneeling on the ground. "Now, apologize to the camera guy."
I am... so, so sorry," the leader stammered, immediately turning toward the armored sedan and bowing deeply to Salesh through the window. "I apologize for the hockey sticks! I deeply apologize!"
Malesh completely ignored the trembling teenager. He walked past the gang leader, stepped up to the open window of the armored sedan, and looked at Salesh.
"Let me give you the best survival advice in this country," Malesh told the bruised, bleeding billionaire. "Whenever anyone asks you about your political identity on the street, always point them towards their ones. If they support democracy, you support democracy. If they support the monarchy, you support the monarchy. Ask them indirect questions to know their ideology first, and then answer. Do not jump to conclusions and never claim neutrality."
Salesh nodded slowly, wincing as he adjusted his shredded shirt. "Yeah... that makes a lot of statistical sense now. Good advice."