San Francisco, California
July 4, 1991
11:32 AM
79 degrees Fahrenheit
Sunny with a light breeze coming in from the Bay.
A perfect day for a picnic. The kind of day you go and take the wife
and kids out to the beach on or to any one of the dozens of parks in the
most beautiful city in this country. But on the birthday of this nation,
here I am instead walking into a unique multiple homicide.
"Oh Jesus! Who the hell would do this sort of thing?"
The question had been asked at least a dozen times before I got
there, everyone just shrugs and continues with their work. Some of the
boys found quite the stash of heroin on the table. So it seems Old
MacDonald over there had some connections.
I pace the apartment again.
Four bodyguards, fully armed are dead in the living room. Not a shot
fired, their weapons weren't even drawn. But someone came in, through an
open window it looks like, and using a knife or some sharp object cut
open everyone's throat. Ripped it out is more like it.
Except for the guy in the bedroom...
I shudder involuntarily trying to block out that image.
The man's body showed signs of torture, tiny little bloody lines up
the arms and legs, like a thousand paper cuts. But the apparent cause of
death was suffocation. While the absurdity of the entire world at this
point was a given, one had to question the motives of the people
responsible, not their sanity.
The CD player was still playing the same song it was when I came in
the apartment, no one had found it still, but it was getting on my
nerves. Well, it was time to start acting like I knew how to handle
this...
"Call up the A.S.P.C.A. they'll probably want to know about this."
The only thing I could think of as the player finished the track and
continued to loop was that the autopsy was going to be ugly.
o/~There was an old lady, who swallowed a fly...o/~
-------------------
[Background music changes to Metallica's "Attitude" for the title flash
and introduction.]
-------------------
The Durankov Drafts
Good Help is Hard to Kill
By John Genoni
Copyright Insanity Productions 2000
Disclaimer: This is an authorized fan-fiction of Insanity Productions.
Durankov and its members are copyright of Rick Spiff and Insanity
Productions. Any similarity to persons living or dead would be really
scary but co-incidental except for those characters intentionally based
on living or dead persons. Scenes ripped right out of other works are to
advance the plot. But since this is non-profit and imitation is the
sincerest form of flattery, it should be fine. If it is not fine then
there are people that you should complain to before you come to my door
because I ain't the first, buddy.
WARNING: Minor Spoilers, Humor, Violence, Death, Foul Language, Weird
Psychology, Torture, and a bunch of other stuff that you shouldn't try
at all. If you're a minor and are reading this then you are one of the
few that do read these things but still are in deep trouble. Now go to
your room and think about what you've done.
-------------------
In the middle of 1990, the world was in a state of dramatic change.
Communism in the Soviet Union was ending and the once glorious nation
was splitting apart at the seams. The Cold War had ended, the Iron
Curtain had fallen, and for the moment, the United States of America was
the supreme country on the planet. Democracy vs. Communism was no longer
the game being played, the governments had settled back to cops and
robbers fighting the various criminal organizations that could no longer
enjoy the Cold War distraction.
It was during this turbulent time that two friends, by the names of
James Rahn and Dave Handleton, fresh from graduating from Kamiakin High
School in Kennewick, WA, had an epiphany. Recognizing that college was
very expensive and that the choices for attaining the required funds
were mainly unappealing, they set out on their own for fortune, glory,
and most importantly, fun.
The pair split up temporarily. Dave enrolled in what only could be
called "hacker school", his intelligence and ingenuity setting him on
top of the pile. It wasn't until a few months later that Dave and James
hooked up again purely by chance in a Detroit Red Robin. They chatted,
caught up on old times, and joked around. Then James dropped the bomb:
for the last few months he had been training to be an assassin. He had
found a pair of ex-SEALs, trained with them, and "graduated" the week
before. In the short time he had vanished, he had become one of the most
dangerous men on the planet. He wanted Dave to join him. Dave agreed
under certain conditions. James would do most of the killing; Dave would
handle everything else. They came up with a name for their team, a
series of syllables strung together to sound like a Russian name.
Durankov.
Eventually they hired some help, fellow assassins of exceptional
skill and cunning. The men of Durankov were often known as the
"spiritual assassins," appearing and vanishing like ghosts leaving
nothing but their victims behind. They were such a well oiled machine
that most people believed that it was only one man killing when at times
there were four or five on an assignment. Only a very resourceful (or
lucky) few knew that Durankov was a team name. However, that didn't
lessen the myths that surrounded them or justify the amazing feats they
pulled off each mission. Durankov held no alliances, they were feared,
respected, and used by both sides of the law.
But, to James and Dave, the most important thing was that they were
having fun. And they were being paid to do it.
-------------------
[Scene is in what looks like an old warehouse. Sounds in the background
suggest on the waterfront. The only thing visible is an overturned spool
of cable being used as a card table. The people using the spool are not
visible. The game is five-card stud with a nickel ante.]
Man A: It's that time again.
Man B: Is not.
Man A: ...
Man C: Time for what?
Man A:
Man D:
Man A: It's time to look for talent. It's
hiring season!
[Collective groan]
Man A: Nonsense, my good men. Now who wants to volunteer?
[The only noise heard is a buoy's bell in the distance.]
Man A: Guys?
[There's a small noise that only the man hears. He flips a nearby light
switch. The young prodigy assassin and generally recognized leader and
founder of the elite assassin group, Durankov, James Rahn is now clearly
visible. The camera turns to see co-founder Dave Handleton halfway out
the door. Both are dressed casually in old worn sneakers, jeans, and
T-shirts. James' saying `Don't bother me, I'm running out of places to
hide the bodies.' Dave's with `Assassins get paid to do your ex'.]
James: Glad you could volunteer.
Dave: I knew I shouldn't have stayed to collect my winnings.
James: Aww, it'll be fun.
Dave: It has never been fun, James. Never.
James: But this time it will be.
Dave: Tell me you have some nominees already.
James:
Dave: Candidates?
James:
Dave: People with potential?
James:
Dave: A clue?
James:
Dave: A brain?
James: Why are you asking me? Research is your field.
Dave: And fieldwork is yours. Why don't I look and you go recruit?
James: 'Cause you volunteered.
[The camera turns to Dave, who frowns. Then it turns back to James who
has vanished. Having nothing better to do it turns back to where Dave
was but he has also vanished.]
-------------------
[Detroit, Michigan]
[A wooden door opens up to reveal Dave holding it open, he gestures to
the camera to enter and closes the door behind it. He's switched to a
plain white T-shirt but the same style of worn jeans. Metallica's
"Master of Puppets" is playing from the nearby stereo.]
Dave: You're late. Don't say anything; it was a flat tire on your way
out here. I know already. Welcome to Michigan State and the official
DHQ. Of course, most of the guys that actually fulfil the contracts
would call headquarters whatever abandoned warehouse or hotel I set them
up in, but this is where everything happens. Take for example this offer
from a rich little fuck who wants to get back at daddy in Colorado.
He'll pay a lot of cash to see dear old dad castrated in front of his
father's mistress in front of his mother's fresh grave. Now, is that
fucked up or what? I could give this to... let's call him, F, because
it's his type of work, but E has been on the sidelines for a while and
is into this kind of thing too. I could send them together but then that
brings in the potential for creative differences and one of them may not
come back, which would make my task of hiring more help actually
meaningful. Beer? Nah, I guess you can't
while on the job. Have a seat, sorry for ranting there.
[The camera lowers a bit.]
Dave: You overheard that we're hiring. Don't take James too seriously.
"It's that time again" is for when he thinks I'm not pulling my weight
around enough. This is never the case. If I left, this whole operation
would descend into chaos in a matter of days. James would end up killing
the lot of them and either quit or start over again. But he likes the
occasional joke when I haven't gone out in a while. Recruiting is a
joke. It takes more effort to hire a new guy and bring them up to speed
than it does to torture the President. I say torture because anyone can
kill someone, even Secret Service can fail miserably. But torture
requires time... I digress again.
[Dave turns and types a few things in his computer. He notices the
camera focusing on the computer as opposed to the screen.]
Dave: Like it? There won't be anything like it until the
next millennium. Built it myself. Anyway, what we got here is an
electronic Bulletin Board System built by people like me for people like
him to get a hold of people
like James. It's a good system for a bad business. Morally speaking, of
course. Financially, we make a killing. So, the
first thing we're going to try is searching for fellow assassins that
can use this system. Most people are lone wolves, but some are team
players. But few, if any, are Durankov material. We like to operate as
one, so team skills are necessary. However, we have a certain flair that
must be kept. Now the team skills are the hardest parts to discern. If
they've worked with someone before, it brings many questions to light.
Highest is, what the fuck happened? I try talking to him and it could
turn out he got greedy and killed everyone else. Not good.
[Dave types some more at an overwhelming speed.]
Dave: Ok, I sent out a small "help wanted" before I let you catch up
with me. Since then, I've gotten several applications but only seven
people with potential. First, this guy has worked alone and in teams
before, he's an excellent marksman and former Army Green Beret Sniper.
This one's an iffy. We prefer to get in up close, work with our hands.
Martial arts, close combat, that kind of thing. Green Berets are bigger
pansies than SEALs though. He'll probably have the proper skills from
the ninjitsu they get taught, but if he prefers distance then he
probably lacks in melee. Range is usually a good indicator of skill.
The farther away, the less you have.
Dave: Next on the list is an old veteran of the business. Now I've had
three cases like him, one never heard of us before, one heard of us but
considered us a bunch of young hot shots, and the last heard of us,
liked our style, and even asked to join us. He lasted three days and ten
seconds exactly before he got killed. This guy looks to be the second
case, but he's been around long enough for some bad habits engrained to
be into his style. So maybe.
Dave: This next dude is younger than James and I, he's only killed only
three people, all up close and personal. He shows potential and is so
new that we could mold him into Durankov with relative ease. Bitch of it
would be the time and energy needed for training the kid.
Dave: Now here's a rare occurrence,
affirmative action is going too far these days. We have a bonafide lady
actually applying, I'll have to keep James on a leash... or he'd
probably prefer her holding the leash... Anyway, it'd be a huge pain to
have a lady around, what with the difference of opinions, the different
hotel rooms, and of course her going psycho at least once every month.
Hmmm, it could be fun, Maybe Pile!
Dave: The next three are their own little group, they want to be annexed
by Durankov. They work well with others, they claim to be exceptional
martial artists, and they have a long list of references and other jobs.
What they are not saying is that they are undercover cops, Interpol.
They're all fun and games until it's time for business, then they start
paying attention, and after the job, someone comes knocking on the door
with a battering ram. What tipped me off, you ask? This job here was James and my first. Done perfectly, no
one else in the world knows who contracted or carried it out. A lot of
people try to take credit; most of them cops because none of the other
assassins know who did it either. It's our own little mystery job to
trap these guys; a lot of other smart guys do one similar to it for the
same reason. Simple, no?
[Dave leans back and sips his beer. He seems to ponder something
deeply.]
Dave: Now that I've told him this stuff, I have to kill him.
But how?
Dave: Anyway here's what I'm going to do, I talk to all the candidates
individually, yes even the cops. Hey, I need the practice. And we see
what they can do, and then maybe a little trial run, the unsuitable ones
will be discarded, i.e. slaughtered mercilessly, and then basic training
starts where we bring them up to Durankov speed. The fastest learners
would take four months, minimum. I guess James was right, this could
actually be fun.
-------------------
[The scene is now at LAX airport. The camera switches between various
views of people milling around and walking from place to place. The last
frame slides down a long line of car rental booths. The customary
bickering between the customers and the clerks is going on in the
background. The camera stops at Dave sitting calmly behind a counter,
hands laced together and resting on the counter. He's in a crisp three-
piece business suit that was made for him. Above him is a professionally
done Durankov sign between Hertz and Budget. He seems to have all of
eternity. Metallica plays like elevator music through a small stereo. A
pair of Airport Security walks up.]
Airport Security 1: 'Morning.
Airport Security 2: Slow day?
Dave: Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?
AS 2: Well, we were just wondering what kind of cars you have in your
lot. See, we were just outside and-
Dave: This is not a rental car booth.
AS 1: That's what I figured. And you sure as hell don't look like a
candy shop, so one starts to wonder what you do here.
Dave: Selling services, gentlemen. This is an assassin-for-hire booth;
do you need anyone killed?
AS 1: Uh... no.
Dave: I didn't think so. But I am expecting someone soon.
AS 2: You can have a booth for assassinations?
Dave: Only if you go through the proper channels. You must be new here.
Do you need to see the authorization agreement? It, basically, says as
long as my company doesn't kill anyone during a flight or in the
terminal, we are allowed to conduct business. Messed up world isn't it?
Now if you'll excuse me I have a customer to deal with.
AS 1: ...
AS 2: Excuse us.
[The two guards leave to continue their rounds. Another man walks up
casually.]
Man: Hello.
Dave: Good Morning, Mr. Bueler. And might I say that is a
lovely tie. Don't worry, we can do it.
Bueler: Um, ok. Could I get a coupe, maybe in red?
Dave: We do not use that kind of
language here, Mr. Bueler. Simply sign here and we will take care of
everything.
Bueler: H-
Dave: 40K for the assignment plus one-fifty-nine and eighty-seven cents
for expenses. Of course, to look inconspicuous, you will probably want
some keys for a rental. We have a car borrowed from Budget under your
name. Of course, that will be extra. Sound fair?
Bueler: W-
Dave: Of course, this is safe. I took the liberty of temporarily
glitching up the cameras for you at no additional cost. Please sign here, here, and here.
Bueler: But this is for an assassination.
Dave: A misprint, Kinko's fault. They've already apologized
profusely. Just sign on the lines and we'll know what to do with it.
Bueler: W-
Dave: That'll be taken care of too. Is the traditional half now, half on
delivery satisfactory or would you like to pay via credit card?
Bueler: Visa or Master Card?
Dave: Any of them.
Bueler:
Dave:
[After a short second for the receipt to print, Mr. Bueler quickly signs
his alias down.]
Dave: Have a nice day, Mr. Bueler. And remember...
Bueler:
Dave: Only _You_ can prevent forest fires.
Bueler:
[Dave's cheerful smile lingers for a moment, then he pulls out a
cellular phone.]
Dave: Mob boss from
Tennessee, there to see his youngest daughter. Has some problems with a
local bloke. 40k for the job, just shoot the place up and kill the
owner. Here's the address...
-------------------
[Boston, Massachusetts]
[Embassy Suites, fifth floor, corner suite]
[Temporary lodging of Former Army Green Beret, Master Sgt. Benjamin
Dover. The sheets are still folded, unused as of yet. Two suitcases lay
open on the bed and table, clothes and weapons respectively. Dover
finishes buttoning his shirt, when a knock is heard off screen. Dover
silently creeps over to the door drawing a silenced 9mm Beretta. The
safety can be heard clicking off.]
Person behind the door: Room Service!
Dover: I didn't order any room service...
Dave: Well? Let him in, I missed breakfast.
[Dover snaps around pointing the gun at the source of the noise... that
isn't there.]
Pbtd: Room Service!
Dover:
Dave: If you open the door, food
will come.
Pbtd: Last call for room service!
Dave: Hear that? The dude's gonna leave with our lunch!
Open up the fucking door or I will!
Dover:
Dave: Lazy... good for nothing...
Dave: Thank you, my good man.
[The door's electronic lock clicks open. Dover pivots on his foot to aim
at the door. The chain was not attached. Dover pulls back the hammer on
his pistol. The handle jiggles a little. Dover waits patiently. The
handle jiggles some more. Dover blinks once. All is silent.]
[The camera closes in on Dover's head, the barrel of an semi-automatic
slides in smoothly and presses against his temple.]
[Dover sighs as he gently puts the hammer back, reactivates the safety,
dumps the clip and jettisons the chambered round. He tosses the magazine
to his left and his empty gun to the couch on his right.]
Dave: You do that so well, Mister D.
Dover: Sergeant, but please, Ben.
Dave: Ben, do you plan on surrendering all the time?
Ben: You have a gun to my head, this isn't a situation in my favor.
Dave: Maybe I have the wrong room then. I could've sworn there was
someone here claiming to be among the best.
Ben: Even the best have their bad days.
Dave: Not in the field.
Ben: Are you Durankov?
Dave: You can
get up.
Ben: I wasn't expecting you so soon.
Dave: Well, I knew you were here for the 7th Avenue assignment, as
contracted by a Mr. Herman Gilquest. After that, you were planning on flying to Jamaica and lay low
for a bit of vacation. I simply don't have the patience to try and find
you again.
[Dave turns to face Ben. The first contrast is the age difference. Ben
was approaching the hill while Dave wasn't even seeing the slope yet.
Dave had definitely come to discuss business as his Navy Blue three-
piece suit only aids in his air of confidence and competence. Ben was
missing the blazer he was going to wear for the assignment.]
Ben: Well... tough.
[The camera switches to X-ray vision and zooms in on the gun. The inner
workings look suspiciously like a...]
Ben: <-and shoots at Dave>
Dave:
Ben: Uh... sorry?
Dave: I took the liberty of
removing your ability to kill at range. You'll have to use your hands if
you want me dead.
Ben: I'm amazed I'm not dead yet.
Dave: I came here to hire you. This isn't one of those test out and
eliminate the competition things... at least not yet.
Ben: Then-
Dave: We were serious about the offer. Of course, a trial period will be
required.
Ben: Are you going to rant for a while, then coerce me into joining you
or is this going to be short?
Dave: As I previously stated I've taken all of your ammunition and/or
sabotaged your weapons...
Ben: Looks like it's going to be the first one.
Dave: ...and you do have a contract to fulfill so I figured that this
would prove a satisfactory test for you. All you have to do is complete
your assignment without the use of firearms. Knives are ok, and any
other close range weapon is fine. But no guns. I will be watching, but
you won't see me, so don't even try. Cheeseburger?
-------------------
[Ben is sitting on a park bench. To passer-bys, he seems perfectly calm.
A businessman relaxing on his lunch break.]
Ben: That fucker!! It's fucking suicide without a gun. Even
with the element of surprise, I'll be caught or killed trying to escape.
[Camera switches to X-ray showing a modern machete in the inside of the
blazer and throwing knives hidden in the sleeves.]
Ben: Then again, Durankov does this sort of thing all the
time. And he gets the big money for these hard assignments. If I teamed
up with him, I'd be with the best.
[The camera goes to profile Ben's face but focuses away from him. A
limousine turns a corner and begins getting closer.]
Ben: Ok, the target has arrived. How would Durankov handle
this? He's crazy, unpredictable, but effective. They're going to be
watching out for snipers because no one would dare attack them up close.
Fuck, I'm going to die someday.
[Ben stands and stretches. He walks calmly towards the same building the
limousine is heading on an intercept course. The limo arrives shortly
before Ben does and parks. Just as the two rear doors open Ben makes his
move. Two throwing knives are imbedded into the two bodyguards as they
get out. People start screaming. Ben dives into the back of the
limousine. The driver makes the mistake of looking behind him to see Ben
plunge his machete into the executive's throat. The driver pulls the car
into gear and steps on the gas. Ben rips the blade out as he rushes out
the other side. The limo crashes into a taxi. Ben runs across the
street. The bodyguard in the passenger seat gets out drawing his gun.
Ben is a block away as the bullets start flying. A block and a half, one
of the bullets strikes home. In Bullet-time and X-ray cam we see the
bullet pierce the calf in and out, barely missing the major arteries and
bones. Normal view as Ben limps quickly away.]
[Five blocks later Ben slams his back against an alley wall. He pulls a
large handkerchief out of a pocket and ties it tight around his wounds.]
Ben: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Dave: Bravo.
Ben: Gah!!
Dave: Five blocks
on that. Not bad.
Ben:
Dave: Drop everything you have right here, right now.
Ben:
Dave: I prefer giving someone three
strikes as opposed to some guys who'll flunk you right off. Now, strike
one was getting my shirt wet. It's fine now but you did get it wet on
purpose. You apologized, which shows class, I like that. However, strike
two you got shot, now you are bleeding and will make a mess in the car.
Walk with me.
[Dave turns to walk down the alleyway at a pace that Ben can match.]
Dave: That's a double problem. Now I could flunk you right now, or only
give you one strike. That running through the limo, I liked that. I
think I'll only give you one strike. Now here's the question, answer yes
or no, should I penalize you for disarming?
Ben: Yes.
Dave: Correct answer. So why did you drop your knives? Not all of them
of course. You had the machete and some throwing daggers on you, but you
also had a backup knife. Smart man. I should give you that third strike,
but you're honest, yet deceiving. And I'm still stoked about that limo
thing. You excited? Boy, that looked like fun. Look at you, coming off
an adrenaline rush so high you couldn't see the ground. I envy you right
now. That's why I'm not going to kill you. Dude, you are rockin'. Tell
ya what, we'll get that leg looked at, grab your stuff and discuss
business. Hell, beer's on me. In ya go.
[A silver Acura CL Sports Sedan is parked in front of them. Dave opens
the rear door and climbs in. Ben nervously follows. The car neither
peels nor speeds as it pulls into traffic and obscurity.]
-------------------
[It is a dark and stormy night. James is sitting back in a chair in a
room of the Holiday Inn, Nashville, Tennessee. He has KMFDM as loud as
he can get away with, audible through a pair of headphones. He seems
indifferent to the weather as he reads a Peanuts comic book. There are a
few spots of blood on his face and shirt that he hasn't bothered to
clean up. His mind seems to be concentrating on something else though.]
James: Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow, meow meow
meow meow meow meow meow meow.
[There is the sound of something large impacting the window.]
Dave:
[James sets his place and leans over to open the window. Dave crawls in
and shakes off the water on his coat. Ben slides through the window with
the practiced grace of a SWAT team member.]
Dave: You were supposed to leave the window open.
James: It got cold.
Dave: Then put a sweater on!!
James: Who is he?
Dave: This is Sgt. Dover. He's the first candidate.
What do you think?
James: Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow, meow
meow meow meow meow meow meow meow.
Dave: James!
James: Hey guys!
Dave: This is Ben, he may be working with us soon.
James: Really? He got shot, how many strikes does he have?
Dave: Two.
James: Already?
Dave: He got my shirt wet.
James: You tried to shoot Dave?
Ben:
James: I like him already. Ok, pop quiz, Ben. Do you like Cheese?
Ben:
James: Yes or no.
Ben: Um... Yes?
James: When does he start?
Dave: James, you know it's more complicated than that.
Ben and James: It is?
Dave: Yes.
James: Oh, bad news, Kyle killed Hank during that Des Moines contract.
Dave: