November 16, 2014,
04:29 local time,
“Come on,” shouted a burly African man in Cale Quentin’s ear as he shoved Quentin forward. “We don’t have all day!”
Quentin groaned, but offered no resistence, surrounded by four guards who had menaced him for hours. The Mexican’s feet, stripped of his shoes, were lined with cuts and scrapes from being forced at gunpoint to walk up the heights of Mount Cameroon, with Quentin barely able to make much progress due to the shackles affixed to his feet. He had interconnected shackles around all of his limbs and his neck that allowed for some movement but not much, with a shock collar placed around his neck. As he looked skyward, he could see the bright lights of Orion shining down on him, the constellation’s full regalia on display.
Oh Orion, thought Quentin, how can you stand so tall and so brave when facing such adversity? How I wish I had the strength you have, so that I too could face Taurus and Hydra and vanquish them both, instead of me crawling here, crawling to my certain doom. Quentin then began to cry, overwhelmed by his feelings. Oh how I wish I could strong right now, just so I could vanquish my foes and defeat the evil that lies before me!
He sobbed uncontrolably, collapsing into the ground bereft of any energy. He then grew nauseous, vomitting after realizing all the fear he was experiencing, before stumbling up to all fours. He still didn’t move, taking several deep breaths to compose himself, which earned Quentin a strong blow to his head by the butt of the burly guard’s rifle.
“Quit your whining, wimp,” snarled the burly guard, before realizing it’d be a lost cause. He groaned as he motioned his assistants forward, and ordered them to pick up Quentin and carry him up the mountain, since it became clear Quentin didn’t have the strength to keep climbing.
When the guards reached the summit, they were greeted by a Caucasian man, Charlie Fulham, the First Knight of Arlynal, who looked at the guards with a purposeful, intense glare. Fulham wore a full, bushy but groomed beard and goatee, donning a white fedora that complimented his short, light brown hair. He was wearing loafers and had khaki pants- held up with suspenders- and a white dress shirt on, which he usually wore with a trenchcoat but tonight was too hot for that to happen.
Still, the tall, portly but muscular Fulham stood tall and imposing, and the instant Quentin saw him his fear turned into a full blown panic attack, trembling as Fulham walked towards him with a steely glare.
“So, punk,” said Fulham with his strong, gruff voice. “Do you have a name?” Quentin was about to answer before Fulham cut him off, getting right in Quentin’s face. “No it doesn’t matter, because a putz like you only has one name- pathetic.” Quentin grimaced, expecting Fulham to punch him but Fulham walked away instead.
“You’re scared, aren’t you Cale?” Fulham said, letting out a slight sardonic chuckle. “You’re probably going on and on about ‘oh, woe is me’ aren’t you?” He then raised his voice, which caused Quentin to double back in more fear. “Well you shouldn’t think that, because you did this to yourself, and scum like you get what you deserve.”
Fulham then read out a list of names. They represented people killed by Quentin when they bought Quetin’s drugs at the “Love Festival” in Berlin back in August. Quentin had spiked the drugs- which were similar to the ones available in Berlin- with the intention of framing local drug dealers with the deaths so that their drugs would be discredited, allowing for Quentin to peddle his own drugs on the market in their place. The local police did the job Quentin wanted them to do, but Fulham did his own investigation and learned about Quentin’s scheme, precipitating his men to kidnap Quentin and summarily execute him in Arlynal.
“27 people killed, Cale, 27 people!” Fulham said, scolding Quentin. “Even one death is one death too many, but 27...that’s one heck of a ball game. We have a credo here, amongst us criminals, and that’s that we don’t sacrifice the lives of the innocent, especially for our own ends. I mean, Cale, killing the innocent is bad enough...but doing so solely for your own vanity? That’s a very low move...almost the lowest of the low...and tonight you will pay for that.”
As Quentin quivered, doing his best not to get into convulsive fits despite his nerves and the slimey lizard that decided to crawl up his leg, Fulham took out his gun and loaded it. First, he shot Quentin in his lower back, paralyzing him from the waist down and causing him to fall backwards to the ground. Then Fulham- taking his time to do so- took his gun and placed the barrel upwards in Quentin’s mouth, so that it would aim right for his brain. He then slowly pulled the trigger, shooting multiple times to leave no doubt. In seconds, Quentin would be dead, a lifeless husk bleeding from his head and his back. Once Fulham realized Quentin was dead, he pulled out a small tattoo gun and put a small symbol of the Arlynali snake- the national symbol- on Quentin’s left shoulder, so that anyone who would find his body knew that the government was making an example of his abhorrent behaviour.
As Fulham was walking towards his car, his bodyguard, the strong but slender Sally Longfellow, walked up beside him. Dressed simply in a grey tank top and shorts, the young ivory-skinned redhead was still new to her post, but she took to Fulham quickly, which earned the big guy's respect very quickly.
“Sir,” said Longfellow, pondering things upon seeing her first execution. “Not that I think you are wrong to do what you do, but, I must ask- do you ever think that, sometimes, you may need to do things differently? Why must we skirt the law in order to uphold it?”
Fulham paused, ending his walk to look straight at Longfellow, a move that Longfellow repeated. He wanted to comment about how naïve Longfellow was, but he realized that the young woman didn’t nearly have the experiences the jaded Fulham had, so it would be of no use to chastise her. He did decide to leave her a poignant remark.
“You know, Sally,” said Fulham with a sigh. “Yeah, sometimes I do wish I could do things differently and that we in this world could stay within the ‘straight and narrow’, but you’re going to have to trust me that things in this world work the way they do for a reason. Because,”
He paused to sigh before wagging his finger pointedly at Longfellow while continuing, urgency creeping into his voice.