Mad Dogs And Englishmen

by Dex

The fucking cunt had to bring them tonight to flash around her status, didn't she? Couldn't be happy with just her promotion, but had to have her little toy soldiers dressed up in monkey suits to show to the rest of the geeks. Like the IHC really gives less then a tug if we have proto-mutants on tap as a resource ten fucking years from now. Last I checked, they wanted results now. That why they stuck us with this enema of a Red Rook from Britain. Housekeeping, nothing less. Donald Pierce's lip curled as he surveyed the current group of visitors to the Hellfire Club's main parlor.

"Master Pierce." The butler had the normal mixture of respect and terror in his voice, and Pierce nodded with satisfaction as he allowed him to slip off his coat. His long blond hair brushed his collar before being gathered up in a thick ponytail to cascade down his back. Women loved it, he knew. They just loved to bury their hands in the think blond tresses and mutter how much they loved him and would do anything for him. Then he'd wreck the lying bitches for it, and laugh as they begged.

"Donald." Shaw's face split in a smile, and Pierce's did the same. He didn't see Shaw as a father. His own father was still alive, mostly, working the Hill for the same old bullshit and using his intern to overtax his pacemaker. Donald loved the old man; he was so hopelessly corrupt and venal that he was easy to understand.

"Hello Sebastian. Has our guest arrived?" Cultured tones. That was the first thing Shaw had taught him. His own New England drawl, touched thickly with education and the Marines was less than suitable for a drawing room. Shaw has stressed the importance of the right tone; the right words and manners. Oh, in his mind, he could still curse like his platoon sergeant and tell everyone what he really thought. However, none of that escaped his lips. Maybe that was why the mindwitch didn't like him. Maybe she'd listened into his thoughts and gotten scared. Maybe she'd gotten excited. Emma was the kind of bitch that probably liked getting belted in the mouth while being fucked. A pain junkie, who made those pure white panties wet and dark as she thought about him in her ass. Donald smiled and shifted his growing erection as he mused.

"Yes. The formerly Honorable Anthony Winton-Hayes has just arrived. I believe he's engaged in a lengthy discussion with our scotch supply." Shaw snorted contemptuously. Pierce knew that he was a man of heavy appetites, but never allowed them to tinge onto his public life.

"How marvelous." Donald's tone dripped sarcasm. "And to what do we owe the honour of the Red Rook?"

"Politics, my boy." There were four sections to the International Hellfire Club. White and black; red and blue. Four tiers of power. Mind you, not like that meant a damn thing. The IHC was about as powerful as the New York branch, and held little true power or sway over it. However, as a support net for liaison between branches, it was invaluable. Alienating it would not help the New York branches initiatives, and could cause special damage to their overseas holdings. The branches that didn't stand together were often targeted for the consequences of standing alone.

"And his intentions for tonight?"

"I'm afraid he's declined to share that with me. Perhaps you might glean something from him? I'd use Emma, but he might be prepared against telepathic scans."

"Limiting her somewhat. Perhaps if she offered him her only other talent?" Pierce said.

"Careful, Donald," Shaw reprimanded lightly, and Pierce flushed. He'd forgotten Shaw's support of the new White Queen, which equaled to his defacto support. Pierce defined his support around winners.

~Shaw gets that,~ Pierce thought. ~Me, I just hate obstacles. They can call me Shaw's dog all they want, it doesn't change the fact that I've got the power they want, and the will to use it.~ His chastised look turned vulpine.

"I suppose I should make myself known to our guest then." Pierce smiled lopsidedly, and a dark sparkle grew in his eyes.

"I was thinking the same thing, Donald. Do enjoy the party."

"I'll talk to you later, Sebastian." Pierce walked off to the bar. Winton-Hayes was chatting brightly with Emma Frost, his glass being constantly refreshed by the man-servants dancing attendance on them.

"Hello Emma. I'm afraid I haven't been introduced to our distinguished guest." Her eyebrows went up in surprise as Pierce smoothly glided into their party. Her pubes made a shadowy indent in the thin fabric of her panties, he noted, and felt himself start to harden again.

"Donald Pierce, the Honourable Anthony Winton-Hayes. Pierce is our White Bishop, Sir Anthony," Emma said, and he could feel the prickles under his scalp as she tapped into his thoughts. He conjured up a brief graphic image of her in the crotch of one of the bar-girls as he reamed her from behind. Her eyes screwed up slightly and he grinned wider.

"An honour, sir," Pierce said, eyes dead behind his shark's smile.

"Quite." Winton-Hayes was a small, wiry man. His hair was a magnificent solid silver, cut short while still maintaining that classic windswept look. His thin goatee was still dark, shot through with the same gleaming threads. His grey eyes crinkled in amusement as he shook Donald's hand, and the tiny lines that surrounded them spoke of a thoughtful and cautious nature.

"How are you enjoying your stay?"

"The normal business, I'm afraid. Droves of paperwork." Sir Anthony sipped his scotch and cast an appraising look over Pierce. "You're much younger then I might have expected for a White Bishop, even in a colonial branch." Never mind the fact that the wealth and power of the New York Hellfire Club was equal to the combined might of almost all the European branches. Donald covered an angry flush with a drink order, and turned back to Winton-Hayes, totally composed and in control again.

"Both the Black King and the former White Queen supported my appointment. I'm something of a work in progress." Donald smiled and Sir Anthony nodded. Not that it wasn't true, he thought. Oh, Shaw had to be angling for it for months, but it had taken the threat of Emma Frost to gain the support of Quan Xui. The slant had her own ideas of how to gain support, and she'd drained his balls a dozen times thinking it meant his vote. After he'd been promoted, Shaw's support had gone to Emma, and Pierce's with it. Such is politics.

But that was typical of all women. Every one believed that all they had to do to control a man was to spread their legs and grudgingly offer their sex like its lips were gilded with pure gold. He liked to show them that they were wrong; to prove that a hole was just a hole.

"The former White Queen. Indeed. I remember hearing something of a scuffle involved in the elevation of both members," Sir Anthony said inscrutably, and sipped at his refreshed drink.

"Does anyone ever let go of power willingly?" Donald riposted, with an equally blank expression. Let this smug fucker dig himself in to telling me what he's doing here.

"Quite. Still, at times, it is in a person's best interest to willingly relinquish one's position. Especially in times of change, so to speak."

"Is that what you do, Sir Anthony? Outline ‘times of change' to people who should be bowing out gracefully?" Donald's words were soft, but his eyes had turned ugly.

"Dear boy, why would I do that? I'm simply an analyst in our dear Club. The IHC wanted a closer look at your New York practices, the better to see your successes and challenges. I'm merely here to listen and pass on my opinions to them. Mostly paperwork of the most tedious kind, I'm afraid." Winton-Hayes cocked his head to one side, as if straining to hear a quiet sound, and sipped from his drink. "And I believe I'm wanted in the other room, Mister Pierce. Perhaps we can talk later?"

Sir Anthony left before Donald could reply, leaving him grasping his drink in a tight hold and fuming silently. The little fuck is the IHC's damn axe man. That bastard is here to check out the whole takeover by Shaw, and if he doesn't like what he sees, he's going to ‘suggest' that Shaw gets removed. Waiting for the analysis was pointless too. The IHC was afraid of Shaw, and this would give them the perfect excuse. Sure, Shaw could tell the motherfuckers to shove their decree up their ass, along with Sir Anthony. But that would make him vulnerable, more open to international reprisals and internal strife. Without a doubt, if that happened, Shaw would not be allowed to survive his impeachment. As for his allies...

Pierce scowled and stormed out of the room, heading upstairs to his own office. He needed to think this out. He also needed to clear the murderous rage from his mind. First rule that he'd been taught by both Shaw and the US Marine Corp: Anger clouds intelligence. Pierce slammed open the door to his room and sank into his leather chair. The room was decorated in dark walnut and deep blues, with original watercolours of sea battles of the War of Independence. He slumped for a few minutes, before touching the intercom on his desk.

"Yes sir?" The voice said immediately.

"Bourbon. A bottle of it with ice. Now."

"Yes sir."

So, what happens if Sir Anthony gets to deride Shaw in his report. First, the old bastards announce their dissatisfaction with the way things are run. Then, the little asswipes appear out of the woodwork, solemnly agreeing that an evaluation should take place. For Shaw to block that would be political suicide. So, the study shows that Shaw is abusing his power, and he's asked to step down. And when he does, he'll be killed in short order. Pierce's thoughts burned darkly as he considered the situation; his anger displaced from his considerations.

"Mister Pierce? Your drink?" The girl said from the door, and Donald waved her in distractedly. The key was to shut down the analysis at the start, in such as way as not to taint Shaw. But how? Even if it involved his own sacrifice. After all, Donald thought, I've got fucking debts to pay. The servant put the tray down on the desk, leaning over the top as she arranged the glasses. Donald's eyes flickered up, lizard-like, and a thin smile grew on his lips.

"Stay still," He muttered, as he rose in a single movement, grabbing her neck and pushing her face down on the desk. She got off a brief startled yelp before the pressure on her neck silenced her. Donald unzipped himself and tore off her brief underwear with his other bionic hand. The fucking bitch was offering anyway. That was why she'd bent over to flash her snatch at me in the chair, Donald thought. So she was fucking crying now. It was all a damn act. Fucking bitch was dry as a desert, which was bullshit. He spit into his hand and rubbed it on her exposed lips. In one brutal motion, he thrust into her. She screamed, and he slammed her head against the desktop, shutting her up quickly. It only took a few rough thrusts before he felt himself swell and erupt inside her. She cried out again, and he smashed her down on the desk again, gratified to see a spurt of blood. Teach the fucking cunt to keep her mouth shut. He let go, and tucked himself back in his pants, already clear as to what he'd have to do. The girl whimpered, holding her shattered nose and torn clothes. Pierce shoved her towards the door and rang up the attendants. She'd have to be fired. Fucking bitch didn't deserve a place here, with her whining.

The aftermath of his climax settled a fine calm on Pierce, and he barely noticed the manservant enter to clean up the blood and semen on the desk. He had the bottle of bourbon in his hand, drinking directly from the top and staring far off at the walls. The Marine training kicked in and he began to turn over the situation in his mind, like a new mission into a hot LZ.

~I liked Vietnam,~ Pierce considered. Sure, it was bloody, dangerous and vile, but it was also the first real taste of freedom. Dad had correctly assumed that a National Guard tour might hurt his future political ambitions, and had suggested the Marines. Not that he'd be in danger over there. Dad's influence was enough to keep him in low threat areas for a tour. Master Sergeant Horace Greenlees. Pierce grinned. Greenlees was a Marine lifer straight out of Louisiana, who had seen action in every combat theater the States had ever walked into. He carried three pounds of steel in his body from near misses, and was tougher than a petrified stump. He was also meaner than a wolverine, and had caught the streak of cruelty in Pierce early. Fucker taught him to run ten miles, kill an alligator barehanded at the end of it, and then fuck the farmer's wife on the way back. And then the Nam.

That was power. Six months of village sweeps along the Cambodian border, far behind the Army battalions who had rolled through earlier. Easy and fun work. The occasional tunnel system turned over, a few suspected VC terrorists to interrogate. Pierce had made one talk by bringing in the man's family while he was tied up. First they used his wife, shooting her in the back of the head when they'd finished. His first daughter was about fourteen. They used their K-Bar knives on her. He still wasn't talking when they raped his ten year old daughter. Pierce used the butt of his rifle on her, cracking her skull like a ripe melon and splattering both himself and the gook with brains and blood. When they brought in his seven year old daughter, the gook finally broke, talking about troop movements and hidden caches. Pierce's sergeant dutifully copied everything down and, when he was finished, they had his daughter anyway. They set fire to the hut as they left, with the screaming man burning to death with the remains of his family. The intelligence they had received formed the basis of a highly successful counterattack against Vietcong forces, and Lt. Donald Pierce had been awarded a Silver Star.

Unfortunately, the fucking brass had their own political ideas, and a short colonel with a grudge against Dad decided to fuck him up harsh. Donald's memories went murky and red-tinged, and an unconscious snarl curled on his lips. Dropped his squad in as fire support in the middle of a fucking gook push along the border. The average life span of an officer in a hot LZ in Vietnam was 17 minutes. Pierce had lasted longer, mostly by being more vicious than the dinks. For three days, they had dug in and faced wave after wave of suicide attacks. The squad went from forty- five Marines to thirteen, and all their ordinance and ammunition was running low. The evac call finally went out, and they buttoned down as the US Airforce screamed over the jungle, dropping snake and nape on the VC forces. Pierce had stepped up into hell as he gathered up his squad in the dead and charred landscape.

Like ghosts, Pierce thought for the thousandth time. They moved back like ghosts to the evac site, eliminating stragglers in the uncommonly silent jungle. That was when they ran afoul of the bunker. Machinegun fire chopped his point in half, and split the squad into two halves. Pierce gave the order to work around, and the men moved out, flanking the bunker and dodging its punishing fire. A brace of grenades forced it to button down, and the Marines went screaming past in the tiny window of safety. But the rain and dark separated them, and Pierce found himself knee deep in a swamp, at least a klick north of where he should have been. That's where he tripped the grenade.

Shrapnel perforated his legs and arms, chipped a chunk out of his liver and spackled along his back. The impact cracked a half dozen ribs, and flung him into the lee of a fallen tree. He lay there in mind-shattering pain as the Vietcong slipped past, missing the Marine coated in soot and his own blood on the bank. For two days he lay there, feeling the strength ebb out as the sickness set into his body. Only by fluke did a LRRP find him on a sweep, moving back from Cambodia. He had lapsed into a coma and remembered nothing on the hellish journey out of the bush. The next memories were of bright lights and impossibly clean sheets.

They had amputated his legs, his left arm, and three fingers from his right hand. His spine was badly damaged, and the doctors agreed that he'd never walk again without a support frame. The damage to his lungs and liver were extensive, and they told Pierce he'd need medical support for the rest of his life. ~And that's when I met Sebastian.~

The Marine general had just left, informing Pierce that he'd been awarded a second Silver Star for his bravery under fire and the leadership he'd shown to his men. Shaw was wearing a very fine grey suit, with his black shirt open-throated under the jacket. The power of his presence had hit him first, Pierce considered. No one owned a room like Shaw did. He had sat down and outlined how one of his companies was ready to rebuild Lt. Donald Pierce into a far more powerful creature than the Marines could create. In exchange, Pierce's father would focus his influence to aid the Hellfire Club, and Pierce would be groomed to take his place. ~I took the deal as soon as it was offered, and don't regret a goddamn minute of it,~ thought Pierce.

That was all threatened by the interloper from the IHC. Pierce felt a lot like a praetorian of old; meant to guard his Emperor with shield and body from harm. He owed a debt in blood, and that debt had suddenly come due. With a single smooth motion, Pierce came to his feet and adjusted his tie. No matter what, Shaw would retain his position tonight.

The party downstairs was starting to wind down as he reached the lobby, with the majority of the high financiers slowly trickling out of the brownstone. Pierce took a few quick looks around, and then headed for the game room. If he guessed right, Sir Anthony Winton-Hayes would be following English tradition by having his brandy and cigar around one of the magnificently appointed billiards tables owned by the Hellfire Club. He slipped past Sen. Hatch with a smile and a nod, and walked down the short hall to the room.

The Honorable Winton-Hayes was leaning against the short bar, sipping from a balloon glass and holding a cue stick in one hand. He waved lazily with the glass as Pierce entered, motioning to the seat beside him.

"Ah, my dear boy. I afraid your associate, Mister Leland has just been called away for a moment. Based on the lay of our snooker balls, I like to think of it as a strategic retreat." Winton- Hayes smiled and sipped from his glass. "An excellent cognac as well. New York is turning out as quite the pleasure trip."

"I'm glad you're enjoying."

"Ah, Donald. Please, sit. Sit. Come and talk with an old man."

"Old doesn't mean ineffectual," Pierce said, sitting down beside Sir Anthony and helping himself to the bottle. "Or wise, I suppose."

"True, my boy. But it does give a certain sense of experience. Also a feel for a situation. Tell me, Donald. What sort of feel do you have for the Hellfire Club in New York?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Come now, my dear boy. You're intelligent, aggressive and ruthlessly ambitious. Where do you see yourself under Shaw's current reign?"

"Should I see something other than his reign?" Pierce's eyes turned ugly, but Winton- Hayes seemed not to notice.

"Things change, Donald. And with those changes, people change as well. Have you ever considered being the White King?"

"What?"

"The White King. At the IHC, we've been considering pushing for the full council instalment. That means a Black Queen and a White King."

"Who else have you spoken with?" Pierce's mind was whirling as he considered the situation. Winton-Hayes was offering him the bribe of position flat out, in return for his support. That support would be tied directly to the IHC, making the New York branch, in effect, puppets to the international set up.

"No one yet, really. A few interested parties in the higher order. Mostly just ideas. Unfortunately, Shaw likes holding on to his personal power a little too much for this to work with him as Black King."

"I see."

"Indeed."

"So, is this an offer?"

"Offer is a strong word. Let's say... prediction."

"Has this been decided?"

"Of course not. However, my analysis will be the major voice in the decision. And if I name you as the best potential White King..." Winton-Hayes let the implication hang, and sat back, obviously pleased with himself.

"So, all I have to do to become the White King is to help you bring down Shaw. That's quite a proposition," Pierce said carefully.

"Quite. So, Mister Pierce, where do your loyalties lie?"

"This might surprise you, but-- " Pierce's arm snaked out and caught Winton-Hayes' throat in his grasp, "-- I know where my loyalties lie. Like Gunny used to say, in for the tip, in for the whole dick." Pierce's smile twisted up and he dragged Sir Anthony over on to the snooker table, scattering balls as he bore him down. The Englishman fought purple-faced against the steel grip, trying to fight any breath of air around the metal fingers digging into his throat. Donald smiled as he watched Sir Anthony struggle. The man clawed at his face, his eyes pleading. But the only thing he saw were the shark eyes of Pierce; cold, dead and utterly merciless.

The man began to choke, veins popping out around his forehead. With one last gasp, he twisted against the grip, and Pierce wrenched back, reveling in the dry snap of the vertebrae as he did so. With a final explosive cough, Sir Anthony's hands dropped from their desperate grasp of Pierce, and his body went limp.

Pierce savoured the cracking sound, and dropped his grip on the now dead man. The room was still empty, and his bionic hand had the advantage of no fingerprints. Sir Anthony was just another body in a long list of them, and Donald Pierce took a savage contentment in the outcome. No matter what happened, he'd paid his debt to Shaw tonight. Even if he was turned over for the appeasement of the IHC, Shaw would remain Black King. Pierce drank down the rest of his brandy and tossed the glass on the table, between Sir Anthony's legs.

"We all have to be someone's dog," He muttered and disappeared down the corridor and into the labyrinthine depths of the club.

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