The army of delinquents, unethical lawyers, and corrupt officials began finding ways to impress Mr. Bossy by handling Klaire Sowle on his behalf.
For some unknown, weird, senseless reason, the delinquents spent their entire savings on a flight to Antarctica. They landed and traveled to a dead zone, only to realize Klaire Sowle wasn't a citizen.
The lawyers were almost on the same plane, in first class, non-refundable tickets—until an interference brought them back to their senses and over onto Triple–S.
A sudden surge of mysterious cases tied the corrupt officers' hands; they had no choice but to leave Klaire in the care of Bossy's lawyers, while they could only buy them more time by blocking Kudo's access to Triple–S.
"Why involve the big guys in such minor scuffles?" the lead lawyer, Gibson, tried to convince the Headmaster of Triple–S. "You don't want your higher-ups writing you down a notch now, do you?"
Headmaster Shawn adjusted his ivory-white robes and sat down opposite Gibson, still looking down. "Big guy here…" He rotated his chair to see the huge cross hanging above. "… isn't involved until there's a flood, I'm afraid," he said in a calm, nonchalant way. "I suggest you aim for someone lower. That's if you aren't planning something big." He folds one hand into a wave, while the other hand reenacts a man surfacing on said wave.
Gibson had a relatively small English mustache, which he cared for dearly. He often played with it, twirling and straightening it into a fine edge to assert dominance. But after Father Shawn's casual dismissal, he plucked out half of his mustache—half in shock and half in disbelief.
"There was so little to begin with," Shawn offered a wet wipe. "I'm sure it will grow back, or you can… You know… pluck the other side clean. Just don't do it here." He covered his mouth, whispering. "Even the big guy is weirded out by your… Finesse."
Gibson shot to his feet, pointing a trembling finger. "We can have you replaced by tomorrow."
Shawn leaned forward, a sudden shift in demeanor making his crimson eyes look more ominous than playful, sending shivers down Gibson's spine. "Then you should have come tomorrow, along with my replacement." He leaned back, letting Gibson catch his breath. "Or at least find out about me before you exploit—or threaten!"
"You've got it wrong, Father," Gibson gulped. "We are one." He rubbed his hands together. "Our patron is one—before you look back again, I meant Mr. Toby O'Brian Mackerel. The T.O.M." He stretched the word thin. "Bossy?" He spoke with great caution, clicking his dried lips.
Shawn casually reached out, his long hands stretching across the table as he pulled away the glass of water close to Gibson. "Before you waste 'the' on something vain." He paused, taking a long sip. "Shall we get down to what this 'Tom' desires from little old me?"
"You ain't familiar with either name?" Gibson gulped. "What kind of position is this?"
"Master of the word of God," Shawn said cheekily. "It's more focused than being a principal. You know, the hands-on kind."
"Aren't both titles the same?"
"Eh!" Shawn shrugged. "Unlike 'Tom,' used to intimidate businessmen, and 'Bossy,' used for street peeps, I am the captain of this ship, while a principal is a shipyard manager."
Gibson clenched his fist, grumbling through gritted teeth. "You knew!"
"Well… my boss loves moving boulders, and I like wandering out of caves!"
"What!?"
"Come on! Read the holy scripture before you visit next time. I'm shooting out gold here, man!" Shawn pushed himself off the chair and onto the table, leaning over Gibson with his huge crimson eyes. "I have a picture book if you'd like." He tried his best to act cute, which only helped creep Gibson out even more.
Gibson went purple, puffing up like a blowfish. "Do you have a death wish?" He looked around as if the walls had ears and were actively transmitting information to his boss. "Die alone, because we ain't coming along." His voice grew raspy and low, losing its pitch before it could turn into insults.
"The Lord sees and knows more." Shawn lifted the glass of water before Gibson could reach it, taking a faster sip to empty the contents. "A mortal scares me less — far less than what any of you can imagine."
"You can't protect the girl for long," another lawyer let out a low whimper.
"Who made you lawyers?" Shawn chuckled. "What? The delinquent squads got full, so you thought, 'Let's put on a coat and practice law'?"
"All the good ones are dead," a third whimpered. "For not doing their jobs right. Please agree to our demands. That way, we both can keep our necks."
"Tell me," Shawn glared at them. "Your boss has so many ways, I'm sure. Then why take this route for a nobody?"
Each incident and the intensity of their encounters with Klaire were registered in stone, their memories as fresh as the day they witnessed them.
Usually, nothing scared street and non-street folk like the mention of Bossy's name. He, in all intents and purposes, was the Godfather of their country.
On a particularly chilly day, when an ethereal mist turned every body of water into ice, Tom's monster was set loose.
It was his reward for being a good boy, for killing the opposition with the perfect amount of terror. No—he was no animal—he was a true monster in human skin, said to be set loose once every decade. The mess he created whenever he was free forced Bossy to keep him caged, though no cage held this monster in check for long.
Underlings called him "H," short for Hound, and probably the only word one heard him speak before their swift ended. But in reality, "H" spoke smaller words; enough for Bossy to understand his urges.
Doctors assumed his overgrown muscles and skeletal structure impaired most of the abilities that make a person human, none of them brave enough to examine the monster after he ripped the mad doctors in two.
If the crazy couldn't crack it, the sane would never try.
Armor-piercing rounds slowed the monster, and sleeping gas irritated him. He was not created like any human. They assumed God must have gone nuts and played Dr. Frankenstein for a bit to have made such a monstrosity.
The narrators—the lawyers—underplayed the monster, for one must witness terror to grasp its proper depth. And lucky for Shawn, the monster was long gone for any demonstration.
"An exaggerated monster just ups and disappears?" Shawn frowned. "What do you take me for, my good sirs?"
"Believe it or not, the monster's absence is why we can speak of it -- It's also why you can get away with such blatant blasphemy," said Gibson in a trembling voice.
Shawn's frown deepened as he found Gibson somehow shrunken, his bones visible, skin pale and red, eyes bulging and darting around.
Shawn pushed the water glass closer. It held a slight trace of liquid, which Gibson greedily licked clean.
"H held the people's terrors in Tom's name," Gibson continued; his dry tongue squeaking as it was dragged across the glass. "It was lost when it went after Klaire."
Gibson's face shrank back in, making him seem older than before, almost moments away from toppling over from fright and exhaustion. Another lawyer tapped him out, continuing the story.
"Go on—" Shawn urged, pulling out a massive jug of water from his table. "Haven't got all day." He chugged it down, then returned it to the drawer. "Some snacks would be nice." He fished beneath, opened something that sounded like a mini-fridge, took out slices of juicy watermelon, and chomped down. "How did… he—M? H?—go missing?" he said between bites.
The lawyers closer to Shawn were baffled, their voices stuck in their throats, unable to comprehend the holy father. The ones in the back, who couldn't see properly because of the taller, senior members ahead, spoke up. "Klaire! At the time, a ten… eleven-year-old?"
"A kid happened? 'H' is fond of women, I see. Like every other man, one part worked particularly well even if the rest shut down," Shawn giggled. "No wonder most assume we have our brains situated there as well."
The lawyer ignored Shawn and continued. "H wanted to have his way with Klaire, then discard her like the rest — Mangled and ripped beyond recognition."
Klaire was a quick study; the streets taught her well, but under pure monstrosity, no amount of brains or brawn can save you—
Or so everyone assumed.
'H' made his move, his massive footsteps clearing the area, his target clear and precise. The day before his hunt, H liked to warn, then watch his prey quiver in their lives.
Where is the fun when there is no chase? The Hound used to tell Bossy.
Klaire stood cold as ice, fearless as a goddess of war, staring back at a giant growling nonsense.
"Write it down," said Klaire in a firm, harsh voice, scowling at the Hound's body cam. "I don't have time for your tomfoolery." She turned with grace, walking into the darkness the monster feared to breach.
Bossy stood beyond baffled when he saw 'H' returning with a contorted expression on his face. Tom—no—no one had seen H in such a state before.
During an inquiry, a strange man from the streets was dragged into Tom's hidden mansion for questioning, and his words were diabolically absurd to trust; no wonder people dubbed him Quazy.
"A little girl has all of you in a knot. What a bunch of wussies you lot are," Super Junior, Bossy's son, frowned at his army of underlings. "Lay it on me, and be quick about it… I need to beat some monster into our resident monster next." He cracked his neck, pointing a gun at Quazy.
"I might never be able to match that girl's intensity, sire, but I can relay her words," Quazy said, instantly changing his demeanor. "I might be little. Doesn't mean I can't take something precious from someone stronger. Let him have his way with me, then it shall be my turn—perhaps the last turn for both of us!"
The memory made Quazy's knees buckle. "I wanted to help her, my lord. How foolish of me to assume I could be of any assistance to… that!"
POP!—The sound of another bag bursting open disturbed the lawyer's rhythm.
"Oops, sorry!" Shawn said, biting his tongue. "Please, continue."
"It was as if the monster forgot about the girl, the memories resurfacing recently when their paths crossed thanks to Super Junior's cunning plan. He had been insulted by the same girl, a much older version, yet the same one who put the Hound in its place while still a kid."
Junior has a way of getting what he wants. It might arrive late, but it always comes, despite the absurd desire.
The Hound ignored its fear and went headfirst, never to return, and it had taken all of Tom's terror with him. Tom fell from the level of Godfather to a normal thug on the streets, all thanks to Klaire.
"All that useless info without any reveal of what really happened to the big guy?" Shawn interrupted, fury crunching his face. "Not my big guy—your big guy. One big guy was enough to hold the position of Godfather?"
"One monster," Gibson corrected. "H was the centerpiece that no gang could overcome. So they joined forces, making Bossy the ultimate leader of the underground. When such a crucial piece is lost because he was scared of a little girl… it makes every supporter look worse than wimps. Doesn't your entire thing revolve around one guy also?"
"Touché." Shawn clasped his hands as his eyebrows crunched togther. "Hold it…" He handed Gibson the empty bag and ran into the adjacent washroom, speaking from within, his voice echoing. "Guns? Corrupt officials? Unethical lawyers? Broken system loopholes? FYI, feel free to stop me when I'm right, or, you know… tell me the answer."
They heard Shawn telling himself to keep his robes in check, shake twice, flush, and replace the toilet seat before he returned with a hand towel to a stunned room full of gawkers.
"Ew! Were you listening to that? Creepy weirdos."
"What's wrong with you!?" They countered in unison.
"Ohh… confession time." Shawn smiled, reclaiming his seat and another slice of watermelon. "Holy places lack the usual drama of life. It's considered a multi-denominational sin pack, or something." He air-quoted the last sentence. "And everyone knows drama is humanity's essence. Without it, we might all be dead of boredom long ago. So when I have such visitors, I get a free pass from my big guy to let loose." Shawn winked and pointed at the cross.
"I don't think that's how it works."
"That's the beauty of our Lord and Savior. You get to interpret what you like."
"Again, not how it works."
"Oh, hush!" Shawn leaned back, placing his legs over the table. "The holy book itself is written by His followers, not Him, so the entire scripture is their interpretation. Why can't we do the same?"
"Sounds right—yet wrong—at the same time."
"You'll get there." Shawn took a big bite, devouring half of the watermelon slice in one go. "So, what does it work on?" he said between bites.
With Shawn's inhospitality, blatant behavior, absurd logic, and snarky remarks, Gibson's exhaustion caught up with him, and he fainted.
Everyone knew the cause, yet no one mentioned it directly to Shawn's face. On one hand, they didn't want to become his second victim; on the other, they had texted the headmaster—the actual man in their pockets—and preferred to wait.
Shawn ignored Gibson twitching and focused on the others. "I want to be on your side, boys. That means I need answers. Pronto."
His words gave the lawyers a false sense of security and hope, prompting them to divulge more information.
"Respect! The underworld works on respect." One said.
"Respect out of fear, to be more precise," another added.
"Ah!" Shawn made an acknowledging sound, poured some water—only filling it one-fourth—and slid it over with a straw to Gibson. "Please. Continue." He drags everyone's attention back onto himself.
A lawyer looked at the glass, at Shawn, at the cross hanging above, and became glad for what he did offer.
Unsure about the phony dressed like a priest, all of them were on the path to becoming true devotees. Maybe Shawn planned the entire encounter; the lawyers considered it, then later dismissed the idea, because he never once showed any compassion toward Gibson until the last moment.
"Boss climbed up the ladder pretty soon," the story continued.
Unlike normal thugs, Tom never kept all his eggs in one basket. True, his fiercest, most prominent, scariest, and strongest piece ran away, followed by half of his underlings, who clung to him like suckerfish to a whale, but Bossy still held his spot. And his head, despite the odds.
Spies carried the information far and wide. A shadow war broke out, everyone aiming for the Godfather's seat. For once, even the cops played it smart, sitting back and waiting for the underground to reduce its own numbers.
Four days later, the government retook control. Crime rates fell to abysmal levels, and politicians claimed it as their effort, while the public focused only on the positives, ignoring the innocent lives lost or the little girl who started this downfall.
The whole incident started and ended within a week of the Hound's disappearance, without anyone ever uttering the girl's name.
Officials called it a miracle.
The underworld called it a curse.
The little girl at the epicenter called it yet another trivial matter that hindered her progress towards what actually mattered.
Resumes and recommendations had nothing in front of a fork placed at one's jugular during an interview, and so none of Tom's attempts obstructed Klaire's plans.
Bossy's delinquents ended up buying the whole menu, while officials always had a bigger case that needed all their attention. For now, that was the Triple–S case.
Bossy had only one move left to reclaim all that was lost. He had to recruit the one responsible for his downfall, and Bossy was sure the skies would be accessible if Klaire chose his side.
"What's the problem, then? Stop fishing here and go to Class 1–A!" Shawn scolded them with a mouth full of popcorn. "It's not like I'm her father—huh!" He gasped, choked, then hurled it out onto an unconscious Gibson. "Don't tell me—"
"You are not her father!"
"Oh, good." Shawn smiled in relief. "You sure?" He raised an eyebrow, successfully getting them to hand over Klaire's file. "I wasn't always a fat--priest. Priest, I meant. Priest." He corrected himself. "I wasn't always a priest."
"You still ain't," they said in unison.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Sixty-four. ———<>||<>———