Short Stories of Het Huisselant

[Variota]

The soft morning air graced the streets of Grootwaterflakte, planting the faintest of fogs over the few people, animals and vehicles moving around throughout the city. The early hour meant that not a lot was happening, most citizens were either still getting ready for their jobs or other activities or had barely stumbled out of the many clubs, bars, casinos and other such entertainment venues that the city was rich. While the many open streets that the city counted often meant that the sun was able to touch everything, it seemed as if this street and particularly this small building had been designed to explicitly deny one's eyes the very joy of gazing upon the sun's early glory.

Then again, this wasn't any of the glamorous districts that the tourists and Variotan upper crust knew but instead one of the poorer ones, settled on the border of the city. Like all cities, Grootwaterflakte had it's good and bad places, ones where you could flash a wad of money without someone running towards you with a hungry gaze and a desperate stare and ones where others would flash you and show you wads of 'other' items while smiling at you. If you were unlucky, this would happen while someone was running towards you with a hungry gaze and desperate stare to grab your money in your moment of surprise. This was one of the latter places.

The sign on the small, almost meticulously dilapidated, building said 'Oome Piet's Waafen Winkel' (Uncle Piet's Weapon Store). Jan had no idea why he had been sent here by his friend Tony, who had promised the ex-military man a well-paying job suited perfectly for someone with his skills but had neglected any details. Then again, Tony was never known for making much sense or explaining things beyond the most basic and rudimentary level, leaving everyone to find out the specifics on their own. Jan wouldn't call Tony a real friend, more a drinking buddy for those days when Jan needed a stiff drink on an early morning. A drinking buddy for when the only other person in the bar that was remotely capable of regular communication was the bartender, a wrinkly old bat named Anita that had tried to flirt with him so many times that the shivers down his back had eventually stopped out of sheer routine. The sad part about Anita was that he had tried to explain that he had served in the Ghestelikke Fegtkorps, serving both as a regular infantry man in the Geemeiner Fegtkorps and afterwards as a gunner on one of it's six Stoomfaaier APC's. Maybe she had thought that her well-smoked meat, she was almost constantly smoking behind the bar, and years upon years of experience would turn Jan into anything less than a full-on homosexual or perhaps Anita was simply ignorant of the fact that the Geemeiner Fegtkorps was almost exclusively staffed by gay men.

Taking a long last drag of his self-rolled cigarette filled with the cheapest-yet-enjoyable tobacco he could find, Jan took everything in. The store was oddly located, planted in the middle of a seedy industrial area on the wrong side of the tracks that was known for it's chop shops, smuggling operations, dodgy organ`harvesters and more. No-one would ever buy a weapon here and if they did, it certainly wouldn't be bought from an actual brick-on-brick weapon store run by some guy called 'Oome Piet' but rather from the back of a van, a car trunk or one of the area's many industrial warehouses from someone with a nickname that was probably generated during some wannabe-major crime or their virginity loss to a middle-aged prostitute and thus seemed legit and tough to said person but came over as funny to anyone else. Tourists usually went to a Varinco weapon store or, if they were insane, naive or otherwise intellectually impaired, to the aforementioned Tiny, Fat Whale, Baldy or Peppersteak selling poor-quality weapons. Oome Piet and his weapon store wouldn't even register on the radar of anyone buying.

Not that the store itself helped. It seemed as-if the maintenance man, probably Oome Piet's brother or some other family member that lacked any formal education but was simply handy with his hands, had died ages ago and they simply forgot to get someone else. The door had a sign on it that it jammed and to push as hard as you could and the large sign above the door stating that this was Oome Piet's Waafen Winkel was loose on one side and almost hung over the door. The windows were caked in something that can only be described as 'hopefully just grime and dirt' and didn't let anyone see inside beyond seeing if the lights were on or off. Its small parking lot, allowing only four cars to park, was filled with two cars, one being a rusted-out banger kept up by cinder blocks, desperation and neglect and the other one being a small Altvarna Stattreier in a shade of purple that was usually reserved for those in the business of facilitating prostitution services. The car, the exact opposite in condition when compared to the rusted-out banger, was almost comical in this situation as it seemed to be the only thing having received any love and care after the turn of the millennium. If Jan had to take a guess, his guess would have been that the car belonged to Oome Piet.

Dropping the last remaining piece of his self-rolled cigarette, which was nothing more than a piece of wet, slobbered paper, and stamping on it with his boots, Jan decided to go inside. While he was supposed to be there at six, he had arrived early in order to scope out the place. Between his military instincts and Tony not exactly looking and acting like the most trustworthy man in the world, he wanted to make sure he wasn't walking into a trap intended to capture him and harvest his organs. Looking up at the sky and the faint fog that covered everything, Jan took a big breath and gave himself a last moment to contemplate getting the hell of there. In the end though, he needed the money and the job and it wasn't like he had any other options.

As he pushed the door, as it had said on the sign planted on it, he found it to open up quite easily after the first initial moment of resistance and lost his balance, falling inside the store...

 

Edited December 5, 2017 by Variota (see edit history)

[Variota]

July, 2018

''So what am I looking at here?''
''Well, you know that they're housing asylum seekers throughout the nation, right.''
''Yeah.''
''So, the Ministry of Welfare and Personal Growth wants to take in more of those people. Het Apparath say that war is basically unavoidable throughout the world and we should prepare.''
''Okay, doesn't answer my questions.''
''Well, we need to make room for them, don't we. So we've been mass murdering the elderly. Orders from Het Apparath.''
''What? What the f*ck are we doing?''
''Don't look at me like that. We're not murdering the useful elderly. Just, you know, the infirm and such.''
''You... Wha... I... Fuuuuuuuuck. How am I going to explain this? Shit.''
''Basically, we just line them up on the ground, ten or more and then those vehicles drive over them. The normal ones get driven over by the left one but when you get those fatties or those in like an iron lung or wheelchairs, we use the right one. It's heavier so it crunches better.''
''Crunches better? Crunches f*cking better? Are you on crack? That's bloody people you're talking about!''
''You can say that again, they end up pretty bloody! Haha! I think the record is thirty people in one go!''
''I... I. I. I've got to stop this. I can't believe Het Apparath would be involved in this. f*ck, who am I kidding? Of course they're involved.''
''Reemy...''
''Who can help me before I end up getting whacked? Maybe I can try Dina Diva, they can't keep her broadcast from airing, it's live. Maybe I can get Aleiksander to mobilize the Folke Milisies. I know where his files are buried away, that should give me leverage. If it fails, it's not like him disemboweling me is any worse than what Het Apparath would do.''
''Reemy.''
''What? Don't look at me like that, smiling! YOU! You made me find this out!''
''It's a joke.''
''What?''
''It's a joke. Do you seriously think we'd mass murder the elderly?''
''I mean... Het Apparath...''
''We're the bloody army. We're not going to be killing innocents... Atleast not Variotan innocents, am I right? Haha. Haha. Come on Reemy, smile a bit.''
''You just tried to convince me we were murdering the elderly by driving over them in these... What the f*ck are these anyway?''
''Varinco's new models. Project 18. The Light and Heavy Tank to fulfill the needs of the new generation of warfare or something like that. I was pretty high when the salesperson came round, to be honest. I almost ate some custard cakes they brought, it looked so good.''
''I'm going to have you murdered if I ever end up governing.''
''Now, now. That's a bit of an overreaction to a little joke, especially when I've managed to get you an amazing deal.''
''Just like those bloody elderly of yours, crushed by a tank. I could make it look like an accident, I bet.''

---

To: atoirav@varmail.vr
From: johanjannatter@hap.vr
Regarding: Meeting

Brother,

Support has been arranged for upgrades, just as mother wanted. We need the support of Auwe Kar though. Support cannot go through without delivery of test run amount at low cost, however. Unable to offer much from current position beyond last year's model as a trade-in. Rumors say AK wants to upgrade his bang-bang puppets into proper boomers. Idea?

- J.J.

To: johanjannatter@hap.vr
From: atoirav@varmail.vr
Regarding: Re: Meeting

Brother,

You bring these words to me like it's a success while we all know it's a failure. Your support has been talking about the 'joke' you played. Should the choice come between losing that support or losing you, do not trust on you safely returning to mother's embrace. You've been warned before.

Rest assured for now, however. Your failure has a chance of succeeding with mother's other wants.

- W15-34

To: J.D. Karrewasser, Chairman of Varinco
From: atoirav@varmail.vr
Regarding: Mother's well wishes

My dear friend,

Mother has told me that you are a dear friend of the family. I'm the newest of her sons that you will be dealing with, I hope I can assume you know what the procedure is to verify this. I'm contacting you in regards to mother's wish. Mother's wish is one of mutual benefit to us, as you assuredly know already, and it so happens that we need a battalion of your newest Grootfegtfoertuigen delivered at a price that, I cannot lie to a dear friend, barely covers material costs. 

I've been given the power by mother to give you some leeway to arrange this. We can offer you an equal amount of last year's model for your forces, straight from military stocks. We know you seek to upgrade your forces without drawing attention.

- W15-34

To: atoirav@varmail.vr
From: J.D. Karrewasser, Chairman of Varinco
Regarding: Re: Mother's well wishes

My friend,

Your verification checks out. You're talking about me taking a hit of several million Waarttemun, double digit millions. Mother knows my loyalty to her but I'm not going to commit economic suicide to fulfill her wishes, nor do I believe mother would want that. 

As you are new, I'm going to give you some leeway. I'm not one you should test the patience of, however. Next time, forget about giving me a shit deal. My best offer to fulfill mother's wish is last year's model, arranging for the quick grant of certain licenses my forces need and a steady supply of candy. And if you come at me with a monthly delivery of Snelkoop snacks, I'll personally make you swallow so much candy that even the dogs at the Bogd Gioro airport will be able to smell you. And they're hungry enough that you can easily smuggle a kilo or two so long as your arm pits are smeared with barbecue sauce.

Of course, I know mother won't accept that without something to wet her appetite. Tell her my forces will see her as their mother too. She will understand what I mean.

- Karrewasser

---

February 2019

Teil-Geen'raal J.J. Natter of the 'Fontein's Fegtfantomen' Armored Division discovered as the person found crushed at parade!

Authorities within the HAP have released the identity of the serviceman found crushed under a military tank at the recent Ferrefaaierhafen military parade. Teil-Geen'raal J.J. Natter, leading the Fontein's Fegtfantomen armored division was found dead before the start of the second half of the parade. Found by Folke Milisie members that had just finished their route, identification was difficult due to the removal of all facial features by the weight of the vehicle. While authorities could not explain how this wasn't noticed by other personnel, it seems that most of the personnel in the area had been temporarily distracted by the generosity of a local ice cream truck, giving out free ice cream to soldiers.

Teil-Geen'raal Natter stayed behind as he was extremely lactose intolerant and digestion of the ice cream would have led to violent bouts of explosive diarrhea according to family. The investigation into the matter was led by Chief Boofenheufel of the Provincial Police Force. Working in unity with military police units, it has now been deemed closed. In a statement released by Chief Boofenheufel, it appears that the tank suddenly started rolling without Natter noticing and this led to his death; his head and upper body crushed by the weight of the tank.

Ironically, the tank in question was one of the new Grootfegtfoertuig 18's that Natter's division was first to receive and would be showing them off to the public. The manufacturer, Varinco, has offered their condolences yet assured the public that this was not the fault of the tank but rather of Natter himself; a statement that was quickly supported by Chief Boofenheufel.

While international orders haven't been released by Varinco, unofficial sources say that there have been multiple interested parties for the two new models.

[Variota]

Ferrefaaierhafen, the true capital of Het Huisselant if you were to ask its inhabitants. The place where the Holy Wilm of Amalberga led the first settlers into the fray, into a new way of life. The first place where the blood of the Aloorian clans but mostly the natives fed the ground and gave local powers like the Yellow Empire a reason to fear these newcomers in their weird ships. In those days, justice was simple and easy. Natives found themselves on the end of a rope, dangling their feet in the air as if they were the human equivalent of a wind chime. Taking prisoners was a luxury and the settlers couldn't afford to give out luxuries. And those from the clans themselves were often given two choices, either try to survive a keelhauling or survive an exile, hopefully joining other exiles somewhere. Of course, those exiles would later come back to bite the nation in its ass a bit, as they had managed to band together in their own clan of misfits, criminals and adventurers. 

This type of frontier justice and the fact that Ferrefaaierhafen had been the place where newcomers would end up meant that the place had always remained rougher than other cities. Not worse, simply rougher, less sophisticated. Ferrefaaierhafen had remained a place where a larger share of the inhabitants remained lower class, a place where everyone knew an aspiring Leeffessang singer. In Grootwaterflakte, cafe culture meant drinking an overpriced coffee in a slick coffee shop where the barista would brag about being cultured because he banged people from a dozen different nations, in Ferrefaaier cafe culture meant visiting your Aunt/Uncle/Mother/Father/Grandpa/Grandma, not that they were usually your family but that's just how you'd call them. The beer's fresh from the tap, the furniture probably hasn't changed in a hundred years, the release of a new Leeffessang single or album probably happens twice a week and if you ask for coffee, there's only three options, with or without milk, with or without sugar and with or without something stronger in it.

Ask any Grootwaterflakte inhabitant what they think of Ferrefaaierhafen and they're probably going to call them something lovely like unsophisticated, uncultured people stuck in the past. And if you'd do the same the other way around, they'd probably call Grootwaterflakte snobbish, stuck up, pretending to be something they're not, fake. Part of the reason why both cities are maintained as the capital of Het Huisselant was this mentality, if the Parliament was to decide in favor of one city, the other one would stir up issues.

The epitome of Ferrefaaierhafen culture was its Provincial Police Chief, Rikkert Boofenheufel. A man with a tan that'd make you wonder if he lives in the tanning salon, teeth as white as the purest Variotan cocaine, a hairdo that had remained the same since the 80's and strapped with more firepower than a Grootfegtfoertuig. This was his city, protected by his men. Following the laws of the nation, sure. But within the Ferrefaaierhafen city limits, even Het Apparath did their best to keep Boofenheufel informed, unless they wanted his 'flying squad' of armored, machine-gun armed Altvarna's to crash their party.

And now, a new filth had infested his city. Not a regular filth like some confused tourist going on a cocaine fueled binge or a foreign diplomat needing some friendly taps to remind him that diplomatic immunity didn't matter if no one knew where he was and that he really did need to pay that hardworking prostitute that had dressed up to look like his mother. Those situations resolved themselves quickly and easily enough. No, this filth had traveled from Grootwaterflakte where it had already taken multiple lives. Five girls, all intending to just make a living. Five lives, cut down in their prime, and dumped into the water. Their families left with nothing to say goodbye to, the brutal stab wounds and bloating from the water ensuring a closed coffin.

Maybe that'd fly in Grootwaterflakte but not here, not where Boofenheufel could make the difference. Not since his own little girl had been murdered when he was a simple officer. They'd never caught the culprit, the Provincial Police Force had been useless. Or the one that did it was just that good as not even Het Apparath knew and that was the first avenue Boofenheufel drew upon when he was made Chief. He'd ensure this piece of filth would be caught and put in a nice, cold, backbreaking werklaagher. He'd make it stop, no matter the cost. No one would suffer like he had, evenings filled with sadness, cheap drink and Varinco's latest weapon, alternating about dreaming about shooting the person that did it and committing suicide, covering the wall behind him with a lovely splatter of his brains. 

He never really did it, of course, otherwise this story had probably ended differently. But at his lowest point, he'd been close to it. Sitting on the docks, on a dark bench, he'd been looking towards the sea. His left hand wrapped around a cheap bottle of Vlammesant brandy, his right wrapped around his service pistol. One tap, that'd be all. Just drag his arm up to his mouth, suck on the barrel as if it was his bottle and, tap. Would He see it as acceptable? Would He allow them to be together again, his family? Would he see his wife and daughter, would they look upon him with pride, their husband and father? Or would they see him as a failure, as a broken man unable to live on? His rescue had been the Saint of the Docks.

Some people just feel when they're needed, as if a unseen force is pulling them to a certain place for a reason. For Moeke Maria (Mother Maria), the docks had always been that place ever since she had joined the Sisters of the Holy Flame. Like its namesake, she wandered around the docks and made sure that working girls and guys, sailors and anyone in between that was lost or too drunk safely made their way back. It was becoming slowly more difficult, her old age making her move more slowly but with old age also came a reputation, she was the saint of the docks, the one that one could talk to without judgment, the one that accepted anyone that was on the fringes, even within the ultra-liberal Variotan society. No pimp or drug dealer, how malicious or not, would try to lift a finger against her or they'd face not only His fury but also the docks' wrath. That was a lesson that had been taught quite well after Fulgistani Pete, a pimp known for selling his product before it aging enough, tried to smack her down as she attempted to rescue his girls.

He managed to smack her once, her piercing, pained sound alerting 'Lange' Jan Feelhuisse, back then one of the most feared dock pimps himself. Moeke had a special place in Lange Jan's heart, the only one he had ever confessed his darkest secret to, namely that he wanted to be a woman, something that wouldn't have been accepted for someone in his position. Not that Moeke cared, she only cared for him or rather, her, as a person. Lange Jan was a lot but he was good to his girls and for Moeke, that counted. His girls were fairly paid, did it voluntarily and were protected. That made him a good person and a good person could be anything, a good person would be accepted by Him no matter what they did or wanted to be. While Moeke nor any of the girls would ever reveal what had happened, the Provincial Police had received Fulgistani Pete the next morning, tied up and missing his testicles, tongue and middle fingers.

Similarly, when Lange Jan, by then Lange Jeanette, retired and founded the Kaat Kaapers in 1991, a Folke Milisie that primarily patrolled the docks at night, they unanimously chose Moeke Maria as their mascot and her likeness still stands on the flags and armbands that they wear, portraying the virtues and role they seek to fulfill. Even though she was wheelchair bound and deadly ill by then, that decision still made her tear up, the knowledge that her work would continue on. And in a way, the Kaat Kaapers stood for everything the docks and Ferrefaaierhafen was. A violent ex-pimp flanked by a lawman, as Boofenheufel had been one of the first to join the Kaat Kaapers, old and young, rich and poor united in one purpose.

The statue of Moeke Maria, placed on the square in front of the Sisters of the Holy Flame outpost near the docks after she died in 1993, reminded everyone towards her goal. The bronze, lifelike and life-sized statue featured her standing, ready to give you the hug that you deserved. The unconditional love that this woman showed everyone that opened up their hearts to her. A plaque on the ground reminded everyone of her eventful life and the Kaat Kaapers, her unofficial successors. It tells everyone that her soul still remains in that place and that her energy still roams around, giving the statue special powers. It says that if you truly need help, all you need to whisper is 'help me, Moeke' while in her embrace and help will come.

While that sounds like superstition, that part was true. Over the years, the technology had been refined and the statue featured microphones and an alarm system that alarmed each member of the Kaat Kaapers if those words were uttered. In those years, they had rescued many abused spouses, working girls and men, tourists being harassed or worse... Even in the afterlife, she kept serving the people. Which, really, was all she had ever hoped for. To provide solace from the hard world and it's dark touch. To come close to His Holy Flame and act like a beacon.

Boofenheufel and his deputy sat in their Altvarna, keeping their eye on the cameras that they had put in place to keep an eye on the area of the operation. This is how the Waterweg Moort'naar (Waterway Killer) would get caught. He had a type and Boofenheufel had a deal with the pimps of the docks, you leave those girls at home and we remain friends. Instead, the only prostitute that'd fulfill the killer's need would be right here and it'd be a cross-dressed officer of the Grootwaterflakte Provincial Police. Sure, Boofenheufel felt bad for the intern that had been sent along with the files in order to serve as a link between the two forces. But this would be for a good cause.

''Ricky, are you ready?''
''Yes, Chief Boofenheufel. I'll only have to stand around, right? You guys catch him before he can do anything, right?''
''Right, Ricky. You'll be fine. I hope.''
''You ho...''
''Let's keep this channel free.''

Bianca Boom-Boom is what she had called herself on the train ride from Rooibesfelt to here. Her real name, Patries Lanthouwer, wasn't flashy enough as far as she could tell and even if it was, she didn't want to have any chance that her parents would find out what she was doing here. Let them think that their little girl was simply working a high-paying customer service job, not that she was selling her body down by the docks of the big city. Mom and dad didn't deserve that, nor had they deserved the bank raising the interest on their farm loan after dad got kicked by one of the stallions and couldn't move his lower body any more. But it was what it is. No need to cry over what was. One year. One year was all she'd need. One year to grab enough money to pay off the loan, make sure her little brother could go to whatever school he wanted to and maybe even have enough left to put down a down payment on a small home for herself.

Normally, she wouldn't have been able to rake in enough to do that but who really needed a pimp? Who needed an asosjiasie? Who needed a hand that simply grabbed a large share and offered whatever they called safety. It was probably all a hoax anyway, this was Variota and if her own small town was anything to go off off, the docks would be as safe as anything. Her naive character would soon be slashed out of her.

You see, Bianca Boom-Boom was the type the Waterweg Moort'naar liked. And maybe, just maybe, if she hadn't been there, he would have gone for Boofenheufel's trap. After all, a serial killer looking to strike and finding only one target is like a drunk cannibal in an orgy, hungry and willing to overlook certain red flags. Such as the target being a cross-dressing intern fidgeting more than a tweaker with withdrawal symptoms.

''Alright Ricky, the first hour is done. You doing fine over there? Need anything?''
''I'm fine, Chief. I have a bottle of water in my bag.''
''Pff, water. I'm downing double Vodka's here, boy.''
''Eh, good for you Chief?''
''You can say that again.''

Have you ever thought about the last thing you'd ever hear being 'Baby, I'm going to enjoy gutting you like a fish'? Neither had Bianca. Yet, that and a loud, swooshing slash slash sound would have been her last memory if not for her thick jacket, one her father had made for her from their own leather. Those seconds went so slow for her that it seemed unreal, fight or flight. She couldn't fight this secret assailant, she couldn't fight at all. And run? To where? She had just arrived today, she knew nothing here. She could run towards the edge of the docks but then he could just as easily throw her in. Either way, he was blocking that way. It'd be an easier death, just run into the knife. But she wasn't ready to go, she wouldn't go. As she moved backwards, she managed to kick her assailant in the groin and buy herself enough to run away.

And she was reminded by something her mother had told her about her grandmother. Her grandmother had once joined the Sisters of the Holy Flame, a religious order that had outposts on docks and aided sailors and such, for a summer back in the 70s. They used to serve as nurses, doctors, a place to stay, a place to eat. A safe haven. Sure, they had been in decline since the 00's but a large city like this would still need to have a working outpost, right? And that's when she saw it, as if Moeke herself had directed the San to return its rays for a short moment in this dark night. The statue, the outpost, her salvation. She'd be saved, they'd let her in right?

Coming closer, something seemed off about the outpost. There were no lights? Why were there no lights? They'd still be busy, they'd have to be. Why were there only lights aimed at that blasted statue? The outpost hadn't been used during the nights since 2002, serving as a museum after the last Sister of the Holy Flame of the outpost had died. Maybe she could hide in the statue, the statue featured Moeke wearing a long robe. Maybe it would hide her enough. 

She tried her best to stay quiet but she couldn't do it, she just couldn't keep up. Why did this happen to her? All she could do was cry and fall to her knees, cry and sob ugly tears, her stupid but last-chance plan failing her now too. And that's when the killer found her. Grabbing her feet, he tried to drag her out, something she only managed to stop by grabbing hold of the statue's feet. 'Call out help me, Moeke for help. There's always an option, you're never alone.' said the plaque. Should she try it or would it just be another trick this city had in store for her? The outpost wouldn't help her, why would this? No. Don't cry over what was, try anything. It couldn't end like this. As her hands slowly slipped, only one thing floated in her head: Help me, Moeke.

Boofenheufel was refilling his hip flask with the bottle of vodka he kept in the glove compartment when his phone went off. The Kaat Kaapers alarms. Someone was in danger. And at that moment, he knew he had probably f*cked up, bad. Another girl would be hurt, an independent girl. Why hadn't he thought about it? There aren't many independents, most are not suicidal enough and those that are, are usually addicts. Not the killer's type but one could always slip through. Not again, not another murder. Not in his town, his f*cking town.

''Ricky! We've been wrong, he's at the outpost! Call all units, I'm driving this f*cker there right now!''

Take a right here, a left there. Hope other Kaat Kaapers are in the neighborhood. Why wouldn't this Altvarna drive faster? Come on, move out of the way. 30 seconds and he'd be there. Would it be enough?

Slap, slap, smack, crunch

''You're a feisty one, I like that. I'm going to make you suffer.''
''Please don't, stop, ple...''

Crunch

That were her teeth. That'd save him some of that stupid whining, she deserved everything he gave her. She'd be cleansed, cleansed by the water and the slashes. He'd make her bleed empty, make sure she'd be filled with His water. He'd give her a way into heaven instead of the hell where every other prostitute went, where his mother went. They'd all be cleansed. One final stab, one in her heart and she'd be ready. Ready. Now. Do it. Do it now. Stab, stab, stab. Cleanse, cleanse. Cleanse her now. His hands rose with the knife in between them. In his craze, he never even heard the squeaking tires of Boofenheuvel's vehicle.

click, brraaap brraap

''The next dozen bullets will be through you if you don't drop the knife.''
''f*ck you, I'm going to cleanse her. Cleanse them all.''

The last thing Bianca would see before she passed out and woke up in hospital was Boofenheuvel, using the machine gun on his vehicle to shoot off the hands of her would-be killer. Whether her injuries or the sight of most of a man's hands being shredded ended up passing her out was the question. She ended up getting the help she needed, however, both medical and otherwise. When Het Waarre Raket fan het Noorten brought out her story, albeit cleaned up to protect her and her parents, the farm was bought for her, her brother got a scholarship for whatever school he wanted and she got enough starting capital to start her own business.

The Waterweg Moort'naar got a lovely lifelong sentence to the Piet Reierfer Werklaagher, the worst one in Het Huisselant. Why a man without hands would be sentenced to a mining camp was a good question but not one that would be answered for him, any attempts to try and find out simply led to another round of fellow inmates beating him. But even that was better than the 'gift' Boofenheuvel had given him before he was finally convicted and sent to work, namely sharing a cell with one of Ferrefaaierhafen's most notorious and violent sex offenders, Nasty Francesco. And let's just say fighting off a guy named Nasty Francesco is a lot harder without hands.

[Variota]

The Torrid Tales of 'Mother', Variot Master Spy

Every organisation has someone standing at the top. That's how the wurld simply works, in the end, there has to be someone responsible, someone that knows everything. Even Het Apparath, the Variot secret service, had to follow this natural law. Other organisations had the Kingfisher, Tony Two-Thumbs, Rita the Rambler... Het Apparath had Mother. For all but the most trusted Het Apparath agents, Mother was a tale, a secret. Something they had heard of, had to sign off to, the person that signed their checks at the end of the week or month but never met.

Some of the old-timers shared their stories among the recruits. Mother had been trained in the Alharun deserts, murdering enough warlords to fill a photo album using nothing more than her well-trained thighs and a switchblade hidden in her prison pocket. No, said One-Legged Johan. Mother was obviously the person behind the Week of the Period Ships, a name given in extremely bad taste by a tabloid for a multitude of human smuggling ships that were found in the Keelpijp. Some journalist had decided to be funny and call them the Period Ships, as their decks all ended up covered in blood from dead smugglers while their trafficking victims heard or knew nothing and were 'birthed' or freed from the holds.

No, said Century Old Cees, the oldest active Het Apparath agent still alive. He himself had trained Mother in chemistry when she was young, a vixen from the farmlands that had escaped a quasi-cultist, quasi-incestuous situation and now sought to clear Variota from its many impurities. Of course, Cees had breathed in so many fumes throughout the years that many felt that he resembled more of an elderly, crazed wizard than someone that would be able to clearly remember even his breakfast.

Whatever the truth was, all that knew the tale of Mother knew one thing for certain, Mother was real. She was real and you didn't want to cross her. For no one that crossed her could tell the tale in a coherent tale. Mother knew mercy, certainly, but it was a cruel mercy. There was always the need to leave someone alive, someone to tell her tale, someone to spread the legend. That didn't mean that that someone had to be alright. They'd end up with their tongues cut out and a letter on them or their minds broken from experimental hallucinogenic drugs dealt to them in barely-below lethal levels, emasculated in ways that would make medieval torturers orgasm in their pants from the idea alone. She came in unseen and left unseen. A ghost. Presumably, a ghost that spent most of her time as a mid-level employee of a thirteen-in-a-dozen mid-range company and baked cookies for the neighborhood kids during the weekends. A mother that handled her kitchen knife just a bit too good.

Mother herself had developed over the years, mellowed out. During her time as a regular agent, the boss had been Father. All Het Apparath leaders had been named Mother or Father and the name was randomly assigned. There had been male Mothers, female Fathers. It was all a part of the subterfuge. Father had been a bear of a woman, living in the woods where she built her own cabin and only received a few trusted couriers. During her training to take over the role, Mother had decided against this form of leadership. A leader that just led their people was a leader that'd get rusty, lose their edge. Mother had made sure that she took on a couple of special assignments from time to time. Get in, brutally murder everyone, get out. She never really intended to brutally murder everyone but most criminals lacked a certain finesse, a certain joie de vivre that'd make them perfect turncoats.

And today was the day for yet another one of these special assignments. Through the grapevine, the mother of an aunt of the hairdresser of one of the gang leaders, Het Apparath had heard of a big meeting between various Variotan gangs. For many foreign visitors, Het Huisselant seemed like a nation without any visible crime. Of course, crime still happened. Crime happened anywhere, even or especially in anarchy. Het Huisselant, though, had worked out a simple system to keep the streets clean. Any gang that grew too large got a visit from Het Apparath with a very simple offer, keep things clean on the streets, work for us when we need it and you'll stay alive and might even profit from it. And it was an offer they couldn't refuse, as every other gang was in on it. The smaller gangs, the ones that weren't on the radar, often imploded or ended up seeking a fight with a citizen with Folke Milisie ties.

Of course, such a status quo only worked when there weren't upstarts trying to upset it. And that's what Mother would be ensuring. These gangs were trying to merge, form an organisation that would be too large for just Het Apparath to contain. And she'd be damned if she had to work together with redneck yokels like Boofenheufel and the Provincial Police. People without finesse, without grace. The best way to take down aspiring big boys is by cutting off their balls. And if Mother had her choice, that'd be exactly what would be happening. A good old-fashioned Phantom Phallus, as one of Het Apparath's field guides called it. Chopped off balls forced through a slit throat as if the person was giving a nice, sloppy fellatio. A big 'f*ck you' from Het Apparath to any upstarts.

Aunt Janine's Diner was a dilapidated little diner sat in a corner of Fingerfaaierplaats, a place where only the regulars would dare to enter and everyone else stayed clear off. The type of place that gave off vibes that it could give you food poisoning by just looking at it. Aunt Janine herself was no better, a woman that could only be described as the human equivalent of grease. The type of person that looked like she could refill her fryers by just scraping off whatever was on her forehead. And yet, according to the tax service, this place was running numbers that would make Cherry Vooters doubt his business strategies. A total front for money laundering but not one that the tax man felt strongly enough to check out.

Inside sat a cornucopia of Variota's criminal entrepreneurs. Rooie Roger of the Red Sharks, a gang that specialized in skimming shipments. Natte Wilm, the biggest owner of underground brothels using illegals from Fulgistan, Grenesia and the rest of the wurld. Slappe Pols Peter, the leader of the Reierferplattoterp-branch of the Velvet Mafia. And many more minor figures. Their plans were simple, Rooie Roger would skim shipments of heavy armaments while Natte Wilm's prostitutes would extract information and blackmail key people to ensure that the group would know where to strike. Meanwhile, Peter would use his connections as a Velvet Mafia boss to ensure that the weapons were distributed to the various minor gangs that joined them. 

Once the time was there, they'd hit Het Apparath hard enough to get them to back off and establish a new status quo. Of course, every plan only gets as far as the moment of execution and regretfully, for the criminals atleast, that moment was sooner than intended. Natte Wilm was down before he even saw Mother. Rooie Roger tried to retreat but ended up locked inside the diner's freezer, dooming himself to a cold wait until death. Slappe Pols Peter, often ridiculed in private by others for his extremely effeminate behavior, was the only one with atleast some success at defending himself. Drawing his Sinterklaas pistol, he actually managed to fire off a few shots before he met his end. Not that it mattered in the end as Mother had her wish.

The Red Sharks were worthless, no value was gained from keeping a gang of thieving dockworkers alive. Natte Wilm's brothels would be dismantled, although Mother was sure that atleast half of his employees would just end up in a different place before the month was over. Peter though, Peter deserved something different. Mother liked his guts and the Velvet Mafia had, until then, always been good allies of Het Apparath. After all, all surrounding nations wouldn't have been so kind on an organisation of debauching, homosexual criminals. In a way, the Velvet Mafia was a facet of the Variotan Dream, people living their life in the most hedonistic way possible. And wasn't Het Apparath founded to keep that Variotan Dream alive? To ensure that it stayed as vibrant as possible? Of course it was. And thus, Peter's legacy was allowed to live on. Allowed to grow. Mother's Mercy.

A single phone call to a burner phone went out of the Diner before it caught fire. A regrettable fryer accident is what the fire department would call it.

''Cleanup crew for 12. Alert Bureau 33, the only one with balls.''