Dark Future Short Stories - Fifteen - The Real OG
The Real OG
Striker had used his ultra-light jet to exit his stronghold and landed just a bit north of the banking centre of the sprawl to check on the latest news and to prepare a hit against the hidden dark monastery he had found. He had a save house and switched to a motorcycle to enter the sprawl. The ultra light plane did not need any recognisable track to land and would take off on a 10 meter strip easily.
He was in good touch with one of the most dangerous, yet rather small neighbourhood gangs in the sprawl and they dropped him a message through the astral space called dream world that, became even more important during the downfall.
Striker was a lot older than most would believe and changed more than most during the downfall even further pushing the effect of the human mutations triggered by several virus diseases that cut through mankind by gene therapy. Beside being in Marseille he also was, as he never told anyone, a major OG. A true original gangsta being part of a seven head high-profile gang busy in ripping of racist groups, bank heists and pushing containers of high-end weed that sold only per kilo and for ridiculous high prices into a major chain of affiliated underground coffee shops all over Europe.
Yet, the turmoil hit so hard that he turned homeless during the downfall.
He knew Gangs from the inside out and more than one copied his way to walk. Back than they called him the Panther and even being a master of all trades in a gang that had no leader or real head his actual expertise was closed quarter small arms attacks and driving everything that moved. He was a master of movement that also had the talent to ask the right questions making their hackers jump up and run to the computer equipment regularly dropping all and everything.
The crew had made it all on their own, splitting up when pressure got to high during the downfall and are today just a dropped message away all having new lives even in corporate world as a banker. Corporate Face, always was a charmer.
Internally they had given themselves nicknames from an old TV show, but always relative to the job. He was usually either BA or Baracus or Crazy Inmate or Murdock depending, if violence, extreme violence, freaky distraction or just driving was required to get the job done.
The piles of cash they generated were not spend on a luxurious lifestyle and even before the falldown authorities not even had ever a real grip on them, they neither did see a motive nor did they when coming to close actually feel any motivation to take 'em out. The Robin Hood strategy worked and they were in for the challenge of strategic planning, tactical execution, adrenalin high, the satisfaction of hurting ambitious bullies and the smile of those they invested in using an international system of cover bank accounts and companies enabling them to directly and quickly keep even millions in cash move without the need to create stock piles of bank notes lying around in storage as their toxic drug victims.
The trick was to bring the cash to areas way out of the sight of law enforcement and organised crime looking around themselves where business was still cash business and a Dollar moved a lot more than in the rich world, while using only a tiny fraction on top of the cover business living a small profile, but sleeping so much better knowing that the last heist taking out an underground toxic party pills factory without leaving any witnesses or trace just created several hundred small shops and workshops by small investments of no more than a hundred dollars in cash each. The tiny companies anywhere from the poor quarters of Lagos, Abidjan, Cairo to Mumbai and Jakarta European law enforcement would not enter fuck ever bought stuff considered trash here and create profit of which they would transfer a small share in a set of investment companies that themselves were owned by companies registered in save harbours with little taxes.
Sometimes it is quantity over quality, if you can ensure the quality is not impacted.
There was nothing a rich wankers villa did have they could not sell. From the watch collection in a Bangkok small, but exclusive jewellery, to the furniture in a Cape Town exclusive used interior design shop, to the cars in a used car dealer in Buenos Aires and the wardrobe in Abidjan and Nairobi second hand shops, there was a place, that would keep many hands busy and many mouth feeded.
The gang he met was a locals gang that controlled a few streets and was living on a small tax they charged for the provided security and safety, selling MegaCon food truck loads to the inhabitants beside running a few not that underground, but well secured coffee shops where many of the neighbouring MegaCon gated community kids would spend their Sundays.
One of the coffee shops was the meeting place and Striker would spend a few hours having a smoke to only ride back after he was almost sobered out being of the high, but still in the calming effect of the hemp. They played a tape of a neighbourhood indie band they also promoted and had the corner lounge area reserved, just so the other guest could see them a bit creating more gossip good for the business all wondering who that troll of a mutant was that walked like a panther on his toes, had real horns and fangs like no second mutant all around as an effect of the gene therapy rather than the virus mutations.
The coffee was also real good and appropriate to the ConSlave kids standard beside a great, but cheap classic hamburger.
He'd drive back after the night before dawn being all up to date about the recent movements in the gang world of the sprawl and predictions. The junky gangs got message to pick up guns, but to keep the peace. So, they either expected a major attack onto the local turff or an expedition corps was about to be created. Word goes, they'll hit the beaches.
