The Fix Is In: Part 1
In the metropolis of Five Arches, a fixer navigating illegal deals and dangerous alliances, finds himself caught in a power struggle between rival factions.
In the sprawling metropolis of Five Arches, where shadows loom larger than life and corruption seeps into every crack, we follow the journey of a man known as The Fix. Caught between his morally ambiguous profession and the darker dealings of those around him, he navigates a world where desperation and ambition collide.
In this serialized project, you'll delve into a world filled with intrigue, betrayal, and the struggle for survival. Each installment will peel back layers of The Fix's complex character and the treacherous landscape of Five Arches, revealing the intertwined fates of those who inhabit it. Expect a blend of dark humor, moral dilemmas, and thrilling encounters as The Fix races against time to maintain his grip on his own humanity while navigating the relentless demands of a corrupt system.
Join me on this journey as we unravel the tangled web of life in Five Arches, one chapter at a time.
Under The Hammer
I stopped at the corner and whistled the secret tune Slim had come up with. I felt like an idiot schoolboy playing spy, but it worked. The other doctors who worked with Slim were becoming suspicious, so he wanted no more knocking. You had to stop by the side of the building where his office was and whistle. I shuffled on the spot for a minute, pretending I was a tweaker, until the back door of the clinic swung open.
“Back already, G?” Slim chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “I guess your boys couldn’t get enough of my product.”
Slim Muesli was a tall, grinning figure who was always getting his hands dirty. Even when he was working above board, he still somehow made sure he was involved in something that could land him in prison for the rest of his life. Yet, he always seemed so relaxed, flashing that wide, toothy smile like he didn’t have a care in the world. That had to be admired—or feared. I was never quite sure which, in his line of work. We had first met in college when he was working the party scene, making sure the right people were medicated. And all these years later, when Mr. Golden had tasked me with supplying him and his friends with a little extra "vitality," Slim was the obvious point of contact. A friendly face, even if I could do with never seeing it again.
“Look, I can’t help that I work for a bunch of pigs who are too afraid to die,” I sneered. “One day without it is a day closer to the grave, as far as they’re concerned.”
Slim reached into his pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag—the kind you’d store sandwiches in to send in your kid's packed lunch. I could never look directly at it. Human tissue, stained with blood, was hard to stomach whether it was fresh or dried like this. I’d seen enough corpses in my line of work, but something about this—about the way Slim harvested his product—made me sick. It was a line I promised myself I’d never cross. Yet, here I was, buying the pieces of someone who was too young to beg for their life. I hated it.
“That’ll keep your esteemed gentlemen ticking for the rest of the week, at least,” Slim said, his tone playful but firm. “Now, you got my bands? I need to eat.”
I rolled my eyes. “On a doctor’s salary, you need this money to eat? You’re fucking with me, Slim.”
I opened my fanny pack, pulled out $3,000 in cash—neatly rolled $100 bills—and placed them into Slim’s shovel-like hand. He quickly counted it and then stuffed the money down into his oversized lab coat pocket.
“We’re government-funded, my man. You think the fat cats are paying us top dollar? Fuck outta here,” he laughed. “That’s why I’ve got to milk them for everything they’ve got. And this ‘chrome harvesting’? It’s been my biggest hustle to date.”
He pulled a packet of cigarettes from inside his coat, put one in the corner of his mouth, and then offered the pack toward me.
“I’ve got to go, man,” I said firmly, pushing the pack back toward him. “I’m on the clock.”
I couldn’t bear to be around Slim Muesli for more than a handful of minutes at a time. The initial meetings and hand-offs were fine, but knowing the things he was involved in, the things he did to harvest his product on the operating table—I couldn’t stand looking at him for too long.
I couldn’t stand having this shit in my pocket for too long, either.
“Nah, nah, you’re going to chill with me until I finish my smoke break, friend,” he insisted. “You’re going to tell ol’ Slim what the glamorous world of being ‘The Fix’ is really like.”
I felt nervous. I didn’t talk about work. It was dirty and sleazy, immoral and illegal—but it paid a good living. Whatever Slim was making this year, I’d be making triple. But I didn’t relish it like he did. I had some shame, when I wasn’t completely detached. That’s where poor mental health and some well-honed skills had done me well in life. I could tuck myself away into corners of my mind that I rarely had to open again—unless I was forced to, in moments like this one.
“You know I can’t talk about that, Slim…” I whispered. “It’s not good for either of us.”
Slim took a long drag of his cigarette and looked me up and down.
“Rolex watch, diamond ring, the shoes on your feet cost more than what you just paid me. Why don’t you have an in for the Slim man?” Slim’s grin stretched wider. “We could be partners.”
I couldn’t imagine wanting anything less than working with a maniacal baby killer like Slim. I had spilled blood before, I had slipped drugs into the drinks of dignitaries, I had entrapped and blackmailed—but a baby? I’d rather shoot myself in the head before doing something like that.
Slim? He just smiled.
“We’re not taking applications, Slim. When we are, I’ll keep you in mind,” I lied. There was no way in hell.
“You better. I could live this life forever, but you? You’re protected. Me? If the Five-O come knocking, I’m gone. Forever,” he said, his grin slightly fading. “Remember that.”
I didn’t care. When he was gone, I’d move on to another. I knew everybody. Everything. Slim was just the first port of call. While some of the other monsters in his line of work might cause a little stronger of a headache, I could deal with it—especially if Slim kept trying to muscle his way in. I could be a part of his business, but he was not allowed to be a part of mine. Not on my fucking watch.
“Never going to happen, Slim,” I assured him. “Now, I need to go. I’m not going to solve any problems out here yapping with you.”
He threw his cigarette stub on the ground and turned to make his way back inside.
“See you soon, Fix. This time next week,” Slim said, wheezing and laughing. “Those ol’ bastards will make sure of that.”
The door closed behind him, and I sighed with relief. Stepping over to the side of the street, I raised my arm and hailed a cab. Five Arches had become a bustling metropolis over the decades, but when a cabbie saw me? They knew it was in their best interest—and their pockets’—to ignore any other fares and pick me up. Almost like clockwork, a bright orange taxicab pulled up to the curb, and I got in without a second thought.
“117 Golden Arch Plaza,” I told the driver, pulling out my phone to message Mr. Golden’s assistant, Franco, that I was on my way back with the goods.
Some pop-sludge wailed out of the radio by a barely legal starlet, and I grimaced. “If it’s worth it to you, get that shit off. Play some Toby Keith or something.”
“Not right now, Mr. Moore,” the driver said sternly, “or would you prefer The Fix?”
My heart sank as the locks on the car door clicked. I felt a body sit up in the back seat, and the cold metal barrel of their gun pressed against my temple. I strained to see either man from the corner of my eye, but it was no use.
The man in the back finally spoke up. “Don’t move a muscle. The Don is going to have fun with you—don’t ruin it by getting yourself dead.”
Don Marliscone, known as The Iron Hammer, was the head honcho of Iron Arch. A ruthless and brash man—not known for planning and scheming. Everything he did was by blunt force. On the other hand, Mr. Golden’s family had ruled over Golden Arch for generations, through deep political puppeteering and espionage. Golden Arch was the first district in Five Arches; the place was practically named after the family. Iron Arch came much later. Originally, it was known as a place of great industry. Fastideous Runnion, its founder, had been a fair and kind leader, putting his share into the pot and taking care of his people. When he grew sick, Marcius Marliscone—Runnion’s right-hand man and the head blacksmith—had him sign over control of the district. One swift strike later, and Runnion’s brains were all over his pillow, The Iron Hammer had taken control. With his loyal workers under him, he crushed those who dissented and left only his minions, with no-one remaining to question his place at the table. Since then, Iron Arch has only been known for suffering and brutality, whatever Don Marliscone had in store for me, it was going to be horrific.
Kerr