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Compos Mentis	By : FantasticPants Category: +M through R > Max Payne Views: 1201 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Max Payne, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Compos
Mentis

The
narrow-minded may find it as strange or unusual, but there are times
when I can observe the events taking place in my life from an outside
view. As if they're flickering by across a movie reel, or, if more
pedestrian in nature, a television screen.

Some
days – it’s been happening more frequently lately –
I feel as though the transmission is becoming jammed, the picture
flashing with an unsteady haze. Frames getting lost and never being
recovered. Possibly replaced by images of Coca-Cola. Or something
worse.

Some
days, I wish I could just flip the channel.

Today,
for example.

I
haven’t slept in over forty eight hours, and haven’t had
anything resembling decent sleep in over a week – not
insomnia, mind you; that’s Max’s territory. Just too many
things on my mind, too many goddamn things that need to be done. And
barely enough time.

They
never tell you how time and energy consuming conspiracy planning can
be.

I’m
slumped over my desk at Vodka. The phone is pressed to my ear like
some kind of particularly violent tumor, nonsensical noises spurting
out of it relentlessly, going through one ear and gracelessly exiting
through the other.

I can’t
believe she’s still talking. This must have gone on for at
least an hour, though my time perception isn’t exactly what
you’d call peerless at the moment. She’s going into
another raving rant about her parents now. I can tell by the rapidly
increasing brutality of the sound waves. I can’t really afford
to listen - too busy going over the updated blueprints Clay sent me,
sketching X marks where the explosives should go, making occasional
notes. I need to achieve maximum impact while maintaining minimal
time consumption. It’s not as easy as it sounds. I chew on the
pencil, in between doodles - I’ve tasted better, but what can
you do.

I inject
the occasional “Yes,” “Of course,” and “Aha,”
into the ‘conversation’, when a gap arises, and it seems
like my input is required. When it isn’t, I try to imagine that
it’s classical music I’m hearing, instead of the nonstop,
vindictive oration. Right now it’s Flight of the Bumblebee.
There are definite similarities in tone. Uncanny, really.

Winterson
seemed like the epitome of reserved and to-the-point when I first met
her; just the facts, ma'am. At the time, it was a Herculean task just
achieving basic small talk with the woman. A regular iron maiden.
Almost a challenge. I should have known better, or at least
considered the possibility that she was an undercover verbal fiend.
Every person has a dark side lurking somewhere, waiting to get out.
And now I'm entitled to the dubious pleasure of dealing with hers.

The
things you do for love.

Or hate.

Mike
brings me a drink. The guy’s a mind reader. I raise my head
from the blueprints to demonstrate my gratitude with a smile. A
muscle in my neck decides now is the perfect time to strain.

I’m
an optimist by nature, but sometimes I feel like the whole world is
out to get me.

I
produce a mute groan.

Optimist
by nature, pessimist by nurture.

Placing
my pencil-free hand on my neck, I attempt an auto-massage, with
unsatisfactory results. A little too late, I notice there’s
been a prolonged silence on the other end. “Vlad?”

“Sure,
Win-“ Damn. I manage to pause in the nick of time. My
conversations with Max are going to get me in trouble one of these
days. I hastily correct to - “Baby. I agree completely.”

“Agree
with what?” she cross-examines. Her tone reaches a hazardous
zone – briefly halted at confusion but ready to race towards
annoyance. It means that I’m going to have a gravely vexatious
problem on my hands if I don’t come up with a satisfactory
answer, and soon. Great, just what I needed. Icing on a cake. I go
into emergency-backup mode, attempt to retrace her half-heard words,
assemble them like a puzzle – there, Eureka! Max would be proud
of my extensive detective work.

Jon. She
wants me to pick up Jon from school tomorrow.

“I
mean – yes, of course I will. Three o’clock?”

“That’s
right,” she confirms. For the time being, I'm safe.

“How
is Jon doing?” I inquire. That, give or take, is the only
question regarding her personal life that provokes the least bit of
actual interest in me.

“He’s
good.” Her voice always warms up when she talks about him. I
can empathize. Jon’s a great kid. “He’s in his
room, sleeping.”

I
chuckle mentally. It's not nearly late enough for him to be genuinely
asleep. But sleep is a good cover story for adolescent boys. With
Winterson's suffocating, although understandable overprotectiveness
to deal with, the kid cherishes every solitary moment he can secure.

“That’s
good to hear,” I spot an opening that might allow me to wrap
this galling conversation up, “I’ll see you tomorrow,
then?”

“I
can’t wait,” she declares, attempting what I believe is
meant to be a breathy, sexy voice, but coming across as an awkward
imitation of a second-hand porn actress. She should really stick to
her usual, lady-Terminator voice. “Love you.”

“I
love you too, baby,” I echo mechanically, exhaling in relief as
the monotonous, eternal beep mercifully replaces her voice. Free at
last, I hang up.

I make a
futile attempt to study the blueprints for a while before realizing I
might as well be looking at one of those 3D images where you’re
supposed to see a picture if you stare long enough. Or pretend
you can see one, just like everyone else does.

The
Emperor’s New Clothes paradox.

I sigh.
It’s clear that no new pattern, three-dimensional or otherwise,
is going to emerge tonight. I fold up the blueprints and lock them in
the drawer.

Trying
to keep my neck as immobile as possible, I sink my head to the desk,
let my eyes shut, hoping to catch a few minutes of sleep.

“Uh,
boss… Boss?”

Hope is
a waking dream.

Lifting
my head – it’s heavier than usual – I encounter the
hesitant gaze of Kirill, one of my veteran boys. Barrel shaped and
equally barrel minded, he has served under me for over ten years.
Dogmatic and dull in every possible sense, but fiercely loyal. A
merit that automatically places him in the top ten percentile of my
working force. At the moment, he’s wearing an uncertain
expression, shifting his considerable weight from foot to foot –
probably wants to ask for a personal favor.

“What
is it?” I scarcely manage to filter the growing impatience out
of my tone.

“I
need a favor,” and there you have it, as unpredictable as
December rain, “– it’s, uh, something personal.”

I
consider revising my open door policy. This is beginning to get
extremely tiresome. But he’s a decent foot soldier, so I owe it
to him to at least hear him out. I raise my brow suggestively,
signifying for him to go on.

“Do
you remember Tanya?” When I respond with a blank look, he
clarifies, “My niece?”

I list
through my buried recollections before coming up with an image of a
young girl that I encountered at Mike’s sister’s wedding,
a few years back. Cute little brunette with a ponytail. “This
tall?” I ask, setting my hand a foot over desk-level. “About
twelve?”

“She’s
sixteen now.”

I give a
low whistle. Time flies.

He
reaches into his pocket, extracting a photograph which he hands over
to me.

“Fuck,”
the word involuntarily escapes my mouth as I look over the picture,
taking it all in. It’s next to impossible to make out the face,
through the bruises. Purple and yellow and something close to green –
it’s viable to construct a rainbow pride flag out of the colors
that encompass her features. “How did this happen?”

“It’s
that fucking Italian bastard. Vincent Gognitti.”

“Gognitti
did this?” I reluctantly glance at the picture again. It
seems to go a few steps too far, even for him. He must’ve been
in one hell of a mood. Probably missed a rerun of one of his favorite
cartoons.

“He’s
a fucking animal!” Kirill’s face reddens, looking
ridiculously analogous to an overly ripe tomato. One that’s
about to burst. In all honesty, the only animal I can think up
regarding Vinnie Gognitti is something small and nervous. A weasel,
maybe. Or a feral bunny with a nasty bite. I keep these thoughts to
myself.

Kirill
proceeds to relay the details. I listen only partially, the other
part getting lost in old memories. She was a shy girl, I recall,
pressing herself to the corner of the room, trying her best to be
invisible – Kirill says something about a date gone wrong, and
I detect a lie in there, or at the very least some sort of evasion
from the truth. I don’t call him out on it, instead keeping a
mental note for future use.

I still
noticed her - she had a special sort of presence. A quiet intensity
that’s rare even in adults. Max has it. I decided to ask her to
dance, don’t quite remember why anymore - Kirill describes how
she screamed at Gognitti to stop, begged him to no avail. It was
probably a bad call on her behalf, made her appear weak. She should
have remained silent.

At first
she mumbled out a shy rejection, but shyness had never been too big
an obstacle for me. I flashed a few dashing smiles, got her to dance
eventually. I can even remember the song – Magic Moments. It
was amusing, in a Hallmark sort of way. Kirill is practically raving
now, grabbing the photo and waving it around like a sign at a violent
demonstration. Finally returning it to my desk, he nearly slams his
hand over it but wisely stops himself at the last second.

She had
a nice smile, the girl. That’s the good thing about kids’
smiles – they’re rarely fake. And if they are, it’s
obvious enough. No need to second-guess all the time. “You’ll
kill him, right?” Kirill inquires anxiously, severing my trail
of thought, “You’ll kill the bastard?”

I’m
amazed how clueless some people in the business can be. I would roll
my eyes, but right now, I fear it would take too much effort.

Don’t
get me wrong, I’d love to wipe that little Italian piece of
shit off the face of the earth, but that’s not very practical
thinking. Removal of a rival mob boss is a vulgar declaration of war.
And an open war with the Italians is just about the last worry I need
to have on my mind at the moment.

I
suppose I could try to make it a silent hit, leave no fingers to
point at me, but that still would be too big a risk. Hardly the kind
of risk I’m prepared to take.

Besides,
he didn’t kill the girl.

“I
can’t do that,” I enlighten Kirill, blatantly ignoring
the stupidly righteous anger that crosses his face. My gaze travels
to the photograph for the last time, before I return it to him. Sweet
girl. She deserves revenge. “But I’ll take care of it
some other way.”

“The
bastard deserves to burn for this,“ Kirill growls, giving his
best bear imitation, which turns out rather life-like.

And what
I deserve is some peace and quiet, but clearly nobody is getting what
they deserve these days.

“I
said I’ll take care of it,” this comes out harsher
than I intended. Snapping at henchmen is never a good sign. It’s
that lack of fucking sleep gaining up on me.

Kirill
recoils, regaining the uneasy posture. At least he won't be trying to
convince me of his so called point anymore. It'll spare me a
formidable headache. “Uh, right,” he bobs his large head,
“Thanks, boss.”

As he
turns to go, a few dots connect in my brain, composing a repulsive
theory that I have to test.

“Think
twice before whoring your niece out, next time.”

He stops
in his tracks, gaping at me like a child caught with his hand trapped
inside a cookie jar. Not even bothering to deny it.

Sometimes
I hate being right.

Looks
like Gognitti is far from being the only guilty party in this
charming ordeal. I keep Kirill squirming desperately under my gaze
for nearly a full minute, awaiting my judgment. I’ve already
decided, albeit half-heartedly, to let it slide - seeing her this way
must’ve been bad enough, I highly doubt he’ll repeat that
mistake – but he doesn’t need to know that. Finally, I
snort, exposing a mere shadow of my disdain. “Get the fuck out
of my sight.”

He
scurries off, moving incredibly quickly for a man his size. Not sure
if man is the right term, though.

At last
I’m able to turn my attention to the drink so patiently
awaiting me. I take the liquid down rapidly, seeking nonexistent
clarity. As I put the empty glass down, I sense my lips tugging into
a dark, humorless smirk.

Our
world is a harsh, cruel place, with a penchant for cannibalism. In
order to survive, one has to be able to play along.

Luckily,
I’m the playful sort.

Now, to
the matter of one Vincent Gognitti.

With
killing or even permanent injury sadly out of the question, I’m
left with few options.

What I
eventually come up with isn't exactly appealing in any sort of way,
but it's good old fashioned justice. Biblical, almost. With a bit of
a creative twist.

I locate
Mike in the TV room. He’s practicing fast-drawing a gun, like
in those Westerns he likes so much.

I’ve
never been a big fan of that particular genre. Too much desert, not
enough dialogue.

I clear
my throat and put on a wry smirk, “Careful, you might hurt
someone with that thing.”

He turns
around on his heels, grinning at me as he places the gun back in its
holster with a practiced twirl, “That’s the idea.”

Amusing
as it is, I can’t afford to spend more time in the
cliché-exchange at the moment. I slide my business-face on,
and wait for him to follow my example. “Arrange a team. Five
men,” I pause to think this over, then amend, “Actually,
make that three.” I don’t need nor want a crowd for this.
“Professionals.”

“It
will be done,” Mike assures, giving a pretend-salute before
heading off to do my bidding.

Ten
minutes later, the dream team – Big Andrei, Cheburashka and a
fresh but talented recruit whose name I can’t quite recall - is
assembled, armed and dangerous. We depart straight away.

Justice
delayed is justice denied.

We
arrive at Gognitti’s place not long afterwards – the
building looking quite willing to collapse any minute, but there's
always an unavoidable element of risk in this adventurous line of
work of ours.

“No
lethal force,” I remind my men before we go in, “The body
count meter should stay on zero.”

The
stairway is generously vacant, and we make our way upstairs
uninterrupted. Gognitti supposedly resides on the second floor.

Two men
are guarding Gognitti's apartment. Although guarding is a term I’d
employ rather loosely in this case. The first guy, a chubby fellow
with an unusually round face, is happily snoring away, while the
second, a lanky redhead who's obviously taking his job far more
seriously, is nose-deep in a comic book.

He soon
becomes face-deep in it as Cheburashka slams the book straight into
his head. Comic book knockout. A classic. The sleeping beauty doesn't
even budge. My men restrain them both, applying duct tape in
interesting ways. There's a creative outlet to be found in this work,
too.

Now
faced with the conundrum that is the front door to the apartment, I
have several options. Kicking it down is sure to provide a dramatic
effect, but it’s also likely to give Gognitti valuable time.
And though philanthropy is in my blood, I'm not in the mood for
handing out presents tonight.

“Lockpicks,”
I dictate. Andrei helpfully produces a kit, and, getting the urge to
do it myself for some reason, I kneel by the door and begin to work
on the lock. For old times sake, I suppose. I haven’t done this
in years, but after a few minutes there’s a familiar,
satisfying click. I get up and hand the kit back to Andrei,
suppressing an overly contented grin. Wouldn't want to appear
unprofessional.

“Keep
watch. Only go in if you hear gunshots, or if I call you,” I
instruct the trio, “And no comic books,” this I direct to
Cheburashka specifically, who offers me a gaze full of counterfeit
innocence in response. “Clear?” They respond with
unanimous nods. With that out of the way, I open the door and enter
the stronghold of the infamous Vincent Gognitti.

The door
shuts in near silence behind me, and I take a look around the place.
The interior is actually rather nicely designed, if you disregard the
dismaying amount of cartoon memorabilia occupying it. Obsession is a
dangerous thing. Especially when it comes to interior design.

Sounds
are steadily emerging from a room deeper inside the apartment, loud
and exaggerated. My wildest guess says Gognitti’s watching that
favorite show of his, Captain Baseball something.

This
guess is miraculously confirmed as I quietly reach the living room. A
big screen television is the focal point of interest here, with the
rest of the room constructed to accommodated it, serving the sole
intent of high definition worship. The biggest zealot being, of
course, none other than Gognitti himself, who's seated on an orange,
cow-patterned couch, his anorexic upper body tipped forward as he
keenly observes the current escapades of his beloved character.

The show
is so thoroughly effective in capturing his attention that my arrival
goes shamelessly unnoticed. The alarming volume in which the
television expresses itself stifles my footsteps as I go into the
room, stopping by a rather classy home bar – Gognitti is living
the life, it seems. I place my elbows on the bar, lean back and
keenly observe the escapades of Vinnie Gognitti.

He's
clad in black sweatpants and a white tee-shirt, with only mismatched
socks to cover his feet. Won't be doing much kicking, then. His gaze
is fixated exclusively on the screen, though his hand occasionally
reaches for a bag of chips conveniently located by his side. An open
jar of peanut butter, extra crunchy, is also present, ready and
waiting on a small glass table in front of the couch. It’s
mystifying how he manages to maintain his boyish figure with these
eating habits.

“Junk
food,” I announce, “is bad for you.”

A
wide-eyed, high-pitched, “Oh shit! What the fuck are you
doing here?” is his automatic welcome for me.

I ask
myself the same question, and the answer I come up with is barely
satisfying.

Sometimes
you just have to do what you have to do.

“Vincent!”
I exclaim heartily. I don’t think he likes being called that.
What a shame. It has a much nicer ring than ‘Vinnie’,
although I have to admit, the latter suits him better. 'Vincent' is
too grown up. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
I spread my arms in a pacifying gesture. Gognitti narrowly avoids
being pacified as he proceeds to fidget in his seat, glaring at me
tensely. All work and no play makes Vinnie a very edgy boy. “Just
dropping in for a little chat,” I expand, “You know,
catch up a bit. Reminisce on old times and whatnot.” I abandon
my post by the bar and draw in closer to Gognitti, his fidgeting
reaching a ferocious level as I near the couch. “I’m not
interrupting anything, am I?” I give the television a passing
glance, then casually drop into the couch seat next to him.

He
almost jumps. I observe with some amusement as his overly developed
self preservation skills cause him to slowly retreat into the
furthest edge of the couch. “Say,” I point my finger at
him, “Didn’t you use to have longer hair? And a
sunglasses fixation?” We engage in a very brief gazing contest,
which I wrap up with a knowing grin, “You can change your look,
but you can’t really change who you are.”

You
have the honor of being employed by the most powerful secret
organization in America, Lem, yet you insist upon retaining the dress
sense of a common thug.

I
transform my grin into a smirk.

Nostalgia.

Pity,
but Gognitti doesn’t seem to be all that interested in sharing
recollections. His gaze darts between the various exit points of the
room – potential escape routes? His nervousness is apparently
increasing in direct proportion to the amount of time he spends in my
presence. I feel special. “How did you get in?” he
inquires in whiny accusation.

“A
bit of harmless persuasion can take you a long way,” I put on a
light smile, wave my arm about. “You really should pass your
guards a memo about not sleeping on watch, though,” I advise,
“It tends to hamper with their efficiency. But what do I know,
right? I wouldn’t presume to interfere with your work methods.
To each his own.” I snort then, letting my contempt surface,
“Things ran smoother with Lupino in charge,” Gognitti
cringes as I mention that name, which gives me all the more incentive
to proceed, “And he was a Valkyr addicted lunatic,” I
mockingly imitate a howl, countering Gognitti’s fresh wince
with a toothy grin, “I wonder - what does that say about you?”

Not in
the mood for introspection, it seems, Gognitti springs to his feet
instead, in a sudden motion that my eyes find surprisingly hard to
follow. Fortunately, it's not eyes that are required for
certain situations. While his gun only manages to make its way into
his grip, mine is already pointed square at his head.

Checkmate.

I shake
my head with smiling disapproval, even go so far as to click my
tongue at him. “Come on, Vinnie, you don’t want to play
it like that, believe me. I have more men outside. To the best of my
knowledge, they are quite awake. Please sit down,” I
motion at the couch, making it sound like a friendly request rather
than an order, but we both know better. He slumps back down, glares
at me from the corner of his eye. I smirk as I reach out and take his
gun – candy from a baby, almost literally.

I
inspect it briefly, professional curiosity – it’s a
Walther P99, fits right into my palm. “How cute. A toy gun.”
I remove the clip and place it in my jacket pocket. The baby-gun
itself I put on the glass table. “Let’s try to be
civilized here. No need to involve ballistics.” As a show of
goodwill, I slide the Eagle back into my jacket. “You know, you
really ought to consider a career change. I hear the fast food
industry is looking for some quality men.”

“So
it’s outta the question for you, huh?” he retorts,
balancing on the razor sharp edge between fear and anger. He’ll
tip over soon enough. I'll make sure of that. “What do you
want, Russian?”

Want? A
lot of things. Sleep tops the list at the moment.

Nothing
I want has anything to do with little Gognitti here. Unless it
involves him kicking the bucket, turning up daisies, going on an
awfully big adventure – which would go hand to hand with his
level of maturity, or the Italians’ personal favorite
euphemism, sleeping with the fishes.

Neither
of which are an option at the moment.

Oh well.

I
suppose it’s time to get this show on the road.

First
act – buildup.

“You’ve
been a bad boy, Vincent. Do you know what happens to bad boys?”

“They
get no presents for Christmas?”

“Santa’s
naughty list is no laughing matter, that's true,” I reply,
grinning. At least there’s some juvenile entertainment value in
this. “But aside from that.”

“What?”

“Nothing,
usually,” I pull my shoulders up in an indifferent shrug,
prolonging the motion by making my hands meet on the back of my head.
They linger there in conjoined relaxedness. Gognitti’s body
language is an upside-down reflection, his knuckles twitching as his
fingertips dig into his knees; his feet performing a nervous dance on
the carpet. I continue, “They grow up, become bad men, do bad
things.” Unknotting my hands, I trace my brow with one, gesture
with the other, “Life isn’t fair, you know.”

“No
shit, Sherlock,” he immediately responds, audibly swallowing
air as he realizes this may not have been the smartest thing to say
in the given situation.

I ignore
him.

“And
I don’t believe in the afterlife, either. Or at least, I’m
not buying this whole heaven and hell bullshit. It’s really
rather silly when you think about it. Just like,” I point
upwards, “What’s-his-name up there.” Gognitti
frowns at that. A believer? That’s strange. Probably an Italian
thing. “But that’s a sensitive issue. Wouldn’t want
to cause any offense, and it’s beside the point, anyway. What
I’m trying to say here, Vinnie, is that people tend to get off
the hook too easily these days. There are free get out of jail cards
scattered around and just about anyone can just bend over and pick
one up.”

He
doesn’t say anything this time, but his expression is clear
enough – it reads ‘look who’s talking’.

“I’m
not complaining. I admit - I have a whole deck of those,” I
shift my tone, expelling the levity out of it, “But there are
limits, Vinnie. Rules. Some things that you just don’t do.”

I study
him intently, trying to locate any signs of comprehension. He’s
broadcasting nothing but perplexed anxiety. No, clearly he has no
idea what I’m referring to. This at least rules out the
possibility of the beating having been a conscious provocation on his
part. Not that it matters much, either way. Gognitti shifts
restlessly in his seat, not taking a liking the silence. “Look,
I’m not sure what you’re talkin’–“

“Karma,
Vinnie. That I believe in. You’ve heard all about it,
I’m sure. You watch a lot of television, after all,” I
send him a mildly condescending grin, and he furrows his brow. I
constrain a laugh. The expression looks preposterously out of place
on him, reminding me of an agitated rodent. “But I can see
you’re getting a little impatient, so I’ll cut to the
chase. Actions have consequences, and it’s about time somebody
taught you that.”

“So,
lemme get this straight,” he folds his arms over his chest,
trying on a confident, adult posture. It's at least several sizes too
big, making him appear like a pouting child. What’s next? Foot
stomping? “You came here to talk about karma? ‘Cause, you
know, I really have things-“

“Actually,
Vinnie, I’m planning on a little less conversation, a
little more action. I’m here to implement it. Consider me a
karmic messenger, if you will.”

“Nah,
I don’t think I will,” he quip cheekily, apparently grown
tired of this charade. Truth be told, so am I. “You’re
fuckin' nuts, Russian, fuckin' nuts!” he waves his arm
skittishly in emphasis, “You even got any screws left? You
can’t implement karma.”

Before
he can blabber further on and really annoy me, I cut him off
with a harsh smirk. “Watch me.”

The next
moment becomes a blur as I grab the back of his shirt and propel him
off the couch, also rising in the process. His knee clashes with the
corner of the table, sending both his gun and the peanut butter on an
accelerated descend to the floor - “Ow! Shit!” Gognitti
cries out empathetically, sharing their pain. Looks like it's about
to get messy.

On the
television screen, the large-headed title character of the cartoon is
tossed into the air, flying several feet before connecting with a
wall, then slides down comically.

I think
I might just warm up to that show after all.
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Compos Mentis