A New Dawn

'The world is full of danger, risk, and excitement. Many people seek these fortunes, but only a few succeed. Guns and ammo rule the world of action.' Harrison Garison had been trained to art of warfare by his agency, the MIW, a notable rival of the MBC. 'But being the kingpin is quite hard. Hard indeed. To be the best action hero alive, you must be tough. Tougher than tempered steel. There's only room for one action hero in NY.'

It was about time before Major Mord Dickens got his hands on the 5:FT, the greatest weapon on Earth. John Luther, the first eyewitness of the incident, had managed to call someone from the MIW, a secret organization that had the total control over the Symbiocyte Pharmaceuticals.

The very particular person's name was Harrison Garison, the great and skilled gunman agent of both the MBC and the MIW. Harrison had just returned from a hard month's work and wanted to take a vacation. He decided to go back to New York and settle there for a few years.

***

The plane landed at the local airport. A truck with a staircase came upto the door as it opened slowly, as if it didn't want to show itself in the hot-baked sunlight of the fresh autumn wind.

As the door was fully open, two men wearing black men-in-black coats with brownish-grey pants proudly stepped outside. The two men both looked the same, almost the same: one of the two had a moustache and was black, the other was handsome and wore a pair of black aviators.

They walked briskly to the black limousine that was parked on freshly-picked gravel.

"Well, Mr. Garison, I hope you're not spending your time here in NY," the man sitting next to the driver asked. He, too, was dressed in black. "Because I heard this place is full of blockheaded idiots and violent mafias. Certainly, I don't want you messing around with these sorts of people."

"It's all okay, sir," Harrison replied. "As long as I'm in my country, I've got no one to fear."

The limousine had an in-built radio and MP3 player that was playing MH21's "Flight".

"Yes, and you know, last night I got a call from someone named John Luther. He was asking for you, Mr. Garison. I think he needs help or something."

"You can't always judge people by their names or their face," the man next to Garison blurted out. "You need to see their actions then judge their qualities."

"Okay," the man in the car announced. "I think we'll be taking our leave now. Goodbye and goodluck, Mr. Garison."

"You too, Jim Buavora."

The men got into the limo and sped off to Los Angeles, leaving Harrison Garison alone.

"Phew!" he sighed. "It's getting hot in here. Better take a taxi."

***

Later, on the same day, but at night, Harrison reached his old living quarters that he once used to live in, before he joined the MBC.

In front of him lies the most unusual type of housing, that a man like Harrison could afford. He could've afforded a stay at a five-star hotel or even a mansion, but yet, he likes to live in places where he can get reminded of the precious, old memories of his previous days. All around him is noise and air pollution. People walking, children crying, cars honking, cops shouting, thieves running, drug cartels smoking, robbers shooting, glass breaking, etc. was the usual noise produced near his housing.

The building where Harrison was staying was an old, 1980s, deteriorated motel named Lucky Charms. After a few years, the people started to become corrupt and greedy. They spray-painted tags all over the brick walls till it looked a slum house. The same thing was done to the entire neighborhood, creating the new name for this area: The Monster's Grave.

It was home to the world's biggest, deadliest, and meanest thieves, thugs, burglars, and robbers alike.

"Hmm... the building's looking too old nowadays. When will these stupid people learn to respect and take care of each other?" Harrison said to himself with a sigh as he took his suitcase and knocked on the door.

"Who the heck are you?" an elderly man answered the door with a shotgun in his hand. "Don't you know what time it is?"

"Whoa! Chill, chill, sir. Please calm down. There's no need to get angry at me! I only need the key to my apart—"

The door closed with a thud.

"—ment."

Harrison checked his watch.

[11:43 pm]

He had to find a way into his apartment. The motel was 5-storeys high. The 4th storey belongs to Harrison Garison.

Harrison looked around his environment. There was not a sound, not a trace of life on the streets tonight. He took out a 9mm pistol from the suitcase and left it there. He was glad that he had brought a few weapons with him, if not for defense or killing people, surely for scaring people.

He strode off to the door again, but this time, he didn't knock or anything. He directly kicked the door open and stopped the old man at gunpoint.

"You'd better take me to my apartment soon. Or this pretty little bullet shall lodge into your blockheaded brain and will send your soul to the hands of God," Harrison said in a commanding voice. "Hurry up, you stupid schmuck!"

"O-o-okay," the old man stammered. "As you w-wish, my li-liege."

One thing that Garison had learnt from all these years of experience is that: Everyone does as you say when you face them at gunpoint.

***

Garison's apartment was not at all, in a bit, as it once was. The floor was covered with litter.

Paper, magazines, pizza slices, dead flies, CDs, and lots of ketchup was spread out like a carpet on top of the polished granite floors.

The smell was generally fatty foods, and musk mixed with cologne. The evidence was already there. It was crystal clear that...

"Someone's been here in my apartment!" he cried, red with rage. "I won't spare him or her at all costs!"

Harrison dropped the contents of his suitcase on the floor and sank into his bed, that was sticky with hair oil and sweat. Before he could even know it, he fell back asleep... deeply asleep. He was too tired. Whoever the culprit was, he could wait until tomorrow.

Then, a few minutes later, his phone started ringing. Harrison couldn't believe his luck. Yet he answered, still dozing from his sleep, "Hello, Garison speaking. Who is this?"

"Mr. Garison, we need to talk. It's urgent."