Crime Lord Reborn : A Litrpg Isekai Adventure Fantasy, page 1
Crime Lord Reborn
A Litrpg Isekai Adventure Fantasy
Martinez Louis
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
1.01 - Death and Rebirth
Death and Rebirth
1.02 - Welcome to San Tadeo
1.03 - Let's See How Things Work
1.04 - Meeting Manny
1.05 - Going to My First Drug Buy
1.06 - The Buy
1.07 - So I'm A Drug Dealer Now?
1.08 - Hipster Safari
Hipster Safari
1.09 - Manny Has Second Thoughts
1.10 - Terminator Fashions
1.11 - Selling at Mesotonic Technical
1.12 - At Loose Ends
1.13 - The Karmic Mirror
1.14 - The Old Man and The Tag
1.15 - The search for a new spot
1.16 - Teens Gone Wild
1.17 - Saturday Morning Breakfast Chicken
1.18 - Who's that dude?
1.19 - The Movies
1.20 - An unexpected series of encounters
1.21 - A cornered animal
1.22 - Interrogating Zeke
1.23 - A New Friend
1.24 - Curfew
1.25 - Nighttime in San Tadeo
Nightime in San Tadeo
1.26 - The Highway Star
1.27 - Donuts and Despair
1.28 - The Tedz Connection
1.29 - The Deal
1.30 - What's In The Box?
1.31 - A Precious Peach
1.32 - Lyle Street
1.33 - Quest for Wheels
1.34 - Let's Do This
1.35 - The Heist
1.36 - Road Rage
1.37 - Buds and Brews
1.38 - Smokey and the New Ride
1.39 - The Orange House
1.40 - My New Living Situation
1.41 - The New Turf
1.42 - The Ball and Bean
1.43 - Guns, Lots of Guns
1.44 - Sunshine, Tacos and Weed
1.45 - The Hard Stuff
1.46 - The Landlord
1.47 - The OG
1.48 - Gone in Five Minutes
1.49 - The Knight Errant
1.50 - A journey in the dark
1.51 - Nirvana is a place on Earth
1.52 - Hostage Negotiation
1.53 - The Five O
1.54 - Silence after the storm
1.55 - The Comet
1.56 - The Weakness
1.57 - A Really Big Gun
1.58 - The Ambush
1.59 - Consequences
Book 2 and writing update!
2.01 - Cleanup
2.02 - Cliqued Up
2.03 - Smokey
2.04 - The Big Day
2.05 - Paying the Vig
2.06 - Claiming the Comet
1.01 - Death and Rebirth
A note from Martinez Louis
I'm going to drop the first three chapters to get things rolling. This is pretty raw and unedited stuff, so please tell me if something doesn't make sense or you find terrible errors. This isn't going to be a dump and run kind of series.
Death and Rebirth
The last day of my life was a Dungeons & Dragons day.
That was just what we called it. We didn't always play D&D, and that night we were running a homebrew system that our DM had cooked up.
He'd convinced us all to try it, guilting us hard. He was our Forever DM and almost never got to play. At least, not for long. The rest of our group—me included—took a shot at running a game every once in a while, but it never turned out well. None of us had the gift.
So, when Jeremy—our DM—told us that he'd been spending the last six months working on a new tabletop role-playing game, one that centered around mundane things like drug dealers, car thieves, and crime of all sorts the group was skeptical.
Then, the guilting commenced. It didn't take long before we all agreed to give his new game a shot.
It was just after sunset and my friend Joe and I were on the way to the game when it happened. We entered a convenience store, a family-run one with a name none of us ever remembered. It was just the corner shop, or Kim's Shop. It was the closest to Jeremy's house, and was where we always stopped to get our game night refreshments. This night was no exception.
"It's not going to be the same, Frank. What, we'll get guns? I just won't feel powerful, and that's half the reason I play these games with you guys."
Joe had been bitching about playing in the new game the entire way over. He had a way of speaking that sometimes really irked me, like he was a slimy courtier trying to convince you to betray your king. I'd once heard him non-ironically address a girl as "M'lady" if that gives you any clue.
"Sure, you're not going to be invisible and flying at all times. I get it. Give it a shot, Jeremy worked hard on this. And not one of your half-assed efforts, either. A fair shot, man. You never know, it could be brilliant," I said.
Joe just snorted, and we entered the corner shop. The bell jingled loudly as the door creaked open and closed.
The man behind the counter looked up at us and nodded when he recognized us, but didn't say hello. Kim was what we called him. It may have been his first or his last name, none of us knew. If you asked him, that's all he gave. His English was limited, and he didn't seem like the kind of man that wanted to talk to anyone to begin with. He never smiled, always pure business. He had short black hair and a bulky build. He was Asian, and Jeremy's wife Kara told us he was Korean. She knew because she'd been there when she was younger and could speak a bit of the language.
Joe followed me into the store. He was a big guy, taller than me at a little bit over 6 feet. Joe was one of those people you'd look at and know immediately he wasn't a regular member of society. Some of us D&D nerds could fit in, but not Joe. He wore the Matrix trenchcoat, combat boots and black army surplus pants. Long, straggly black hair and a bad complexion rounded everything out. He wasn't exactly fat, but his days of sedentary hobbies had made him chunky.
I went straight for the chip section while Joe, still muttering to himself, went to get himself a large slushee.
I loaded my arms with four bags, the various flavors that each of us preferred and was moving toward the bottle drink section when the door opened. The bell rang loudly yet again.
I looked up, seeing that Joe had already picked up his slushee and was near the counter, looking at the chocolates. He'd be getting his usual selection of milk chocolate munchies.
The man who entered the store was familiar to me. A meth head that was always around, begging for money. His skin was terrible, and he always smelled bad. His hair was an indeterminate color, something between brown and blonde, depending on the day and how dirty it was. Most of his front teeth were missing, rotted out by the meth.
I looked back down, dismissing him until a moment later when he yelled.
"Kim, open the register and put all the money in a bag. Now! Don't make me shoot you," the meth head shouted, a hysterical tone in his voice.
Kim started yelling at him, in Korean. I didn't understand a word, but Kim was fearless and—it seemed—quite angry.
"I don't speak your stupid language, you stupid chink! Give me the money or I blow you away! I mean it, I'm not joking."
I peeked around the corner, potato chip bags forgotten in my hands. Methhead was holding a sawed-off shotgun, the barrel and stock roughly removed. It was a double barreled shotgun, one I was quite familiar with from video games. I hoped that Kim wouldn't resist, as those same videogames had taught me that up close like this a double barrel shotgun was the last thing you wanted in your face.
Behind Methhead the doors were clear. He didn't seem to notice I was here, fixated on his task of getting the cash out of Kim.
Joe, his survival instincts on point, was standing silently, trying not to attract the junkie's attention.
Joe obviously thought this was one of those times where the guy would rob the store and then leave. I didn't have such a rosy outlook. Methhead had entered a convenience store carrying a gun and without a mask in a neighborhood where people knew him. Either he wanted to go to jail, or he wasn't planning on leaving any witnesses. I didn't want to be one of those witnesses he eliminated on his way out. Kim didn't have any real security cameras. The one behind the counter was strictly for show and everyone around knew it.
Kim opened the register and continued to curse out Methhead in Korean as he filled a plastic bag with the meager contents. Methhead's attention was entirely on him, and I anticipated my opportunity.
I moved as quietly as I could, first laying the four bags of chips down. I winced as one of them crackled slightly. Methhead didn't notice.
Once that was done, I crouch-walked along the front of the store, keeping the rack of magazines and newspapers between me and him. Unlike my buddy Joe in his combats I was wearing flat-soled sneakers which were well worn in by a lot of time and miles. I could be pretty sneaky when I wanted to be.
I reached the point closest to the entrance just as Kim handed over the bag of cash. Methhead took his left hand off the shotgun and reached out to take it. This was my opportunity.
I darted for the door, my shoes squeaking on the clean tile floor. Methhead's reflexes weren't entirely shot and his head snapped around to focus on me, fear and rage in his eyes. I watched as time seemed to slow down and the gun be
Kim leapt onto the counter, not quite making it over. His large hands pawing at Methhead's skinny shoulders and neck. Methhead staggered backward, pulling Kim off the counter with him.
The burly Korean screamed in rage as he pummeled Methhead with his bare hands. My shoulder hit the front door, causing the bell to ring loudly just as the shotgun went off. I heard what might've been a grunt of pain, and Kim stopped screaming.
In terror I sprinted directly away from the shop and into the twilight. I just needed to get a little distance. It was a double-barreled shotgun. I knew it had no range. If I got some distance I'd be safe.
I was about halfway across the street when I was pushed forward, and face planted into the asphalt. I scrambled to get up, to continue running, but my arms weren't working. My head was fuzzy and my back hurt like I'd been stung by a lot of bees all at once.
"What? What happened?" I muttered to myself.
Behind me I heard glass from Kim's shattered glass door rain to the ground. Seconds later, as darkness closed in, I heard running footsteps and saw Methhead running down the street, away from the robbery. He was carrying a blood stained plastic bag full of cash and his empty shotgun. He didn't look back.
The last thing I saw was Joe looming over me, and I heard the sound of him taking a sip of his slushee through the straw. He looked down at me with an odd expression but said nothing. Then the blackness swooped in and took me.
1.02 - Welcome to San Tadeo
I wish I could tell you that I saw a bright white light, some kind of tunnel and that I met my dead grandma and grandpa, that sort of thing. In the end it was like I'd fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I opened my eyes, expecting to be in pain. In a hospital, or maybe still lying on that road with Joe—that fucker—standing over me watching me die.
Instead, I was lying in bed and felt fine. Where I was it was warm and quiet. Nearby was the faint sound of traffic. I opened my eyes and sat up.
I was in an unfamiliar bedroom. The bed I was sitting had a hard, single mattress and was barely more than a cot. I hadn't even been under the covers. I'd been laying on top of a scratchy army blanket and resting my head on a ancient looking pillow.
The room itself was quite small. There was a plain wooden door opposite the bed. A small desk with a chair tucked under it on one wall and an armoire on the other wall. Even with the small amount of furniture the room felt crowded. It was the size of a prison cell. The floor was bare concrete with a single area rug in the middle, a muddled mess of blue and red colors in a simple pattern.
Up above the bed just under the drop ceiling a long rectangular window let in sunlight and the faint sound of bird song.
A basement. Where the hell am I?
I should have been freaked out, but for some reason I wasn't when text appeared in the air in front of me. It almost felt natural, like this was nothing to be alarmed about.
San Tadeo, California, 07:35 Thursday March 05, 2020
Safe House: Martin McLean's House
Walking in the Light
I wiped my hand through the text that floated in the air in front of me. There was nothing there. It had no physical presence in the world. As if it sensed that I wanted it gone, the words quickly faded away.
Am I hallucinating? Is this some kind of coma?
I looked down at myself, and was happy to see that I was the same me I always was. The clothes I was wearing weren't familiar. A pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt that I didn't remember owning. But I was still me.
I stood up and stepped onto the cold concrete floor.
At the head of the bed was a tiny wooden bedside table, scarred with scratches and a few paint spots. It had an ancient looking lamp on top, and a single drawer. It was completely empty.
"Where is my phone?" I muttered.
It had been in my pocket when Methhead had shot me. If my hallucination was right, it was the next day and I was somewhere called San Tadeo. I'd never heard of it, or Martin McLean. He shared my last name, so maybe he was a relative I didn't know about? I still had no idea about the hallucinations, but maybe I was recuperating here?
Did they take my phone? What about my keys and my wallet? If this is some kind of afterlife, it sure is a crappy one.
There weren't any dead relatives to greet me. No clouds full of angelic beings, and no hellfire. Maybe I was really lying in a hospital bed and this was just a particularly elaborate dream. I had them sometimes, after all. Dreams that seemed entirely real, with fully developed places and people. Even after I woke up they still made sense, even if they were alien. I had a suspicion that dreams were sometimes more than just your brain sweeping the dust out of the corners.
I opened up the armoire and had a look inside. It was nearly empty. A pair of button-down shirts in white and blue hung beside a black suit in a plastic dry-cleaning bag. On the bottom shelf of the armoire were four neatly folded stacks of clothing. Blue jeans, t-shirts, socks and underwear. None of which were mine.
"What the hell is going on here?" I muttered to myself.
I moved to the door and opened it as quietly as I could, looking out. The door opened silently on well oiled hinges. Clean white walls extended to my left and right. I eased out quietly, seeing stairs leading up to the left and another doorway at the end of the hall on the right.
I really could use my phone right now. Google maps would tell me where I was, and I could get an Uber to come get me. Wherever San Tadeo was, they definitely would have Uber.
I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to go upstairs just yet. I turned right and moved toward the closed door at the end of the hall.
Something caught my eye on the left wall—a flash of reflected light. Mounted on the wall was one of those framed mirrors where when you looked into it, it would put a hat on your head. I saw myself in the mirror wearing some kind of military hat, the one with the visor. The hat looked good on me even if my usual shaggy mop of black hair kind of ruined the effect by poking out around the edges.
The door at the end of the hall opened easily, exposing a laundry room with another basement window. The walls and floor here were concrete, leading to a drain in the middle. There were no exits other than the one I came in.
I closed the door and made for the stairs.
A deep, male voice reached me in the basement easily from upstairs. "Francis, I hear you moving around down there. Come upstairs and eat breakfast, the day's wasting away."
I didn't recognize the voice, but I had to assume that it was Martin. I wasn't pleased that he called me Francis. Sure, it was technically my name, but everyone called me Frank. They had since I was little kid.
The voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly, and I decided that there was no use in pretending that I was still asleep or sneaking around. There was only one way out of this basement, after all. I went up to meet my long-lost relative.
I walked up the stairs to a landing. Several pairs of shoes were tucked into a niche, and two light grey coats hung on coat hooks. A deadbolted exterior door was right there, and through a small square window I could see the side of the house next door, a plain white stucco.
I could unlock the door right now and escape, if I wanted to. No one was here to stop me. Whatever the text that I had hallucinated earlier was, it said this was a safe place. It felt like it, at least.
Another short step of stairs led into the a small, orderly kitchen.
I walked up the stairs, looking around. There was a simple table with two chairs along one wall and a row of counters and cabinets along the other. An ancient fridge and stove were tucked into gaps. Whoever Martin was, he sure didn't believe in spending a lot of money on his kitchen. Something I'd only seen in period TV shows and movies hung on the wall—a green landline phone. It had a long, spiraling cord connecting the curved handset to the cradle on the wall.
On the opposite side from where I'd entered there was a doorway leading to what was obviously the living room. I could see a large front window looking out onto a street, as well as a shag carpet and part of a brown leather love seat by the window.
I heard creaking leather as someone stood up, and then Martin was in the doorway.
Martin was a fit older man, slightly shorter than me but in much better shape. His hair was iron gray, cut close to his scalp in a military style. His eyes were muddy brown, and his complexion a deep tan from spending a lot of time in the sun.
