Mercenary Black Mamba

The employees spat and threw stones at Barungo and Wadanka, who hung on the cross. Suddenly, he remembered Mussolini, who had met his end after being hung upside down in Milano’s Loreto square. They were humans who grabbed swords at sweet words, didn’t know how to process anger, and were emotionless. Even the saying, “human minds are hard to read,” couldn’t describe them.

Tsk, foolish humans!

He clicked his tongue and turned his head.

“Maybe it’s because he’s a priest? He’s still alive,” Ombuti mumbled.

It was a mistake not cutting the man’s mouth and vocal cords, trying to get a confession out of him. He didn’t know the man would pour out curses just before his death. The lackey nearly killed them. Piercing iron rods under their nails, shattering their toes with a hammer, and tearing out their thigh fats could be considered cute. The onlookers grew disgusted as they witnessed him hanging them upside down, pouring pili pili[1] into their noses, and pulling out their tendons one by one with a tong after tearing open their skin with a knife.

Ombuti glanced at Black Mamba. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to care. Well, his master wasn’t the kind of person to care about some b*stard’s useless words anyway.

“Ddu-bai-buru-pa, receive my curse! Incarnate of Abu l’hawl, receive the curse of Damballa Wedo. You shall not have descendants! Ahhh! Damballa, I give you my soul! Place a curse on Abu l’hawl—” Barungo resisted in his last moments, all swept up in flames.

Firstly, he had to call a lwa to manifest his spells. Still, fire was the universe’s purifier that cleaned away evil existences. The lwa couldn’t come near. Unfortunately, the curses pouring out from the spellcaster, Barungo, was nothing more than noise pollution.

“That lowly spirit-serving b*stard! Ahmad, what are you doing, not tearing his mouth apart!” Ombuti shouted.

Although his words were nothing but slurs, that b*stard was cursing his respected and beloved wakil. He had to tear apart the b*stard’s mouth to be satisfied.

Whoosh—

The dagger, which Ahmad threw, ended up in Barungo’s mouth. It landed slightly diagonally, piercing his skull. His head toppled down. The fire devil immediately swallowed Barungo. The smell of burning protein spread throughout the farm.

Spellcaster Barungo, who attempted to take over Chad with the Vodou religion as his weapon, died as a handful of ash. Barungo, with his supernatural ability, was a talented politician too. However, he was not very fortunate.

Natural enemies were assigned to humans and animals. There was no way a mere spirit could defeat Asura, who ranked among the gods. The moment a large spirit called Black Mamba interfered, spellcaster Barungo’s fate was sealed. That was why there was a well-known saying that humans could plot, but only the heavens decided.

Lackey trembled from head to toe. Had wakil not come in time, he would be burned to death on the cross instead of Barungo. There was no end to the crimes and wrongdoings coming out of Barungo and Wadanka’s mouths. He felt there was truly no end to human greed and ambition. From the beginning, he’d messed up the task that wakil had entrusted. The saying that one should eat pine buds came to his mind.

“Ombuti, why do you think the employees couldn’t report the armbands’ abuse to the lackey?”

In his opinion, while lackey had his faults, the employees’ faults were more significant. They were in a different situation from the Kurd tribe or the Christian Orthodoxes. Lackey wasn’t the kind of person who’d overlook Barungo’s overstepping and the armbands’ abuse. If someone had reported, the problem would have been resolved.

“Rather than not being able to report them, they just didn’t report them. Wakil, you are a strong person, and that is why you don’t understand the survival methods of the weak. Most of the workers are from the Anghel tribe. The Anghel tribe lived as slaves for a long time. Servitude and opportunism are ingrained in their bones.”

“It’s the free-rider effect, I see!”

Black Mamba understood what Ombuti was trying to say. The employees must have known that they’d profit collectively by reporting the armbands’ abuse.

Still, the reason why they remained silent was that they feared the retaliation that would follow.

The psychology behind their decision was that those who reported would receive the brunt of retaliation, and they would suffer mentally while the other party reaped the benefits. That stopped them from picking up any courage. Still, they had waited for someone else to speak up on their behalf.

In other words, it was the intention of riding on another person’s coattails. The desire to free-ride was similar to being opportunistic. That wasn’t different for Korea. The mouths of all the onlookers closed like clams when Jeon Du Hwan enacted the Policy for Merger and Abolition of the Press, or in other words, shattered the press into pieces. Even the existing press companies turned silent.

No one spoke up first. Everyone was trying to profit off the person who would sling the gun around first. It was fine even if the whistle-blower would be riddled with holes. The survivor would take a higher honorarium, and the media would have greater power. The survivor was the winner. The coward was the survivor. In some ways, the press was more rotten than the military government.

“Correct. They are a flock of sheep. Sheep don’t know how to act independently. Even if their fence door is open, they don’t know how to leave and return when darkness falls. Why else would farmers raise a few goats among the flock of sheep? The wolf that gained its advantage by jumping into the flock of sheep is Barungo. A wolf can easily be suppressed if several sheep rushed toward it at once. The problem could easily be solved by telling the lackey what the wolf has been doing. However, they still submitted and accepted their mistreatment.”

“You’re right. They’re prideless people with dead hearts.” Black Mamba nodded.

Ombuti’s harsh criticism wasn’t much different from what he thought. The individual greed and opportunistic mind poisoned the organization like ink spreading in water. Collective greed paralyzed the morals and compassion of humans. It hindered them from being brave and led to mistreatment.

A society with widespread opportunism and a lack of justice would lose motivation for growth and become corrupted. Once members adopted a defeated mindset, it raised the possibility of a dictatorship. It meant that foolish citizens called for their own dictatorship.

Their submerged conscience, habitual servitude, ignorance, and cowardice, which prevented them from using a given power, were their biggest problems. Of course, there was no better manpower to use than such a group either. Black Mamba’s motto was to eat well and live happily together. There was no way he’d be satisfied with the employees’ state.

“Ombuti, I want you to prioritize the construction of schools in Novatopia. Ignorance and foolishness are sins.”

“It will be done as wakil says. Bismillah.”

Ombuti’s expression was solemn, as though he felt something too.

“Damn, what have I done all alone! Is this the difference in capability?”

Sun WooHyun’s face creased, glancing between the two who were sharing a deep conversation and the group of workers who were dancing.

“Lackey, I think you need a beating.”

“Wakil, just keep my life intact.” Sun WooHyun lowered his head.

He’d grown to naturally bow his head and use respectful terms around Black Mamba, who was a decade younger than him. He didn’t realize his own change.

“That’s not what I mean. Didn’t you feel like your movements slowed down?”

“I don’t know.”

“I saw you when you were fighting Ahmad, and you were slower than a roach. That must be because the yorunba’s poison has built up inside your body. Yorunba focuses on damaging one’s physical senses, which was the main step of creating zombies. What do you think will happen once the senses are paralyzed?”

“It will be fatal to a warrior.”

“That’s not all. Your organs won’t work. You think your thing will work when all your senses are dead?”

Black Mamba pointed at Sun WooHyun’s p*nis and mockingly smiled.

“Wakil! Tell me what to do!”

Castration! Sun WooHyun wasn’t even married. What kind of front-leg kicking ox story was that? His face turned pale.

“I’d have to pull out the poison using the soul-returning pain administration. However, I’m very tired. I don’t want to use my strength.”

“I’m happier when you hit me, wakil. Beat me up until I die, yeah?” Sun WooHyun immediately pleaded.

He had witnessed the effects of the soul-returning pain administration before. He was about to become a eunuch. Now wasn’t the time to compare what was worse.

The five Syrian people unknowingly glanced at each other. They couldn’t understand wakil and lackey’s conversation. Why was he happier to be hit? There was no way that such a human existed unless he was a pervert or a masochist. Their faces creased. They didn’t know the kind of events that would befall them if a pervert became their boss.

Ombuti handed Black Mamba a bat he had prepared beforehand.

Craaack—

“Aaargh!”

A stick falling with impact, accompanied by long screams—Sun WooHyun’s pitiful cries echoed across the yard where the employees were scattered. The faces of the five Syrian people turned blue at the cruel beating.

“Sir lackey’s a pervert!”

Aishe frowned. At that moment, Black Mamba’s plan to match Aishe and Sun WooHyun turned into foam.

It was two in the morning, but the office lights didn’t go off. The ownership of Samaria farm was handed over to Black Mamba. Both Ombuti and the five Syrian people cheered. They had a single goal—to increase their master’s wealth and protect it. It was deep into the night, but the eyes of Ombuti and the rest were wide open.

“Wakil Commerce Company is located in an industrial region and located close to the capital. Why don’t we start up a textile factory at Wakil Commerce Company?”

“The movement of goods will be problematic. Chad’s transportation infrastructure is devastating. There’s enough water and manpower in Doba. There are plenty of construction materials in the farm, too,” Sun WooHyun disagreed with Ombuti.

“There’s not enough machines and trained employees.”

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll send some over from Korea. You don’t need to worry about the construction fees either.” Black Mamba immediately resolved Ombuti’s worries.

“Should we stop all the raw cotton shipments?”

“In the long run, yes, we should. You’ll have to decide when, Ombuti.”

“We need to construct a linter saw and a cottonseed oil mill too,” Mohammad said.

The linter saw was a machine that removed any remaining linters on the cotton after going through the press machine. Although people often thought of cotton wool, linters were core materials for fabric making. 10 to 15 percent of linters, both short and long, were fibers extracted from cotton.

Linters were also used as core materials for chairs, mattress stuffings, fabrics, rayon for tire cords, acetyl cellulose plastic, film, nitrocellulose lacquer, and gunpowder.

“You’re right. Samaria farm did a foolish thing by exporting all of their cottons to English businessmen, filling up their stomachs instead. We will be constructing a mill and a refinery too.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mohammad nodded at Black Mamba’s words. Cotton seeds were also crucial resources. Cotton seeds without linters that were pressed in the mill produced cottonseed oil. Cottonseed oil then became an ingredient for salad oil, cooking oil, shortenings, and margarine. Even the oil inside tuna cans was cottonseed oil. The shell that remained after cottonseed pressing could be used as farm feed after grinding.

“Korea’s cotton industry is quite advanced. It can provide all the necessary machines and techniques. Leftover cotton trees can be used as fuels after they are pelletized.”

“Ah, I didn’t know that. We’ll be able to make a profit by exporting them to Europe since they use Pechkas!” Mohammad exclaimed.

Getting rid of an uprooted cotton tree was troublesome. It could serve as firewood. However, to get rid of it, it required a lot of space and effort. Shoving it into a factory and turning it into pellets would be like gaining two birds with one stone.

“We must first use the cotton leaves and carbonized ashes to fertilize the soil in Novatopia,” Ombuti brought up another point.

“That’s a good idea. We’ll have to restore the nutrient-deficient soil.” Black Mamba nodded.

He didn’t waste his time in France. He had called over a specialist to consult about cotton farming.

There were various things he had learned from all the cramming. Cotton had no wastes. If he operated according to the waste usage method, he’d be able to increase the value several times over.

Moreover, he could also decrease the transportation costs by processing the cotton locally and shipping it as yarn. Locals would be able to find work if he set up a processing factory, and the regional economy would improve. He had no intentions of committing economic crimes like the Europeans.

At three in the morning, the factory’s operation plan was set. Black Mamba boarded the Gazelle with Ahmad and Jamal. Doba city was right beside the Samaria farm.

10 minutes later, the Gazelle landed at the Logone Oriental’s governor’s official residence in Doba city. The governor was struck by lightning during his sleep. In Chad, fists were above the law. The governor signed on the Samaria farm’s contract of share release after a slap.

30 minutes later, the Gazelle left the official residence. The governor appeared at his door with a basket full of cassava powder. Both of his cheeks were swollen, and a few of his teeth were missing. He scattered the cassava powder around the door frame, spat three times, and headed back in. It was a ritual to chase away evil spirits.

The day broke. The devastating scene appeared much clearer. Ombuti and Mohammad immediately directed the employees. They created a large hole and arranged the corpses in rows. The cult members and armband-wearing employees who died by Black Mamba and Jamal’s hands added up to 325. Meanwhile, 135 corpses were dragged out of the underground Vodou temple. The leaders of the rebellion—Barungo and Wadanka—disappeared into nothing but ashes.

Black Mamba raised a large rock before the grave.

Crack—

Crack—

His billion’s water armor dug into the rock, like wood scratching over and smoothening natural rock surfaces. He wrote an inscription on the smoothened surface with his Vajra.

[Leave the dead past, dead. Don’t believe in the future just because the present is comfortable. Live in the moment.]

[1] African spicy chili peppers.