Chapter 2

Origazz

The sun rose and fell like it did every day in Booty Bay. Travelers came and went, goods were shipped in and out, people got mugged, and his crime ring was expanding. Life was good for Origazz, leader of the Broken Mast cartel and perhaps one of the most brutal mob bosses to be involved in the Steamwheedle affairs.

He was a goblin. Standing at an even three feet and two inches, Origazz was far from an imposing sight. Perhaps it was the row of thumbs he wore like a trophy about his neck, or maybe the pair of ogres that stood abreast him wherever he went. Needless to say, Origazz had what every Azerothian desired: wealth, power, and a great deal of respect.

The tiny greenskin watched as, far off and several levels above, the group of arbiters sent from Stormwind emerged single file from the warlock b*****d’s final resting place. Smirking, he turned to a pair of thugs waiting close by, one a human and the other a burly Orc.

“Go retrieve his wretched corpse! We’ll want a proper burial for the poor sob!” barked Origazz. The two thugs grunted in acknowledgement and disappeared into the growing darkness.

Torches began to emerge from the night’s shroud, illuminating the myriad boardwalks. With the setting of the sun, Booty Bay’s nightlife—one far more shady and illegal than the day trades—sprung into life. A sea of faces, some he recognized, others he had never seen before. They changed by the day. Some he paid no heed, others he wanted dead. If you owed Origazz something, he’d get it, or he’d get you.

The goblin chuckled at his self-absorbed thoughts. When you were Origazz, you could afford to.

He turned to look down the peer, watching carefully as a group of assorted laborers loaded a small supply boat with nondescript wooden barrels. Only a few were left sitting on the dock.

“Good,” he said to himself, looking towards a Forsaken garbed in a sailor’s uniform that was approaching.

“We’re nearly finished, Mister Origazz, sir!”

“Excellent! Your men know to be careful? That is expensive stuff you’re handling!” squeaked the goblin.

“Oh, yes sir! I’ve told them so many a time already!”

“Well, you can tell them again. Report to me when you’re finished,” he said, drawn to heavy wheezing coming from behind him. The two thugs had returned, something bulky and cumbersome wrapped in a sack carried between them.

“Wait, sailor! Get this on board too,” said Origazz, motioning towards the sack. The Undead cried out in surprise at the weight.

“Buckle my breastplate! This thing is heavier than a bloody basilisk! What’s it anyway, Mister Origazz?”

“None of your business! Just see that it gets on that boat!” he barked in reply.

The sailor left without as much as wince, eyeing the ogres fearfully.

“When do we leave boss?” asked one of the thugs.

“Soon, soon. I’ve heard word of others at Ratchet. All is well. But before the rest of us make the voyage, there’s still some unfinished business to do.”

---

An hour later, the sailor returned to notify Origazz that the boat was fully loaded, and ready for travel. He and his crew were given their pay, and sent on their way. But Origazz and his cronies were still waiting on the docks. The goblin had begun to tap his foot. The thugs looked at each other warily.

Origazz was getting impatient. That wasn’t good.

“Finally,” said the goblin, uncrossing his arms and raising them to the sky in a gesture of salvation.

A figure had emerged from the boardwalk gloom. A human, nearly three feet taller than the goblin. He was dressed in a frayed, sleeveless shirt of sorts. His pants were in similar fashion. His boots were moderately clean, save for a missing lace in the left boot. Perhaps the cleanest part of the man was his face, and the pair of wooden maces strapped to his belt. Without the low-brimmed hat, the man would have appeared as a vagabond. But Origazz knew him to be more.

“Brayden Joilis. You’re late.”

“Sorry Origazz. Got a little side tracked at a pub. Well, at least I think it was a pub—”

“What I don’t need is an excuse right now,” interrupted Origazz, “We picked up Faerok’s body. Well done.”

“Many thanks, Origazz. My pay?”

“Oh, of course,” the goblin said, pulling a sack from a flap of his vest, “A small gift for your services.”

Brayden reached a hand out to receive the bag. At the last moment, Origazz pulled his hand back.

“Oh, I almost forgot! Who should I make the payment out to? Not Brayden Joilis, of course, because that’s not your name.”

An awkward silence followed. Beneath the hat, the man’s face remained expressionless.

“While you were out taking care of the warlock, I had your room at the Inn searched. Your aren’t Brayden Joilis. Hell, no one is. He doesn’t exist,” continued Origazz, sliding the bag back into his vest.

The thugs were muttering, casting leers at the man.

“I don’t know who you are, bub, but you’re playing the wrong goblin. Do you know who I am?!” roared Origazz, on the brink of hysteria.

“Ooglie Biggs, otherwise known as Origazz, the boss of a leading crime ring known only as the Broken Mast,” started the man, loosening the straps on his maces, “Wanted by the Horde and Alliance for several counts of murder, extortion, and black marketeering.”

Origazz nodded nonchalantly. “Tell me something I don’t already know, you pale-skinned wretch!”

“Oh. And disturbing the peace,” added the man, watching the thugs slowly edge closer, “Your voice is so dreadfully annoying. I’m not sure if you’ve got a pair, but usually when they drop, the—”

“Shut up! No one insults Origazz! Kill him!” squeaked the goblin, pointing a tiny finger at the human. The thugs obliged.

The human came first, directing a fist at the man’s face. He side-stepped the wild blow easily. There was a loud crunch and then his attacker was on the floor, a bloody ruin where his nose had once been.

The Orc pulled forth a brutal one-handed axe, roaring as he charged the man. The first blow would have split the man’s skull, had his mace not intercepted the arcing swing, jabbing the head of the mace into the Orc’s forehead. Reeling back, the Orc had no time to bring his hands up as the maces connected with the sides of the Orc’s head. He fell in a heap upon the floor next to his bleeding comrade.

The man turned to face Origazz, breathing heavily as adrenaline began to seep into his veins.

“Ooglie ‘Origazz’ Biggs, my name is Stefan Dreis, and I am a bounty hunter. By the will of the Alliance and Horde, I am taking you—”
His speech was cut short as he hastily ducked a large box that had nearly taken his head off. In his right hand, the ogre held another large crate.

“Bork! Hork! Get him!” shouted Origazz.

A second crate hurtled toward Stefan. This time he was ready, and rolled out of the way. The second ogre closed in on him, a giant anchor clutched in its hands.

“Me smash you!” roared the ogre. It raised the anchor above its head.

Boom!

The ogre fell over, a smoking crater where its face had been. The other ogre took a moment to comprehend, first looking at its fallen brethren, then at Stefan, then at the smoking pistol in his hand. Understanding dawned with fury in his single eye.

“You kill Hork! Bork eat you for lunch!”

The ogre trundled over to Stefan, his apish arms outstretched. The Human rolled under the behemoth’s legs, then rose to his feet and delivered a sharp blow between them. For a moment, he didn’t move. Nor did the ogre. Then, the massive creature turned around.

“S**t.”

The ogre swept a hand outward, backhanding Stefan and sending him flying across the boardwalk. He skidded to a halt just inches from the edge. Recuperating, he cursed inwardly as he saw the giant ogre lumber towards him once again. Slowly, he stood up. The ogre picked up speed, until he was running full tilt at Stefan.

“Die oomie!”

At the last possible second, Stefan ducked. He rolled on his back, lashing out with his maces. He felt them connect with something, though what he hadn’t the faintest idea. His eyes were closed. He was relieved to find that when he opened them, the ogre wasn’t there. Moments later he heard a loud splash.

“Now, Origazz, it’s time you…” he trailed off when he found that the goblin had vanished.

“Where the hell…oh…no…”

The small ship had been unanchored, and was slowly pulling out to sea. Stefan sprinted across the peer, shouting and waving at the faint traces of Origazz.

“Origazz! Get off the boat! Listen, you need to get off right now! I’ve planted an explosive in one of the poison barrels!” he shouted.

“Hah! If you think I’m going to fall for that, you must be dense! I never took you for an ogre, Stefan!” shouted Origazz back.

“Listen to me you stupid gobbo! I’m not kidding! Get off that boat right now! The poison, it’s—”

Stefan was thrown backwards as an explosion rocked the peer. The night sky was lit up as nearly two tons of highly-flammable liquid combusted instantaneously.

---

It seemed like hours before his hearing finally came back. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. The boat was aflame, a single candle in the enveloping darkness. His head throbbed dully. He spotted his maces close by and eased himself toward them, gingerly strapped them to his waist while wincing at a pain in his right shoulder. Then he rolled onto his back, and exhaled deeply.

After that, there would be no proof of Origazz’s demise. Stefan sighed in defeat.

Something shiny caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He craned his neck about, feeling an odd pain that couldn't have been healthy. But he forgot all about it when he saw the sack that Origazz had presented to him earlier, and the faint glimmer of gold from within its open mouth. He reached over and pulled out one of the coins, admiring its shimmer in the torch light.

“Uther damn me. The things I do for you. And what do I get? A headache bigger than a sea giant’s rump,” he growled as he rose to his feet.

“At least now I can buy a beer,” he said, pulling the sack tight and strapping it to his belt, alongside his maces.

Bloodied and bruised, Stefan Dreis disappeared into the midnight gloom.