The light was intense from 1000 computer screens. A white light interspersed with patches of
colour. The light blue of Facebook and the pink of a child’s face, usually smiling in the
profile photos that were aligned in a horseshoe shape around the silent black hulk.
There were 10 screens mounted vertically and 100 horizontally, creating a modern glass
screen suspended from cables of reinforced steel that reached into the darkness above.
But some of the screens had dark grey backgrounds with a black hand turning anti-clockwise
at their centre. 30 degrees at a time and twelve times each minute to make a complete
revolution. At the midnight position, the hand implied stop! Danger! A signal, warning you
away from the blackness beyond, where you would be lost in the bowels of the internet. The
hands resembled a reversing set of clocks with three fingers and a thumb etched in the
blackest of black. On each hand, the little finger was missing, creating a terrifying claw that
reached out from the depths of the screen. The glass wall had hundreds of hands that
relentlessly revolved until it was their time to disappear, as a screen saver was de-activated to
admit another electronic victim for an online chat with the faceless MM.
Madame Musseine, or MM as she was known to the children playing the game on her world
domination website. It was an electronic game with no consequences, a bit of a laugh with a
couple of letters to identify your foe. Word of mouth had made it a popular game to play via
the sponsored online app within Facebook. The automatic translation between English and
Chinese, Spanish and French and every popular language in the world made your distant new
mates appear stupid as their sensible comments were mistranslated for you but that made it
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even more fun. It was a fabtastic game because it could be played 24 hours a day, 7 days a
week, in real time across the globe. You against the world; a prime motivator in its appeal.
The huge leather chair creaked as Madame Musseine leaned backwards, her giant legs and
feet supported on a padded hydraulic rest, barely wide enough to hold the splayed fat and
muscle. Her arms were resting either side of the giant keyboard, especially designed for her
massive fingers to feverishly jab at the keys as she messaged the junior gamers. Her teeth
reflected the variety of colours emitted by the screens as she smiled, but the colours were
stained by the brown rot. She was the ugliest person on this earth with bulbous lips and a fat
nose, she had no left ear only a gaping hole. MM was dark skinned apart from the lighter
coloured scar down her left cheek, a memory from her first knife fight in the dock area of
Marseille, Southern France, at the age of ten. Her greasy black hair clung to the headrest until
she shook her curly but lank locks in frustration as someone beat her on the game. It was the
first child to win in that week and that made her snarl with anger as drool dripped from her
lips.
‘Techno!’ She howled the name and listened to it echo off the hidden walls of the volcano.
‘Techno, come here now!’ A shadow of a man slipped into the pulsing light of the screens and
grovelled beside her. Techno was 20 years old and had served his mistress for five years as
her geeky lap dog. Born in East London, he had run away from home at age 15, leaving his
younger brother and mum to fend for themselves. His dad had run away years before and
Techno was too scared to assume the responsibilities of running a house, of being a man, and
so he had run as well. It was in Marseille whilst earning a paltry living mending equipment in
a gaming arcade that Twip Twop had found him. Twip Twop was one of the first of Madame
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Musseine’s henchmen, a short and vicious albino from Greece. But Techno was tall and
gangly, with a mop of red hair above his thin white face. He kept his eyes to the floor as he
spoke.
‘You shouted me Madame?’
‘No you stupid man, I shouted you twice. Where have you been you lazy piece of scum?’ He
kept his head bowed and moved slightly away from her side but it was too late as her huge
hand slapped across the side of his face. He was hit so hard, that he felt the imprint of her
stunted hand on his cheek as it immediately glowed red with pain.
‘I’m so sorry Madame Musseine, please forgive me. I was redesigning the new stealth
gyroscope. So sorry Madame.’ He grovelled in front of her as she eased her bulk out of the
greasy chair and towered above him. At 160 kilos and 3 metres tall, she scared everyone she
met, so it was lucky the real world never saw her now.
‘Fix the program geek. I never want to be beaten again.’ After kicking him harshly, she
lumbered away into the darkness and headed for the distant light pouring through a metal
door set in the granite rock. Squeezing through it, she rolled her way down the long tunnel
that led to her quarters located 700 metres below the summit of Mount Kibo, the dormant
volcano that made up Mount Kilimanjaro. She made a mental note to see the gyroscope the
next morning and demand that Techno should resolve the issue with the hydrogen engines or
else... Tests had shown that water droplets created within the twin exhausts were visible on
radar defence systems and that was unacceptable. She would give him a week to resolve the
issue, and after that? Well, in The Black Hand Gang there was no ‘after’ when a gang
member had failed to meet her wishes.
* * *
5Jack George sat with his long legs outstretched and perched above his head as he slumped in
the red IKEA chair. Each foot lay either side of his PC screen, alternatively tapping to the
beat of The Ebb and Flow, the cool new San Francisco based band that all of his friends
hated. He brushed the wire of his iPod headphones away from his keyboard and messaged
Roger, also called the splodger, since tipping a can of emulsion over his parent’s best carpet.
The boys chatted every evening using Facebook, as they saw very little of each other during
the school term but that would end shortly when Roger Ponsonby-Smythe returned home
from Eton, the Public School, to the pretty village of Christleton in Cheshire. Jack lived at the
end of the village in a small red brick cottage with a central blue door. It was set into the
hillside near the golf course where the old sandstone quarry had closed in the 1930s. This was
the working class end of the village, whereas The Ponsonby-Smythes resided at the old
manor house at the centre of the upper classes, adjacent to the large pond with its ancient
ducking stool. Roger’s dad Rupert could afford it, as he was ‘something’ in the city. Dealing
in shares and all that, whilst his mother Maria went to the gym and ‘did lunch’ with her many
acquaintances, usually for this or that charity. Jack never called them Rupert and Maria, they
were always The Ponsonby-Smythes to him, Mr or Mrs, this respect was given by most of the
poorer locals including Jack’s parents. They were defined as poor because they lived in a
house worth less than 150,000 pounds as opposed to those of the rich worth more than one
million.
‘What time do you get home on Saturday splodger?’ Jack turned the volume up on his IPod
as he waited for a response. The screen was blinking, informing him that his mate was typing.
‘Luncheon, old chap. See you then what!’ Splodger always wrote and spoke like this, even
before Eton. Jack typed quickly.
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‘Luncheon? You great woosy. Is that a nice ham sarnie or caviar and champagne mate?’ Jack
tapped the keys harder, Facebook was slow tonight but the extra force could not budge the
electronic congestion. Maybe his dad was using the wifi again? Silly dad, he had no idea
what he was doing on the internet, he could barely find the football reports on the BBC
website until his boy had shown him how.
‘Look Jack, one doesn’t eat caviar on a Saturday. It’s like fish – one only partakes on a Friday
or Christmas day. By the way, has one seen the app for the world domination game?’
‘Huh?’ Jack kept it brief as usual.
‘MM’s app, I sent it to you as a game request last week. I tell you what, it is absolutely
excellent.’
There was a knock at the door and dad’s face slowly appeared as he gently pushed it open.
The top of his bald head came first before the green eyes and smiling but apologetic face.
‘Hiya, just a warning. Mum will be home in ten minutes so I suggest you get ready for bed
before she arrives. You know what she’s like!’ Jack arched his back making a bridge from the
top of his chair to the shelf of the PC table. At the age of 12, he was strong and athletic.
Already over 2.3 metres tall, he resembled Alex Strider in the films. A handsome boy with
blonde spiky hair cut to a number three and gelled. Jack pulled his headphones from his ears
with a pop.
‘What?’ His dad shook his head as he replied kindly.
‘I said mum will be home soon so get ready for bed mate.’
‘Okay dad, love you, night.’ Dad was dismissed and the head retracted as the door was shut
softly. Jack loved his dad Jonathan, and spent most of the week in his care. Jonathan stayed at
home as a househusband whilst his mum lived away all week whilst she was working on
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contract as an IS consultant. But the loss of his mum made Jack love her more. It also made
him more rebellious and so he opened the app for world domination instead of going to bed.
“Challenge other children across the countries of the world by selecting opponents and
trading the assets of your country. Gold and currency, kilometres of motorway and acres of
forest, your fishing or naval fleet. Every asset in your country is available to you to defeat
your global opponents who will use theirs. Be clever and use them carefully in this ultimate
challenge. Only the best will progress through 1000 levels of dominance to be the ultimate
leader of our known universe.”
The computer graphics were fabtastic as Jack quickly flicked through the asset lists and
names of the competitors in France. He knew some of the cities like Avignon since his school
visit at Easter and recognised some of the names from the exchange trip. “Sur le pont
d’Avignon”, the song rang in his head as he scrolled down the screen. There was tall Thierry,
Jean-Claude in his red jeans...I heard a car door as it was loudly slammed outside the cottage
and so he rapidly hit the off button on the PC and scampered across to his bed. Quickly, he
took off his ‘Man U’ T-shirt and pulled the duvet over his Adidas tracksuit bottoms. A minute
later, his mum Jennifer gently opened the door and walked smiling to sit on the side of his
bed. She leaned towards him and kissed his cheek. Jack resisted the temptation to wipe the
slobber away.
‘Hi mum, did you have a good week?’
‘Yes my love and tonight is the best part. Coming home to you and dad.’
‘And Timmo the dimmo.’ She tucked the duvet tighter around his shoulders as she
reprimanded him.
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‘Timothy is your brother Jack. He’s not dim, just four years younger than you. You know that
makes a big difference.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Whatever, whatever or fabtastic, you have a way with words young man.’ She said this in the
patronising way that mums did when they thought they were cool. ‘Both of you boys talk a
foreign language to your dad and I.’ He smiled at her. He desperately missed his mum during
the week but would never admit to it.
‘Not foreign, just the way kids talk like when they are at PGL.’ Jennifer patted his short hair
and immediately he smoothed his hands upwards to re-do it and look good asleep.
‘Mum!’
She sighed heavily. ‘See, I give up. What’s PGL?’
‘Parents Get Lost – you know after the adventure holiday company.’ Jack constantly dreamed
of a week at PGL. Kayaking, sailing, climbing and abseiling. It would always be a dream as
he knew they were lucky to have a single week’s family holiday in a caravan in Wales. She
leaned forward.
‘Remember to clean your teeth PGL man and remember how much I love you when you go
to sleep.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Wider than the sky and bigger than the sea.’
‘Precisely lovely. Now go to sleep and give your dad and I, our time. Nightie nightie.’
‘Pyjamas, pyjamas.’ He replied whilst grinning.
As mum left the room, Jack had a quick bout of guilt. He had cleaned his teeth two days
earlier, surely that was enough? Reluctantly he went to the bathroom but on his return the
temptation was too strong to resist and so he rebooted his PC and started to play the game. He
knew his parents wouldn’t bother him again. His first adversary, naturally enough, was Roger
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the splodger. Within ten minutes, Roger had trounced him by trading five cruise missiles for
Jack’s starting assets that had been assigned by the gamemaster – a mere two bazookas. As
Jack turned off the PC and crept quietly back into his bed he vowed two things. Firstly, to
beat Roger and secondly to become the best player on this new game called ‘the world of
domination’. He turned on his side and closed his eyes remembering the awesome graphics.
It was so realistic; it certainly looked like the greatest game ever.
* * *
As Madamee Musseine and Jack George peacefully slept, there was frenetic activity on levelthree in the hidden complex beneath Mount Kilimanjaro. Level three, contained the technical
department that supported The Black Hand Gang and was bigger than the largest sports
stadium in the world. It was gigantic, more than 50 per cent wider than Wembley stadium in
London, England. Sector one contained the computer servers and the advanced input
consoles, AICs, shaped like the shell of a snail. Inside each AIC was a 1.5 metre Visual
Display Unit, a twelve-speaker system including a sub-woofer mounted beneath the soft
yellow seat and several methods to both input and receive data. Most of the technicians used
the technology designed by Techno, called the encephalitic input and output device, rather
than an old-fashioned keyboard. They had nicknamed it “the brain hugger” as eight large,
sharp steel clips pressed onto their skulls to link their brains to the servers and thus send and
receive data. There were two distinct disadvantages to offset the one hundred-fold increase in
speed of data transfer. Firstly, the brain hugger worked better if they shaved their heads each
morning before starting work and secondly the clips dug deeply into the outer layers of thin
skin stretched across the skull, which caused hideous and protruding scabs to form overnight.
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Inevitably, these scabs were accidentally shaven off at the start of each day in the pursuit of
technical efficiency. The technicians were used to the daily pain this caused but found it
extremely tiresome having to stem the flow of blood with bits of toilet tissue.
Techno was sat in an AIC, his tired eyes bulged as he worked and his head oozed blood from
the two brain huggers he had attached. No one else had his giant capacity to process double
the amount of information but he was Techno, and that was the way his mind worked. He
slurped a slug of ‘fat coke’ from the can before popping an Oreo biscuit into his mouth.
Energy was paramount to get him through the night. He knew the game program needed to be
modified by 8 am on the coming day or he would be fried. He set an example for both hard
work and superhuman brainpower and most of the other technicians desperately tried to
emulate him.
Sector two on level three contained the engineering department. The gyroscope was stood in
the centre of it, in pride of position as five top Chinese scientists delicately screwed the new
gel shields into the exhausts that would absorb the bothersome water vapour. If the
modification worked, they would have to build 20 more of the flying machines by the end of
August, which was a tall order.
Sector three, and still on level three, was accommodation. Meals could be taken at the Indian
or Chinese restaurant, The Kentucky Fried Chicken and the ever popular McDonalds, only
few personnel used the boring canteen which served the odd vegetable. In fact, no one who
worked for MM was aged over 25 years and therefore most loved the junk food. All of them
had been secretly recruited during her ten-year reign that was building to the climax, a
worldwide terrorist attack. Now all the preparations were nearly ready, a few more months
and the master plan would be complete. At any time, sector three contained one third of her
workers. There were strict eight-hour shifts and beds maintained body warmth as one shift of
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workers vacated them ready for others to dive-in. The technicians though, had their own beds
and they slept when they could. But the workers didn’t dislike the swap-over as it paid in the
winter time. Despite the heat from the magma deep in the volcano below them , the extreme
altitude meant there were deep snow drifts behind their natural ceiling causing the cold to
penetrate into their meagre quarters.
Sector four on level three was the fun zone, which kept most of the workers happy. A games
area comprising 5-a-side football, basketball, tennis, table tennis and the latest gadgets from
all over the world. The star attraction in July 2013, was the new four dimensional gaming
pack that felt so real as one battled through the war in Syria or within the Mysteries of Mars.
In addition, the worker’s and technician’s pay was superb at cowing all thoughts of
insurrection. However, Madame Musseine was always concerned that someone would betray
her secrets. She paid each worker ten times the salary applicable in the outside world and
each technician twenty times the norm. The money was electronically transferred to any bank
of their choice from several of her organisation’s ghost accounts. The mens’ employment
contracts stated they could always leave with one year’s notice. But nobody left anymore.
There were too many rumours about what happened to the leavers...that was where the fear of
level two had started.
Level two. Immediately below Madamee Musseine’s private quarters on level one and thus
nearly at the top of the volcano. An ideal location to prevent any enemies from reaching their
leader under the peak of the mountain. Level two contained the muscle. Fifty secret
policemen for internal affairs and 100 ninja fighters, all men. There were no women in the
complex as MM wanted no distractions in her terrorist cell.
And then there was Biceps. The Frenchman was larger than MM. His huge muscled arms
appeared to be bursting from his black T-shirt but his waist was thin and his legs were like
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tree trunks – strong and thick. Above the monstrous body was a flat Corsican face, he had the
same coloured skin as MM and the same black lank hair. Some said he was her brother.
Others, that he was cloned by her first rogue scientist who had been her only friend thirty
years before. No one would ever know the truth, but Biceps was respected as her general and
feared for his ferocity in any sort of fight, whether it was with bare hands, any weapon, in
fact anything that could kill. It didn’t matter whether he was in a scuba suit or hanging off the
side of a cliff. The man was a natural born killer and would die rather than let anyone hurt
Madame Musseine. Why? The workers queried.
Because he loved her. That deep unrequited love, like a puppy dog for his mistress.
Therefore a volcano is a deceptive place in more ways than one. At nearly 6000 metres high
it is able to contain many secrets. The early explorers of the area in 1848 described the fear of
the local tribesmen and their reluctance to climb this mountain because of “resident man-
eating spirits”. Eruptions over the last 300,000 years have created passageways and caverns
that remain secret, only explored by Madame Musseine and her three henchmen. Level four
didn’t exist for the technicians and ninjas until they choose to leave MM’s employ. Level four
contained ancient waters that flowed inland 300 kilometres from the sea. Salty, black water
that was best left unexplored.
* * *
That was the volcano in Tanzania, near the northern border with Kenya, sandwiched betweenthe Serengeti and The Indian Ocean. It was a hive of activity but totally secret and guarded
for miles around by the Maasai who had been ‘bought’ by Biceps. Their job was to maintain
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MM’s external security and every tribesman within the area had sworn an oath of secrecy at a
traditional ceremony where they had drunk the blood from a sacred black cow mixed with the
beast’s own milk. In return they had been given guns to protect their families and fight their
enemies, the Sukuma tribe.
The added ingredient was 100 ml of their own human blood. This truly brought them close to
their god, Engai Narok, the black warrior.
It was also Biceps who initiated each of MM’s new recruits when they commenced work
within the volcano. In the depths of Level one was a small stream of hot molten lava and in
the flow of this stream was an island topped with a branding iron heated to 180 degrees
Celsius by the red stream that curled about its lower edges. Any new recruit pledged his
loyalty whilst stood naively afraid in front of the island, wondering what was going to
happen. The branding iron’s shape was simple but grotesque. It consisted of a hand made up
of a thumb and three fingers but with the little finger missing. The words for the pledge by
the recruit were etched into the rock holding back the fiery stream and ran like this.
“I join the Black Hand Gang knowing my life belongs to Madame Musseine. She feeds me
and protects me and makes sure my family are always cared for. In return, I pledge to her 100
per cent loyalty for the rest of my life.”
At the end of the nervously spoken pledge, Biceps who always stood behind the recruit,
would grasp their arms and push the left hand forward and onto the super-heated branding
iron. Madame Musseine would often lie in bed and listen to the screams as new apostles
joined her gang. The immediate pain lasted two to three seconds as the shape of the stunted
hand was burnt into the top three layers of skin but the lasting pain was from the loss of the
little finger as Biceps ripped the hand of the recruit off the iron and held it in flow of the red
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molten rock. He would sniff the aroma of burnt meat as the little finger roasted away and then
laugh uncontrollably when he finally let the person slump to the cave floor.
* * *
A scream had woken MM and so she rolled off the triple bed and lumbered towards herbalcony. She pressed a large green button and waited patiently as the louvres of the blast
screen silently opened. Stretching her arms above her head she stared at the savannah 5000
metres below. She could see for 60 kilometres or more. Immediately to the side shone the
pure snowfields and way below were herds of elephant moving towards the West in line
astern but resembling a trail of ants at this stratospheric height. Gazelle leapt from the nearest
watering hole as two cheetahs sped towards them. The killers divided, one to grab the neck of
the oldest gazelle and the other, the youngest, in a pincer movement. She laughed insanely, it
was good to be alive that morning. She spoke to the blue sky above.
‘The young die because of inexperience when they don’t understand the rules of the game as
they play and learn but the old die because they think they know the rules. However, not if it
is a new game! Now the world will succumb to me, starting with the young!’ Her cackling
reverberated off the rock walls and out into the fresh air and bright sunlight of East Africa.