Fiction Friday: Crooked Part 1

The worst part of representing criminals is when they pay you with contraband.

OK, it’s cool I know two dozen guys who can get me whatever drugs I might fancy, but it gets annoying after they rake up those six figure bills. Worse, the one guy in Beantown I trust not to screw me in the aftermarket is taking a Caribbean vacation. The prick.

Still, you’ve got to play polite for The Money. Take this guy, James Falk. We’re waiting to meet with the other side’s attorney and he’s just sitting there twiddling his thumbs.

He’s real middleman’s middleman. So generic you’d think he was a corporate manager. If it wasn’t for the pawn shop he wears on his hands, anyway. He beat up some girl and she recorded it and, like a dumbass, he tried to scare her into giving him the evidence.

Thing is, this girl wasn’t stupid. She talked a guy from New England Security to keep an eye out on what she was doing. Falk got recorded *again* trying to attack her. Then he had a licensed investigator beat six shades of shit out of him “to protect his client.”

Whole thing on trideo and two simsense recordings. His boss’ boss asked me to keep him out of jail for a year or two and I took over his case myself. I’m a slippery bastard, but some people you don’t cross.

Let’s lay out our cards here. Jimmy is hella guilty. Jimmy is going to jail. Jimmy is only walking in the sunshine because I’ve played every card I can without making a run at NES. Sure, I’ve got enough clout with them to make much of this go away. But wasting those favors on Jimmy, boss’ boss or not, isn’t a winning game.

Thing is, I’m running out of moves. Ms Smarty-pants didn’t just hire New England Security to “investigate.” She got herself an attorney to take her case pro-bono.

Every yang has a yin. Mine is a dwarf named Nina Wallen. Overweight, in her mid-60s, and sharper than monowire, Nina is hell in a whatever room you put her in. Nina was one of the first dwarves born and ran away from her parents when her father killed her twin sister. Wallen isn’t one of those people who hit the easy life and lost her edge.

Nina has cut me off at every turn. No matter what trick I used to draw the proceedings out, she’s moved to block it. I’ve managed to hold the main trial off nine months, but the boss’ boss wants at least another six months of his boy walking. I can’t imagine why he’d want Jimmy Falk so accessible. Only thing I can think of is he wants an excuse to cut me loose.

If so, there’s going to be some serious trouble. Don’t get me wrong, chummer, I’m about as slippery as they come. But my arenas are all rooms: Board, court, and my personal favorite: Back. When bullets start flying I start getting the fuck out of dodge.

Which is to say I’m beginning to get fed up waiting for Nina to show up at this meeting. That- Ah. No. I won’t let her annoy me into a mistake. When I was a kid, I saw an old school Samurai flatvid. The stoic protagonist explained his discipline grew out of his mastery over his breath.

Slow breath in through the nose, down into the belly, and back out through the nose. Over and over. A steady wave of life-giving air pumping out toxins. In. Out. In. Out.

Jimmy interrupted my “zen when he dropped his pen on the table. Even with his eyes elsewhere I suppressed a flinch. It’s bad form. Before i could say anything the real wooden door of this conference room opened and the stout frame of Nina Wallen entered. She moved with precision, as if charging in slow motion.

That couldn’t be good. Habit reminded me to project casual indifference. Something else was wrong. Couldn’t place it, so I looked her over again. The usual understated-but-expensive shoes matching blouse and longish skirt. All a cherrywood to compliment her skin tone. Not a hair on her head out of place.

We made eye contact and it dawned on me what the problem was as I stood up to offer her my hand.

Nina Wallen was smiling.

I’d never seen the expression on her before. Her face was usually composed neutral. More for playing poker than being among people.

She matched my strength easy enough and I let a smirk play at the corners of my mouth. Nina is just bluffing. No one calls a settlement meeting from a position of strength.

Before the thought finished in my head I recognized it was wrong. That little squirrelly part of me urged the rest of me to take cover and run away from whoever was trying to take my nuts.

Heh.

“Good morning, Ms Wallen.”

“Mr Castiglione. Mr Falk.”

She pointedly did not offer a hand to Jimmy. She set down the synthleather padfolio she had brought in.

“I’m offering a one time 5-million dollar settlement. Good for 24 hours. If not, I’ll be forced to turn over the contents of this folder to the state.” She drew a business card and tossed it at me.

“Feel free to use the room as long as you need to deliberate. This copy is your’s. We have others.” And with that she walked away, her face returned to its usual inscrutability.

Falk reached for the padfolio, but I blocked his hand.

“Not here.”

I took out my briefcase, opened it, set the padfolio’s contents inside my briefcase, and left the folio on the table. Then I checked to make sure I didn’t bring anything else and walked towards the door. Wallen looked like she had just served a death notice. If she was right, there was no reason to let her enjoy the show.

“Wait. Aren’t we going to look a-”

“Come on. We’re burning daylight.” And with that I left. Jimmy Falk wouldn’t let me get too far ahead. On my way out I bid farewell to a few of Wallen’s colleagues and a secretary or two. First rule of getting anything done: Befriend secretaries. More skeletons have remained buried because a secretary was willing to help than any of us will ever know.

Falk caught be just before I hit the elevator. My next move was clear. Whatever “evidence” she was throwing on my client, she wouldn’t have pulled this stunt without reason. 5 mil? For Jimmy Falk? I focused on my commlink and had it send a message to a friend who knew Falk’s boss’ boss.

Might as well keep the old man in the loop. It was going to be a long day…

[Continued Next Week]

Fiction Friday: High Society Surprise

The following story was written as part of my second SR5 campaign. I was missing a session and still wanted karma so the GM said, “Write something.”

 

I did.

 

Introduction

Call me Peleg. John “Peleg” Bosleigh isn’t my real name. All you need to know is I worked in Russian Intelligence and had a few… misunderstands. Nothing too bad but it’s best to let my old friends calm down, you know?

Anyway, from Russia I spent a few awkward weeks in Japan. Nice enough people, but they don’t appreciate tourists. Didn’t take me long to realize there wasn’t much future in the House of the Rising Sun.

Circumstances reminded me an old buddy of mine got promoted into a research post in Evo’s Seattle division. A plan formed.

It started when I found an ametueur smuggler from the Confederate States of America who was, as they say, all hat and no cattle. New cargo in hand, I bribed the First Mate on a megaship headed to Seattle, got passage for two and the cargo crate filled with guns.

My lucky traveling companion was an alcoholic Japanese man I befriended at a karaoke bar after watching him literally shove a man’s head into his own ass. I still have the video. One keeps an eye out for talent.

Lining up a buyer in Seattle took a bit more work than I expected, ended up hawking the whole crate to a scary motherfucker named Lucifer. Runs one of the biggest gangs in the city. An all-elven gang called the Ancients.

It’s been six wild months since then. I think I’ve finally got all the ducks in a row. I’ve got a red-hot team of operatives, a ladyfriend who thinks I’m a business consultant for Evo, and plenty of feelers out. Just a matter of time before the bites start coming in…

High Society Surprise

I hate fancy parties. It’s not the boring people, the wasted money, or all the spies. Life is filled with boring waste and spies. It’s the exposure. A successful appearance at one of these makes enough of a splash to get you remembered in the light you wanted.

An unsuccessful appearance at one of these events could get you blacklisted or dead. At least, that’s how it was in Russia. In Seattle… I don’t know. This town is schizophrenic. The left nostril doesn’t know what the right nostril is doing and the hands are might be trying to kill each other.

But, I digress. I’m walking in on a five-thousand dollar suit I didn’t pay for. Any spy worth his Double-0s knows clothes may not make the man, but they give him his chance. It’s almost hard to remember I’m not here on business. The Lady on my arm is Francesca Meier. We met a few months back when I crashed a fund-raiser her father was throwing to support victims of Tsimshian Terrorism.

I’ve only really met two kinds of rich kids. There are the ones who look at their family’s wealth as their ticket to fuck around forever. And then there are the ones whose family wealth is a challenge to be overcome. It doesn’t usually take long to know which you’re looking at.

Francesca was different. She had the look and manner of a party-bunny but every so often someone would say something worth knowing and her eyes would narrow a bit. A few minutes later, perhaps, she’d find some reason to talk with whoever perked her interest in private.

She’s rejoin the group wearing the cutest cheshire cat smile you’ve ever seen.

Yeah, I’m attracted to intelligence gathering. It happens more than you’d think.

So I made a few moves, said a few interesting things, and made sure she knows I know I could have kissed her and chose not to. Blah blah blah, we’re living together now.

And so, a few months later, she’s dragged me to a bridal shower for the niece of a woman whose company my team is robbing as we speak. Heh. She rented out the ballroom at the Laubenstein Plaza, a savvy choice. Still high-class, it’s cheaper than the Westin or Lucas Palace while appearing to be for the aesthetics.

All this is running through my head while I’m providing friendly small talk with some of her college-age friends. After a minute or two, I’ve spotted all the visible security around, masquerading as valets or waiters. There are a few overt security guys too, for what it’s worth. I’ve never been to a wedding shower with 200-some guests.

It only takes me a moment to spot Karen King, directing a half dozen things next to the table for presents. Francesca parades me around like her new toy and I play my part. At least until I spot something which catches my eye.

I excuse myself to refill our drinks and slip into the crowd. Most wedding showers are intimate get togethers where avoiding attention is tricky at best. Luckily, this mammoth party makes it easy.

Which is good, because I spot Travis Shay wearing a bad wig and some decent make up and a rental tux. This is bad because Travis is a middle manager of something called, “Resource Development” over at Horizon. What the hell is a Horizon Johnson doing here?

Oh, Heh. He’s looking for someone. Of course, he’s here for some kind of asinine meet. He really does need to get better at setting his own terms. What the hell, I’ll say hello.

“If you’re looking for someone at one of these, it pays to check the food tables.” Before he can reply I walk away, dropping him a message via AR. Thank Svarog for datajacks.

—Peleg> Whoever sold you that wig isn’t looking out for you.
—Travis> What the hell!? You almost blew my cover.
—Peleg> No one is looking at you. Unclench. No one here looks like they have a care in the world.
—Travis> Fine. What horrible mess has dragged you here?
—Peleg> The worst. I’m on a date.
—Travis> Figures. Dating up again?
—Peleg> Only choice some of us have, omae.

He doesn’t respond to that, which is just as well since it takes me about that long to make it to the open bar. I order myself some gin and juice and one of those fancy drinks Francesca likes.

Before I could return to my waiting lady, a shrill scream echoed from the other side of the hall. Before I could even tell what happened at least six security guards were clustering around someone.

It took a few moments for me to realize they surrounded the space where Karen King’s niece Moriah was holding court. Moriah King stood staring down, shocked, about to cry. Her expression undermined both slender beauty and designer dress.

A convulsing woman lay by Moriah’s expensive heels. Her dress screamed Bridesmaid.

Seizure induced by poison? Before I could slink across the room another two people, wearing EMT clothes, charged in and begin examining her with a medkit. Nothing to do but stare. Best let them work.

I turned to find Francesca and almost walked into Karen King. Aunt of the lucky lady and the boss of a man my team was on their way to kidnap. Of course, I smiled and apologized.

She didn’t hear me, so I moved off to the side and sized her up. She had a look I’ve only ever seen in two people before. On my spycraft mentor and in the mirror.

The look means, “Something has gone wrong and someone will pay for this. But like hell will I let a damn person know just how angry I am right now.” The tell is in the eyes. Focus. Ice.

Not a natural expression.

The risks vs reward of interacting with her here versus avoiding here are… on my side for a change.

“Ms King.” I said, with enough force to get her attention, “I don’t mean to distract you right now. I heard some rumors from a couple of loudmouth ex-lone star cops about some secret project coming out of Ares. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

I offered her a business card which she took, half distracted and I walked away. I spotted Francesca, nodded to Ms King, and walked over to share the bad news.

After catching her up on the play-by-play, sans poison, we walked to Moriah and I stood by while they consoled eachother. It turns out Younger King and her now unconscious friend had play-fought over a piece of dessert intended for King. Her friend won, ate it, and almost immediately collapsed.

Damn.

And Karen King expected something like this, or those EMTs wouldn’t have anti-toxin on standby

Why poison Karen King’s niece?

The party’s energy, kneecapped by the screaming, built up again. Lots of details were poking around in the back of my mind, churning and getting nothing.

What the hell was going on?

Francesca slipped away from her friends and we rotated through the room chatting with her friends, old and new, alike.

And then I got that damn phone call. I stepped away to a corner without people, told my AR to route through my sub-vocal mic, and heard a voice trying to sound calm.

“We have a Mantis Scout in custody. We had to run it over with the Roadmaster.”

There are times in this strange affair we call life when a man hears something so outlandish he loses himself for a moment.

“… What!?” which I did NOT subvocalize. I brushed off the glances and found a service hallway to talk. Our hacker/medic Oni clarified:

“A mantis scout that is an upper level exec at Ares.”

I couldn’t speak. Here I was not 50m from the woman in charge of Ares’ Seattle operations. Ares. One of the ten largest megacorps in the world. With the third largest private military on the planet.

I must have made some kind of noise at this point.

Oni continued, “The target turned out to be an exec at Ares Everett who is a Mantis possessed man/woman”

“… did you get the data we’re getting paid for?”

“No, we captured what we thought was an easy mark. It’s the guy I researched. Only He is a She and possessed by a mantis Spirit. She is unconscious and laying inside the van.”

“Yes. I get that now. Strap it down. Do whatever you can to restrain it. Toss some explosives on it for good measure. Then get the data. I’ll see if we can find a buyer.”

My brain was spinning back up.

“Bag it and tag it? Do we interrogate it/her/him?”

“Fuck no. Gag it a few times. It’s an obstacle. I’ll see if we can turn this into some kind of profit. Freaking bug…”

“Yeah boss. I will keep Sparrow from killing Lilith. Oh joy.”

The fragile state of my brain rejected even thinking why our sniper adept would be trying to kill our magical support. There were more important things. Things about bugs. Bug spirits, I mean. What was it about bug spirits?

“Wait, is it one of those, uh, good merges?”

“Other than He is a She, it’s a flawless human merge.”

I spew an audible string of russian profanity. The shock wears off as I finish.

“Alright. I’m going to make some calls. Get the data.”

“That will require going back to the house or hacking its brain. A bit beyond our scope, boss.”

“Wasn’t hacking the house the original plan? Hell, if you can get… its commlink that should be enough. All we need to do is get on Ares’ servers long enough to find some damn proof this project exists.”

I was a little surprised I even needed to say this. Oni’s a solid leader and knows her trade well.

“His Comm is clean, boss. I get nothing. This thing is either really fucking smart or somebody is watching.”

“Doesn’t even have his login for the Ares systems?”

“First thing I checked. This stinks to high heaven, Boss. It’s too clean and he just moved here 6 months ago with a new elf wife who doesn’t even exist in the matrix before then.”

My mouth swears in russian for a few moments and I feel as clear as I was before I took this awful call.

“You sure you can’t break into his house?”

“Magically warded. We already know it has a mantis spirit living there. The wife is an unknown. If we walk in there blind? Fuck my life. Sparrow just pulled a gun on Lilith. What do you want to do? Shit is getting crazy.”

“We’ll deal with Sparrow later. This thing is our only goddamn lead and it’s already blown to hell. Stop at a stuffer shack and pick up some bug spray. The strongest shit you can find. Then drive south, stay as legal as you can. I’ll call back in a few.”

“Roger. Talk to you soon.”

By the time I’ve ended the call, I idly notice the mystery of who tried to poison my girlfriend’s ladypal reframed as irrelevant.

But I’m back in control. Breath steady. I take a moment and check my pulse. Steady.

I slide the commlink back into my monkey suit and walk back to the party, catching a glimpse of my face in a mirror. My delicate features are a mask. The only tell is the ice in my eyes.

I make a list of things I need and a list of who I need to call. By the time I return to the hall, I’ve fleshed out the first steps of a plan.
I followed the ARO marker back to Francesca, gave her a kiss on the cheek, only to have her shoot me a stink eye and say, “You’re leaving?”

“Duty calls, dear. There’s a train in my office and it’s about to jump tracks in front of an orphanage.” I stroked her cheek with my forefinger, “You wouldn’t want the kids hurt because I wasn’t able to peel myself away from you, right?”

She fake pouted, sighed, and, “Fine. But you’re going to make this up to me.”

I didn’t even need to fake a smile for that one, “My lady, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of doing anything else.”

She gave me that look.

And with that, I turned and walked away. It wasn’t even noon yet and this day had already gone straight to hell.

Fiction Friday: A Day in The Life

**Note: This is a story I wrote as part of the introduction of my current SR5 character, Vicar. His friends call him Carlos. You probably don’t need to know his name. The picture which inspired him is from a German SR book. Find it here.

It takes place in the Rox, Boston’s own Barrens. That’s super-ghetto for the jargon-impaired.

 

---

 

I fuckin’ hate the Rox.

My son, Levi, was awake till god knows last night so I figured it was a good time to slip out for some work. Kid should be asleep for at least 12 hours.

Well, that’s just me kidding myself of course. He’ll be up in six. SINless folks don’t have school to go to so it’s not like anyone cares if he sleeps past the crack of noon.

He can read and has, more or less, the whole of the matrix to learn from. Not my scene, but he loves it.

I head down the access ladder from our deliciously illegal loft. See, back in 2050, a bunch of goodie-two-shoes decided to try and gentrify the Rox.

They took a couple outer blocks and half-built some upscale apartments. Then they discovered the contractors weren’t just skimming a little off the top, but nearly half. And the Rox took in a few new blocks.

The Anvils, an all-dwarf gang, built up the building and we have a simple arrangement.

I pay them for this apartment, they keep stealing electricity and water from the ‘plex. Good people. The kind who prefer to stand in front of a stereotype and let people see what they like rather than fight it.

Gives ’em a lot of room to breathe.

Anyway, my day isn’t real planned. I load up my regular kit: An Ares Light Fire 70, two throwing knives, a stun grenade, and my lockpick set. You never know when someone needs to get into a car, right? Put the Light fire in the arm slide for easy use, the grenade in my duster’s pocket, tack on my cheap ‘shades and a smile on my face and I’m set.

I leave the shotgun behind the wall-panel where it’s hidden. It’s important not to leave guns just laying around for kids or cops to find. I need work.

Before I can plan my day all proper-like, I need to descend the fire escape to the second floor’s reinforced rubble heap. Looks like garbage, walks like stairs.

Time for a drink.

The block’s watering hole isn’t a bar proper as much as it’s a room with homemade synthohol and some tables. Even has an automated tab like the fancy people downtown get, from a few salvaged nexi jury rigged together. The bar doesn’t have a name, but it’s why we’ve got such nice matrix access.

It’s still before noon so the only one inside beside myself is the guy who runs it. He used to be a hardcore gangbanger before he decided to settle down and become a house-bandit. Picked up a few local tech-kiddies, got them to teach him how to hack, and set up a serious business.

Well, as serious as business gets in the Rox. They’re small time criminals, but who here isn’t? Anyway, Aric is good people. And some of the hootch he makes is even drinkable.

“Mornin, Carlos.”

“It’s Vicar today, I’m working.”

Aric sighed. We’ve argued about my name more times than I can count in the past few months. Still, I’m regular money and no one refuses that.

“Anything drinkable today?

“Nope. An ale, then?”

“It’ll do.”

I take my table by the corner and activate the burner commlink I’m using this week and punch in the code for the Nexi upstairs. Rather than surfing on what I’m told is, “last year’s shit” I let them do the hard work and use the burner to display.

As it loads up the wider matrix I consider what I need. Cash is low, though we’ve got a few months paid in advance. Might be time to hit up the guys at Tailwings. They usually pay well enough. If only they weren’t such cocks about smuggling. I pushed past my disdain and got to work.

I shoot off a half dozen emails to people I haven’t talked to in a while. I would have sent out a few more, just stirring the pot a bit, but a thought occurred to me.

Yes. Walkabout. Used to have something to do with coming of age in the Australian Outback.

Nowadays it’s about going for a mean strut and seeing what trouble you stumble into. Just the right cure for the mood I felt settling on me.

Aric handed me a “brew” and I chugged the fucker, headed out the door, and got ready for whatever heads my way.

It doesn’t take me long to realize Aric has been trying to brew slagging Hurlg again. What that bastard calls Ale the rest of us call poison. A single pint shouldn’t make a healthy dwarf in the prime of his life tipsy.

And he never puts enough nutmeg in. The philistine.

The first half hour of my walkabout is a bit loose. Most of the riffraff aren’t around with the sun out so high but every so often I see packs of gangs hanging out on corners and whatnot.

It’s not long before I recognize the tell-tale signs of street craps. A bunch of fools hunched over something in an alley, a couple of them flying colors looking out.

Easy money. Just need to put on the right look. I slumped my shoulders, stopped focusing, and meandered towards them. The trick is to look abusable.

I almost walk past them, but stop, appear to look behind the look-outs, and ask if there’s room for another. I make a point to speak to no one in particular.

They disagree and we discuss the matter at length, but my charm and innocence (faked, though it is) win out. There are four gangers crowded around with some non-gang punk and a woman who’s clearly slumming.

A glance to size up everyone leaves me with the following impressions: Limpy is a thin ork. Probably one of those grown-up Betameth babies. The runt of the litter. Smiles, clearly in charge, with one of them trusting smiles and “concealed” streetline special. He has to play Boxman and Stickman himself. The harsh lesson of the streets: If you want it done right.. do it yourself.

To Smiles’ right stands Aces, a cocky fuck. I decide if this goes badly, I’d cripple aces on principle. Human swine. And the last ganger is their Heavy. A reasonable sized troll, if there is such a thing, but he’s got little more than a chain on him. Too much tight fitting clothing, guys.

The other “marks” were fascinating, briefly. Slummer did a decent job of dressing down but didn’t skip a manicure and her hands aren’t covered in dirt. Sloppy, sloppy. And Easy is such a sap I immediately assume he’s a planted ringer.

That twitch in my stomach tells me I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, which only puts a bigger grin on my face. I’ve been in worse with less.

Smiles welcomes me over with all the “New Shooter!” pomp he can muster. It’s not a bad try. Really.

We get down to business without any more pomp or circumstance. We all bet and I roll.

I won’t bore you with the details of who bet what or whose dice were loaded or what they were saying. Let us be sure of two things: Easy was definitely a ringer. And I won more than Smiles liked.

“You’re a cheater.”

I looked smiles in the eye. When you’re lying to someone’s face, it always works best if you give them strong eye contact into one eye. People think it’s harder to fake.

“Like hell I am.”

Slumming girl’s eyes widened, “You’re a cheat!? I thought you were just lucky.”

Aces spoke up, circling around me, “No one’s that lucky, chicky.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re just pissy someone else is winning. Don’t be such a sore loser.”

I took a moment to reassess the situation. The money was floating in a temporary escrow account. They were using a cheap program to do it so they couldn’t close the betting till I made a bet. Aces was cutting off the only exit not covered by two extra mooks.

Between me and that fight were Heavy, Smiles, and Limpy. Getting out of the situation meant changing the balance of power.

I couldn’t be sure of a KO on Heavy. Limpy and Easy weren’t important enough to the gang and Aces was already ready for a fight.

My smile perked up a little higher. With a mental command I set my reflexes to max. This was going to be awesome.

I took two steps up the wall behind me and leapt six feet towards Smiles. In transit I pulled out the grenade in my duster, and triggered the slide which loaded my pistol into my right hand.

I then shoved the gun’s muzzle up to Smiles’ throat and held the grenade above my head with my left hand. Thumb on the pin. He went white.

“We all die, or you pay and I leave.” OK, it was a flashbang. But they didn’t know that.

With only a few moments before shock wore off and they realized they could take back control. I pushed Smiles back with the barrel and he moved.

We moved out of troll’s reach and held the grenade towards the still-stunned crowd. Time to get going. I pushed him as far as I could then eased off a bit.

“Transfer the funds. Now. Hands where I can see them.”

I took a steadying breath. Wired reflexes got jerky if you didn’t keep them under control. That was dangerous. I needed to appear unconcerned and in control.

Smiles took his commlink out and slowly pressed the appropriate buttons. My Commlink popped a notification I’d received 300nu. Not a bad walkabout.

My smile perked. Yes, again. I then shoved my left elbow into Smiles’ groin with as much of my weight as I could manage. His eye bulged and I renamed him Groans.

But that wasn’t going to be enough. I fucking booked it. Full speed towards the alley. The grenade would work but this just wasn’t a big enough score to warrant it. If I wanted measly 70% margins, I’d scam my way into a straight job.

I slipped the grenade into my pocket as I ran and got ready for the hard part.

Aces had already started chasing me before I’d even finished clearing his boss. Easy, Heavy, and Limpy were slower to start, but it wouldn’t matter much. The pair of lookouts weren’t going to just let me get by either.

So I did the only sensible thing. I tried sliding under them. Leftie swung a club wide, but Rightie almost got me with a knife. Bastard nicked my duster.

But I cleared them and ran a hard left staying near the wall. I knew, even as short as I was, I was probably faster than these shitheels.

Then again, I owed Aces a crippling.

So I stopped about four Meters past the alley and turned around into the firing stance my mercenary mentor had taught me. Both hands on the grip, spine elongated, sphincter unclenched. Deep, slow breath in. I knew Aces would break through his friends shortly. Dude was seriously tense.

As if on cue, he burst out of the alley first. I exhaled, sighted the knee he was putting all his weight on to turn, and fired. The little red dot of my laser sight vanished as his knee crumpled under him.

The gun barely made a sound.

With my heightened senses he fell in slow motion. Like some giant killer felling a mighty foe, I fucking rushed away. And the rest of the pile kept chasing me. Heh. Stupid fuckers.

Still, there are some problems with being so short. A few times I thought they would catch up, but after three blocks I’d definitely lost ’em.

I stopped a few minutes later and sat on the street and laughed.

Walkabout indeed!

Might pick up something nice for Levi on the way home…

Fiction Friday: No Respect

Tinkerbell shrugged. Some fights were avoidable, but didn’t his therapist tell him to embrace his feelings when he could?

Right now all he felt was the desire to punch this mouth-breather in the face.

He checked around the room before doing anything else. He recognized his townie victim, a shabby ork from St Kitts or some other nonsense Island, had more friends than he’d thought. The rest of the bar, though, looked like it was just waiting for an excuse to get in a good barfight.

Tinkerbell felt a smile creep onto his face and he large body relaxed a tic, lowering his center of mass somewhere under the ork’s head. Tinkerbell wasn’t a pretty troll, and his face alone should have warned M.B. he’d seen plenty of scraps.

But, some people don’t listen even to themselves. And there’s really no helping them. They have to learn the hard way pissing off someone almost twice your size doesn’t make you Einstein.

Tink realized the poor asshole was just showing off for his Lady Macbeth girlfriend.

Heh. heh heh heh.

Tinkerbell slammed his the bony plate of his forehead against M.B.’s nose things began to blur a bit. Evolution had seen fit to arm his people against concussions from headbutting. But it didn’t quite smooth out the fuzzies from head trauma.

Tink always suspected evolution had left meta-humanity incomplete.

The Ork still stood, but only as a technicality. Even before the impact of their heads, though, the rest of the bar erupted into a din of screams, breaks, and stamping feet.

At least now Tinkerbell knew why the furniture was so cheap. These little Islands never build anything to last.

M.B. tried to hit back but his new broken nose must have distracted him from the serious work of defending himself. Tinkerbell didn’t even need to move for the Ork’s punch to go wide of his shoulders.

Idly, Tinkerbell wondered if this was M.B.’s first concussion.

Then he noticed M.B. had left his beer on the table, still half undrunk. The shit-eating grin invading his ugly face perked up at that. It would be alcohol abuse, but sometimes a man has to do horrible things to live.

And sometimes he gets to do them for fun.

As Lady Macbeth went to try and pull her man out of the fight, Tinkerbell grabbed his wrist and picked up the bottle.

“Don’t forget your beer on the way out.”

M.B. struggled without success to escape and his Lady Macbeth wasn’t able to pull him from the larger troll.

Tink made eye-contact with M.B. for an instant. In that moment, they understood each other. M.B. didn’t want to lose his girl and figured he’d be able to impress her by beating up a troll. If Tinkerbell let him go, he wouldn’t pull this shit against anyone. He didn’t want to fight in the first place, let alone now.

But, really, he shouldn’t have said what he did about Tink’s mother. Civilized folk can’t tolerate such rudeness. Even on this unnamed Island theoretically in the Caribbean League.

And in that perfect, silent moment, M.B. recognized he was about to have a bottle broken on the side of his head.

For a instant, Tinkerbell let the slack go out of his hold. M.B. pulled away, not seeing where this was going. As the mouth breather extended Tink’s arm, the troll pulled back with all his considerable weight. And crunched the bottle into M.B.’s skull.

Two things broke and Mouth-breather the Ork collapsed bonelessly. Tink let the remaining beer pour out on the unconscious man.

Then he chuckled. His laugh was flat, devoid of real mirth.

It was time to get going. If he left now, he could be drinking down at the docks in a few minutes. These townies didn’t like the pirates who ran them. Yeah. That was the ticket.

So, at the height of a brawl he’d started, Tinkerbell strolled out of the bar slamming the door behind him. The night air sweltered with heat and the thick scent of jungle pawed at him him. He wished, for a moment, that he had a cigar to smoke on his way to the next bar.

He idly wondered what his therapist would say about tonight…