Gunslinger Foundation 2: Rise of the Gunslinger
19 Dec 2017Tarm Wallunga
(This entry covers the events spanning the first two weeks or so of December, 3303, for those interested in continuity.) Josef was our point of contact for the Revolutionary Party of Satio. With a name like that for their group, I had always thought they were a bunch of red and gold commies with a “share your spoils” mile-wide stick up their asses. But they weren’t. In fact, they were much more democratically aligned than all that, even to the point of contending with our present arch nemesis – the Sig Andro United boys – over an election for the new Port Authority Commissioner’s post at Abe Base.
All it took for Josef to open up to us was a few bottles of Lavian Brandy, and by a few, what I really mean is several crates smuggled in. At a discount, no less. Asshole took his cut right off the top, too, before even entertaining anything with black and orange rockers on it.
“It’s simple,” Johnny said as I lit up a smoke – just regular ol’ tobacco, not O; apparently, Josef had some allergy – can you believe that shit?? “We fly some of your missions, make Sig Andro look bad in the meantime by doing so, and you’ll have this election in the bag. The commissioner position will be yours by this time next week.”
I pulled hard on my cigarette, wishing it was O. Wishing also for some of that Lavian Brandy, even though I’m much more a beer man.
Beer. So low grade.
You were supposed to come home…
Shut UP!
I growl something under my breath, louder than I thought. Johnny and Josef (god if that isn’t the opening line to some song..) both stop to look at me, questioning looks and curious brows on their faces. I huff at them, drag on my cig again, blow it out.
“Cut the shit,” I say impatiently. Politics was never my forte. Give me a ship with cargo or a target, done deal. Backroom swill for cash and clout? Not so much. “You got the booze, and here we are, knocking on your door. Either we make Millerson look like an idiot, or we tell all of Satio – one point seven million potential voters – how you tried to bribe us to get onto Abe Base.”
Antal Millerson was the Sig Andro candidate for the Port Authority Commissioner’s post on Abe, and by now, everyone knows the Posse of Satio – who owns Abe – are thick as thieves (literally) with me and my Gunslingers.
I can see Josef’s face melt under my tone and inside I’m laughing my ass off. Dumb shit must not have thought about us maybe using this little meet up against him. With a chuckle, I blow out more smoke and toss a nod to the docking bay security camera blinking softly but resolutely from one corner.
The guns come out faster than I thought they would, truth be told. Josef snatched a small laser pistol from some hidden pocket, and all three of his buddies pulled theirs out with just a half-second’s delay. Johnny and I? Quicker than the dumb-shit bullies at Josef’s back, I can tell you that.
“Goddammit, Josef,” I snarl. For added effect, I call him Josef, instead of Yosef, the way his name is supposed to be pronounced. “Meet and greet,” I say. “This was supposed to be just a simple meet and greet.” Everyone’s watching me; I can feel all their beady eyeballs and gunsights on me. Fuck them. I got this. My guys got my back – Johnny and four or five hangarounds we pulled just for this task, not to mention the homefield advantage. The RevParty guys? Psht. Easy-peasy lemon pie. They’re not about this life, just scared.
I sigh heavily, letting Josef see my disappointment in this turn of events, and then step over to the crate of brandy that, moments ago, had been cracked open to verify it was what we had said it was. “No matter what happens in the next minute or so,” I say calmly, with only a hint of the edge of sternness I want to express, “there is only one way for this to play out that does NOT end up with you and all your revolutionaries filling holes in the ground outside Abe Base.”
I stop long enough to re-holster my Sigmund 580’s and then dig through the packing material inside the crate to fish out an unopened liter and a half bottle of Lavian Brandy. “See, here’s what could happen. You shoot. We shoot. We all shoot. And then every Gunslinger and Posse member comes from all over the system to shit on your chest, teabag your stupid faces and castrate all your man-bits – or lady-bits, as the case may be. We are an equal opportunity spite-fest, after all. And then nobody will ever know that the Revolutionary Party of Satio ever – EVER – existed.”
I got his full attention now. At first, I thought I might have to go into juicy, greasy detail about all the things we would do to Josef and his punks, but as it turns out, the mention of castrations was sufficient. Muzzles are drooping, and I like how that makes me feel.
I fish out the bottle I’m looking for, peel off the paper seal around the stopper and pull it out, all in one or two smooth motions. “No matter who shoots first, you, me, my people, yours – none of it matters.” I take a nice thick pull of the very expensive brandy, feel the heat coat my throat and all the way down to my stomach.
“The only way this works,” and here I offer my trademark smuggler’s cocky grin, “is if you deal with us the way we tell you to.” I take another, smaller, pull and then re-seal the bottle. “So, what’s it gonna be, Jo Jo?” I set the bottle down on the edge of the crate and rest my hand over its top.
I look him dead in the eye, refuse to blink.
When you close on a deal, eyeball the other guy. Don’t blink. Don’t speak. First to speak, loses.
Get the fuck outta my head, dad!
Guns go back to holsters all around the bay, and I hear a sigh slip out of someone’s lips.
“That what I fucking thought!” I snarl, and in one step I’ve closed the last bit of distance between me and Josef. Before Josef realizes it, his jaw is at an awkward angle and he’s picking himself up off the floor, rubbing his chin. One flex of my right hand and I’m already forgetting that I just punched him. I lean over him as he struggles to collect his thoughts and himself.
“The next time you or your shit crew pull a gun on me or mine, here or in space, I’ll have your balls roasting over my fireplace. You get me?”
Fear blanches his face, and then it turns beet red as his crotch goes something close to yellow. “Yeah, we get you,” he manages to stammer out somewhat coherently.
“Good,” I say as I straighten up and grab my bottle of Lavian fire-water. “Go clean yourself up. We can’t have Abe’s new Port Authority Commissioner looking like a two-year-old who hasn’t learned to control his bladder yet.”
I’m walking out, Johnny following, with the hangarounds closing in behind.
On to the next gig – I have a ship to steal.