Roland woke up in a cold sweat. He had, apparently, felt that the fetal position, fully clothed, and on top of his sheets was the most comfortable position last night. Through the lead cotton haze which surrounded his brain the events of the night previous tumbled through like ice into tumblers of gin. He smiled at his own simile, as he'd had enough fingers of the cheap oily stuff at the local pub for his own two hands and a few spare.
Him and his mates, they'd gone round to the pub for a quick drink when someone had started trouble. There were more and more of them these days, gorillas in black uniforms who thought that the crown on their shoulder gave them the sky above their heads and, more importantly, the right to spit a beer in the face of Buttons the Publican, who had personally rubbed Roland's back as he told profane secrets while lying tortured under the table and influence of wine. Buttons was a good man. He swore like a sailor and had called Roland and his upper-class friends a bunch of fairies more times than they cared to remember but, hey, that was Buttons. He was a nasty old man with one eye who drank on the job, but he was THEIR nasty old man with one eye who drank too much. And unfortunately for the offending patron and the gang of black garbed goons who had come with him, Roland was the son of Sir Kojo Pierce.
In a fight, more often than not, being drunk is a disadvantage compared to being, let’s say, sober. Very little indeed is on your side when you've got no choice but to swagger, lest you fall over. But, when you know this, you can play it off. And, when Sgt. Wood extended his hand briefly to shake Roland took it with the right and broke the half-full bottle of gin over the side of his head with the left. Young Mr. Pierce's friends, who were all fairly thick but good for a laugh, charged into the fray with chairs and laughter while Roland led the boys into glorious battle, gifted amateurs giving it to the professionals.
And the next morning, when Lady Von Heisenburg heard the news, she looked to her husband, the Knight Captain Kojo Pierce, and told him that they had a problem.
Things were not well, around the small but rich city that had cropped up around the cooling towers of the nuclear facility. Jarvis' bandits had taken a liking to the area, and the roar of their motorcycles could be heard in the distance even as they spoke. The Crown was demanding more and more tribute by the month in exchange for precious, precious uranium. People were hungry. Corporate Security was cracking down on the bulletsmiths that had cropped up around the sulfur quarry that had recently started digging just south of town. And now the horse doctor had three low-ranking security officers and two children of petty nobility because the firstborn son in the most influential noble family in the entire quarter of The Moon couldn't cool his heels.
It was time for young Roland Pierce to leave home.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
2040, Somewhere Along The Red Road, The Moon
Twitch sat hunched in the bushes, feeling the tendrils of a cramp rolling along his left calf. Down the hill, he could see the carriage dragging along the road towards the ambush that his boss had so carefully planned. They were down there, ready to send a great big rock hurdling down to stop them, while he had to sit all the way up here looking down Jessica's scope and hoping nobody spotted him. And still the oxen pulled the wagon, and still he sat like a stone.
Down near the road, Beano was breathing too hard. His eyes were wide. Jarvis, the so-called bandit king, was not happy with this development. Beano was nervous. Nervous, and armed. Beano was also new, he hadn't been around as long as Lenny or Scar, not back when they used to pull 10 dollar cons selling empty boxes of treasure and maps to tourists from the castle. No, he was here to shoot shit an' make money, lacking the finesse that Jarvis had come to expect from his boys. He tied on his favorite mask on, a black silk triangle with the mouth of a demon all curly teeth and brimstone, and he leaned down next to his horses ear.
"Baby, we gotta get a new crew."
As if this were the signal, Lenny's boys up the hill let the boulder go, about a decade too early. It crashed into the road and stopped like it should, but the god damned wagon was still yards and yards up the road. So much for the old boys. Well, it’s hard to find a clever man willing to get shot at for any amount of money. Jarvis bellowed, and out his boys came, 9 on horses and 1 in the hills, popping rounds in the air. Today was the payday, he hoped. Today was the day he betrayed his lads and his horse.
And there was the fella riding shotgun, the wood beside him exploding with a round just to his left. Ain't much worth to a marksman who misses all the damn time. The horses all around were kicking and neighing, and Beano was doing his best to waste bullets before he was nearly close enough to hit anything. The pinging of rocks echoed around the sun drenched desert basin as honest men fired out of the slits of the armored wagon, dropping Beano and his stupid hat. Lenny rode down into the road on a thunderous black horse, hammers akimbo, screaming like that would make him shoot straighter, like that would make the bullets swing around him. Jarvis shrugged, shooting his own long-barreled pistol into the kneecap of the shotgun toting gentleman who had been aiming to put a fistful of buckshot into anything moving.
And his boys rode around and around the wagon in a great wide circle, just like Jarvis had told them to, getting peppered with bullets and falling one by one, all the while pinging shots against the armored sides of the caravan and generally wasting perfectly good bullets. The marksman had done his job, the driver had collapsed into a leaking slump, the man riding shotgun was 200 meters back holding his knee and bawling like a child, and Jarvis waved to him. Twitch grabbed his bag of gold and started the long walk back to town.
And in the chaos and confusion, Jarvis kicked in the door, firing madly at the three men expecting their driver to be preventing just this sort of thing. The firing of his pistols, a distant popping outside, echoed in the hot metal chamber of the wagon, deafening him. While his boys rode around like wild idiots (there most only be four left), Jarvis holstered his hot iron. He placed his hand on the cool metal of his quarry. He touched its engines, and its handlebars. Gazed at himself, in his double-breasted white shirt coated with dust. Hanging off the speedometer was a pair of dark goggles, which he placed over his eyes, and the round helmet fit nicely. He smiled at himself. The demon mask seemed to accept the look of a motorcyclist without any dilemma.
He filled it with gas, and left the can upended, sloshing petrol around the room. He kicked open the rear door, threw the machine into gear, and flew out the back on his shiny new motorcycle, the wagon behind him engulfed in flames, his men immolating themselves trying to get at the promised gold that hadn't ever been there. On the road back to town, he spent his last bullet leaving Twitch penniless and oozing in the dusty sunset, while earthrise cast long leaden shadows on the prairie. For the first time in a long time, Jarvis the Bandit King laughed like a free man.
Down near the road, Beano was breathing too hard. His eyes were wide. Jarvis, the so-called bandit king, was not happy with this development. Beano was nervous. Nervous, and armed. Beano was also new, he hadn't been around as long as Lenny or Scar, not back when they used to pull 10 dollar cons selling empty boxes of treasure and maps to tourists from the castle. No, he was here to shoot shit an' make money, lacking the finesse that Jarvis had come to expect from his boys. He tied on his favorite mask on, a black silk triangle with the mouth of a demon all curly teeth and brimstone, and he leaned down next to his horses ear.
"Baby, we gotta get a new crew."
As if this were the signal, Lenny's boys up the hill let the boulder go, about a decade too early. It crashed into the road and stopped like it should, but the god damned wagon was still yards and yards up the road. So much for the old boys. Well, it’s hard to find a clever man willing to get shot at for any amount of money. Jarvis bellowed, and out his boys came, 9 on horses and 1 in the hills, popping rounds in the air. Today was the payday, he hoped. Today was the day he betrayed his lads and his horse.
And there was the fella riding shotgun, the wood beside him exploding with a round just to his left. Ain't much worth to a marksman who misses all the damn time. The horses all around were kicking and neighing, and Beano was doing his best to waste bullets before he was nearly close enough to hit anything. The pinging of rocks echoed around the sun drenched desert basin as honest men fired out of the slits of the armored wagon, dropping Beano and his stupid hat. Lenny rode down into the road on a thunderous black horse, hammers akimbo, screaming like that would make him shoot straighter, like that would make the bullets swing around him. Jarvis shrugged, shooting his own long-barreled pistol into the kneecap of the shotgun toting gentleman who had been aiming to put a fistful of buckshot into anything moving.
And his boys rode around and around the wagon in a great wide circle, just like Jarvis had told them to, getting peppered with bullets and falling one by one, all the while pinging shots against the armored sides of the caravan and generally wasting perfectly good bullets. The marksman had done his job, the driver had collapsed into a leaking slump, the man riding shotgun was 200 meters back holding his knee and bawling like a child, and Jarvis waved to him. Twitch grabbed his bag of gold and started the long walk back to town.
And in the chaos and confusion, Jarvis kicked in the door, firing madly at the three men expecting their driver to be preventing just this sort of thing. The firing of his pistols, a distant popping outside, echoed in the hot metal chamber of the wagon, deafening him. While his boys rode around like wild idiots (there most only be four left), Jarvis holstered his hot iron. He placed his hand on the cool metal of his quarry. He touched its engines, and its handlebars. Gazed at himself, in his double-breasted white shirt coated with dust. Hanging off the speedometer was a pair of dark goggles, which he placed over his eyes, and the round helmet fit nicely. He smiled at himself. The demon mask seemed to accept the look of a motorcyclist without any dilemma.
He filled it with gas, and left the can upended, sloshing petrol around the room. He kicked open the rear door, threw the machine into gear, and flew out the back on his shiny new motorcycle, the wagon behind him engulfed in flames, his men immolating themselves trying to get at the promised gold that hadn't ever been there. On the road back to town, he spent his last bullet leaving Twitch penniless and oozing in the dusty sunset, while earthrise cast long leaden shadows on the prairie. For the first time in a long time, Jarvis the Bandit King laughed like a free man.
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