The Gaming Outpost

“Status check.” The man in the black pinstripe suit said.  He sat, easily visible in a blue convertible seventy feet down the road from Sothby’s.  Neon lights flickered and illuminated for a sparse part of a second, men in sports jackets, accompanying woman in glittering dresses on both sides of the nearly empty road.

“Front door dialed in.” Morgan said.  He was Lead Sniper, and Roderick, his observer would be with him.  Carefully, Johan did not turn his lean face with its coolly controlled eyes up to his left where Morgan lay on top of the Dresden Theatre.

“Patrick, I be. ” And then his voice slurred deliberately for he was in the far alley besides Sothby’s with a bunch of drunken bums.  He had to fit in or they would throw him to the wolves for a free whiskey bottle. “Passen nother.  You drake too…”

“You dance divinely, dear.”  Eloise spoke in the cut crystal glass accent that was a token of upper class in this universe.  She was inside, in a role as a young widow who had ‘sadly lost my peeky-sweety’ and needed comforting.  No doubt she had found many volunteers for the job, Johan thought with a wry smile.  Eloise was a verser like himself, although they had bumped into each other in this verse accidentally.  She liked to toy with men.  Her most hilarious story was of how she had led Whisp around by the nose for a solid three months before he realized he was not even, ever, going to get to kiss her.  The breaking point, she confided was when she tried to get him to gift her his multi-blaster.  That had opened his eyes, and sent him fuming into the night.

“Paolini here. Extra lock on the back door is …fully functional.  And I’ve retreated to have you, boss, in overwatch.”  That placed Paolini, the team cook, on his right behind.  He would have affixed a QyikSeal bar lock to the exterior of the back door, and connected it up to an RC source, and then ran (which he did regularly) to his spot on the top of Halsey’s Bank from where he could look and see Johan’s back.

“Good. We wait.”

Fifteen minutes passed, and he did it again.  And then as the crowds started up further, he did it again at the half-hour mark.

Two men in ill-fitting suits walked over to his car, and leaned in with smiles.

“Mr. Clart Renfield does not wish to talk to you.” The one with slightly brighter eyes said.

“Good, because I don’t want to talk either. I just want to serve him papers.”  I held out an empty envelope, and they stepped back as if it were a poisonous snake.

“Everyone thinks this lawsuit is a joke.” Sullen Eyes came up with.  I smiled back.

“Well, excellent then.  Mr. Renfield can have his day in court, clear his name of the charges of, hmm, let me see, ah yes.” They did not like my mockery, I could tell from their faces, but someone had schooled them carefully as they took no swing at me. “Treason in the making of that film, Columbian Carnage, that caused my client, the Upper Algonquin Movie Theatre Association a loss of 11 million pounds because they were promised a ‘positive, family-affirming film about heroic soldiers in difficult times’.”

“Thats what it was.  Now you scat.”

I smiled again, broader.

“No, I like the weather tonight.  I think I will sit here, and read my book.”  I held up a copy of ‘None Dare Call It Treason’.  “Very gripping indeed. You should try it…that is, if you can read.”

Bright Eyes came at me with his fist, but Sullen Eyes caught his arm just in time.

“Big boss say, no touchy. Least not now. We hit this wisemouth punk, and then the police go search Sothby’s.”

“And that would be a true shame.  Interrupting business at such a wholesome establishment.”  I said brightly and perkily as I could.  Sullen flipped me off, and Bright spat on the ground following his smarter friend as they walked off down the sidewalk toward ‘that hive of scum and villainy’ Sothby’s, where you could talk to Senators and crime bosses and movie stars and starlets over a connivial bottle of whiskey, and some happy powder.

The Establishment protected its own, and so despite the embarrassment, the Powers That Be were determined to protect Renfield.  It was a way of sending a message to the little guy.  Don’t even think about spoiling our fun with your cries for ‘honest government’ and ‘an end to crony capitalism’ and ‘loyal Columbians in government instead of jetsetting internationalists’.

But I had found someone in the provinces, a fairly wealthy circle of men, who were truly irritated that they had been rooked out of millions of pounds of money, and they, with a little encouragement from Eloise decided that they had had enough!  They’d sue the pants off Renfield, get their money and reputations back, and send a message of their own. Don’t mess with a country boy.

Do not get me wrong. It was not the little guy versus the big guy.  It was one elite versus another elite, but in differing groups.  The thing I liked about the provincial sort was they were fairly, well sort of, honest, and they actually cared about their communities.  Whereas Renfield and his lot were a bunch of vultures who would destroy the nation, and then move on elsewhere with their ill-gotten billions.  They had no loyalty, except to each other.

And so they had refused to open Columbian Carnage, and wanted cash and punitive damages.  Problem was, what with the local mob lords providing protection no one dared or could get to Renfield to serve him papers.

And then the three limosine convoy arrived. Out poured ten men from the first, and ten men from the last.  In the middle, out stepped Renfield with three, if I don’t miss my guess, fifteen year olds in short pants.  He looked happy, and confident in his black trousers and vanilla cashmere sweater.  The smirk on his face that I saw in the light of the Sothby’s neon sign made me clench my hands on the steering wheel.

“Don’t break your car, boss.” Paolini said from behind me, no doubt seeing my fury through his sniperscope.  He had no observer, but then he was carrying my personal rifle, the one with the smart shot system, a computer inside the stock that told you when to fire.

I breathed out, and stepped out of the car.  Eyes went my way, even Renfield’s for half a second, but then his eyes went away.  Naturally, I thought.  I was Justice, and the wicked flee before such.

A half-dozen guys came toward me, down the sidewalk, pushing aside other walkers, with their hands out.  They blocked the way.

“Look guys, I just want…”

“Get lost, fruitcake. Don’t you know how this town works?”

“Perhaps ‘Now’ would be a good time to educate me.” I said lightly, but with a definite emphases that instantly let these bruisers know that play time was over.

I stepped up into one of their faces, there is always one.  He’s a bit scared, a lot angry, and a blatant sign of disrespect is all he needs to go off.  His roundhouse went wide, and I stepped even closer inside, and spun to the right, fingerjabbing him in the chest, but softly.

He fell but slowly.

“I am a master of ancient martial arts.  One touch is all I need.”

They snorted, but at the same time, they cast a worried look at Mr. Rash now laying unconscious on the ground.  I waved for them to come get me.

Tap. Step aside. Tap again. Two more were down, and three more had joined them.  Tap the first, and then leap up on the hood of my convertible to escape the scrum.

I hit the scrambler in the lead in the face, hard, and jolted him into moaning night with a back flip kick.  They circled around my car, and I danced, and tapped, and then they were all down.

I turned and smiled at Renfield who was staring but fifty feet away.  He and his thugs recovered their senses and ran for the door to Sothby’s.  Now that no one was paying close attention, my two snipers really went to town.

Gel drops can penetrate a suit, and punch a powerful sedative into the body in less than a quarter-second.  Belief in an overwhelming power, and a gel drop can drop a man in a half-second.

I strolled forward as the twin gel drop reapers swung and harvested.  They avoided Renfield as he had to be conscious in order to legally recieve the papers.  He gained the stairs, and bolted up them toward the open door.