Author: wisecracker1
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Part One - Darwinism in Action
Predators hunt prey. End of story. But these kids are confused.
"Well, well, the great Wisecracker," This jerk calls himself Bullet-Biter.
"got nothin' to say clown? Hope so I want to get the rest of the bounty." He's one of those too-edgy-for-Paragon 'I play by my own rules' capes. Putz.
I'm bound, and suspended by the superdine-pumped arm of the group enforcer, a brain-dead goon by the name of Slackjaw. Bullet-Biter's standing behind the rest of his thralls; Macrosync, Agony Anne, and Silikill. They call themselves the 9th Circle Gang, and quite frankly, though bound and being held one-thousand feet in the air by a lummox with the brain power of a goldfish, I remain unimpressed.
"Bullet-Biter, is it? You do realize that WHEN I survive this, I WILL come looking for you, right?" I yawn. I survived being in the metaphysical essence of an over-the-hill crooner. I can survive a thousand foot drop.
"Not likely clown," Macrosync pipes in. "We did our homework. And for all that supposed Neuroactive mojo you got goin' on," he puts a metal finger on my forehead. He's first. "word is you can't fly."
"Got me there. But still, I wasn't planning on flying out of this." I snicker. "Care to venture another guess?"
"He's stalling." says Anne. Good guess. I am. But only because my timing has to be nothing shy of flush. Of all the ways out of this mess, and for me there ARE more than one, the one I got planned is best. "Drop him already, I wanna see if he'll bounce!"
"How's he supposed to bounce in water you twit?!" Silikill challenges.
"YEAH! How'm I supposed to bounce in water, you twit?"
Bullet-Biter's at rope's end. "Everyone shut up! You're both right. Wisey here's gonna practically splat on the water and he IS stalling." He eyes me, then Slackjaw, then me again. "Give my regards to the Devil, Wisecracker. You are dead."
I can't take it anymore. Hysteria overwhelms me and I laugh right in their edgy, 'play by their own rules' faces. It unnerves them for a second, but they take a cue from Bullet-Biter who is giggling with me.
"Heh heh... Better assassins than you have tried and STILL think I'm dead. No Bullet-Biter, you and the rest of your girl-scout troupe are the ones that are DEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA..."
I watch a lot of television. Iron Shift rigged Mountebank Asylum to pirate thousands of signals. Bunn and F.S.D nicked me cinema seats for XMas last year. Pretty sweet set up. You see, with all the thoughts running through my head it's nice sometimes to kick back and be entertained.
Approximately 8 seconds before I hit...
News, sitcoms, slasher flicks, infomercials, tele-evangelists, home-shopping, cartoons...
Approximately 5 seconds before I hit...
eX!SN - the eXTREME! Sports Network. No really, that's how they spell it. Was watching it the other night. eXTREME! Surfing from Australia...
Approximately 3 seconds before I hit...
eXTREME! Dune bugging in Baja...
One second...
eXTREME Cliff diving from Acapulco...
My body stiffens as the wave splashes up against the Cap au Diable platform. Feet together...
I hit. The wave. The impact speed. I timed it perfectly.
Flush.
I wash up, of all places, on Sharkhead Isle. Right on the doorstep of some kindly Scrapyarders. They cut me out of Macrosync's ribbons and relieve me of the cash I was carrying. They think I'm just some poor sap in a bad suit that's been thrown to the threshers. That's good. I even abandon my clothes, opting for some dreadfully plain garments. Man, I hate normie clothes. I hate not standing out. But I'm better off dead at the moment.
The 9th Circle Gang...
My thoughts, all of them, drift to them. Every cape and mask in the know's heard of them. There's a reason they call themselves the 9th Circle Gang you see. Each and every one used to be second fiddle to a major player in the Isles. All of them got sick of being sidekick and banded together. One by one they ganged up on their taskmasters, betraying them. When Macrosync's and Slackjaw's turned out to be too much for them, they sold them out to Wyvern - passed on the problem and came out looking like heroes. Since then, the 9th Circle gang's been working their way up the charts, stomping on young up-and-comers, and swarming over big-bads. Now they've gone and done it.
Congratulations kids, you've got my attention, heh heh.
I'm no fan of any villain not wearing the purple and black theatre masks, and I sure as Hades ain't no cape sympathizer. But these guys, the 9th Circle. They disgust me. Even the goodiest-two-shoed cape's got more class than these punks. At least the cape flies a flag. I know where he stands. Opposite me, and not standing for very long after, but he's got the conviction. All these punks are are opportunists.
I can wipe them out with a phone call. With a quarter I can ring up the Asylum, and have every Alienist scouring the streets. Every Mysterium agent would be scrying out their base of operations eager to hex the bejeezus out of them. My own gang, The Wyldekardz would be eager to dish out a beating. Two things wrong with that scenario. While I have nothing against painting the town red, or whatever color flows inside them, this requires a slicker approach. This 9th Circle Gang has been preying on villains. It's time to send a message. No gang, no Asylum, no hocus-pocus. Just me, baby. This is payback, my way. That, and I have no quarters.
I get back to Cap au Diable. And I b-line it for another type of despicable rat.
"Hello Wheeler!"
"WISECRACKER! Sweet St-Marty, you're supposed to be dead!" Wheeler's expression is priceless. Still, I have no time to savour terrorizing this flake. I have a schedule to keep. I grab him by the lapels of his cheap suit and shake him close.
"You don't sound too disappointed, Willy!? Maybe I AM dead! Maybe I'm here to haunt your pathetic hide for the rest of your worthless life!" I'm three and a half inches taller than Wheeler, but he outweighs me by 34 pounds. Were I a normie, he might have kept some backbone.
But Wheeler's too in the know. He's got big ears and a big mouth to match. Likes to drop names, including mine. He knows me too well to have a sudden courage spurt. He's heard about the Circle of Thorns who tried to shatter Mountebank's arcane defenses. He's heard about the Freakshow shootout in Hardway. He's heard about the Hellions who tried to mug me. Remember? I love to stand out.
The only thing that keeps him alive is that he's and equal opportunity snitch. He'll rat out everyone. Anyone stupid enough to entrust this weasel with anything of import doesn't live long enough to punish Wheeler for the cock-up. Indirectly, his incompetence aids the real players in the isles by weeding out those that are unfit.
"S-s-s-sorry Wise, I mean Mr. Wisecrack. Ugh...W-w-w-what do you want?"
"I need you to get me something from the 'Black." I yank him into an alley as an Arachnos patrol casually strolls by.
"I don't want my miraculous return from the grave on the front page of the Protector just yet either, understand Wheeler?" My eyes flare indigo, burning their way into Wheeler's nightmares for the next month. He stammers a reply that satisfies me as a 'yes'. I shake him loose. How can someone be so greasy? I explain to Wheeler crystal-like what I need. He pulls out that annoying little notepad and scribbles it down. No page is virginal, and its held together by scotch tape and prayers. I wonder for a brief instant how many screw-ups were caused by that notepad. How many wiseguys have met their fate or got shipped off to the clink because Wheeler's too cheap to get a Blackberry.
"And another thing Wheeler," I add. "I'll need the Boys. Get a Mountebank to take you to FSD. She can set you up if you give this to her. Other than that, tell her nothing. And not the usual 'you' nothing which means everything. I mean the Wisecracker version of nothing."
"Sh-sh-sure thing, Mr. Wisecracker. What the 'you' version of nothing?"
"Ask the Hellions that tried to mug me. That kind of nothing."
I shamble into a motel in Haven that makes seedy ones look like the Golden Giza. Free cable though, so I lose myself in nature shows, and Warstar: Intergallactica and the second half of Manchester United spanking Liverpool. The smallest portion of my thoughts is on 9th Circle. It's enough to ruin my channel surfing, and hence, my night. I've done horrible things to less contemptible saps for far less offense. I manage to surpress my urge for violence and change it to wrestling instead.
Three days pass and I get a knock at the door. There's Wheeler standing there with a ridiculous grin on his face and yes I realize the irony of that statement. I yank him inside my aptly modest accomodations and glare at him.
"Took some doin' Mr. Wisecracker, but Willy Wheeler always delivers." From a duffel bag that looks like it came from the same place Wheeler got his notebook he extracts a shiny black box.
"Are those?"
"Just like you asked, Mr. Wisecracker. Lucky I knew a guy, see he's a real..."
"Right, you bring the Boys?" I ask impatiently. I haven't seen the Boys in what feels like ages. Wheeler pulls them out. FSD, you're amazing. Twin custom Mark-XXIII's Screaming Eagles, .50 Action Express, and 14 inch barrels. Enough gun to make Charleton Hestin crap himself. Enough gun to put Viagra out of business. These guns don't stop at ten. They go up to eleven. Sexy beasts. The Boys. I focus on the smell of fresh gun oil, the roll of the rounds in my hand, and the good times come back to me. The Shootout in Hardway; The Grandville Job; Agincourt... it's better than cable. I hold them genially.
I replace Left in the left holster and in the right holster I replace Other-Left. Time to get to work...
TARGET no1: Freddy MacPherson, AKA Macrosync. Former sub-lieutenant to The Deletion. Now a member of the 9th Circle Gang. The first on my list.
The Double Sixes Casino, St. Martial. Back when the Marcones ran the show, this place was tops. Now Jackpot's more of a tourist trap than a cash cow, what with Sonata's golden monstrosity over in Babylon drawing all the fat purses. But for gambler addicts like Macrosync, the Double Sixes is just secluded enough to indulge 10% of a job well done. I'm standing at the entrance trying to work out a way of getting in. It's not the Boys that are holding me back. It's my lack of R-I Credits. Gotta' love this town. Guns are allowed in the casino, so long as you've got the cash. My answer comes in the form of a silver haired granny making her way out smiling Cheshire-catlike. I like old folks, especially natives of the isles. They've got salt and sand in spades. I strike up a conversation with her, and am struck dumb. Constance, that's her name, is sweet as pie. My touch is sensitive, so even as I beam at her story of winning big on the slots, I feel the conductive trigger on the Auto-Shock 6000 Anti Pick-Pocket device. I love this lady. Sweet, but smart. I lift her wallet and guffaw at her joke. I slip it into my overcoat without her seeing and flourish her a proper farewell.
"My, what a charming young man! I'd of thought there was no gentlemen left in St. Martial." she exclaims.
"Constance, my dear, I'm one of a kind!"
There wasn't any face-to-face sit down, or a dramatic game of poker where Macrosync had a full house and I manage a royal flush. No. Sorry to disappoint. I needed Macrosync out of his game fast. Mac's got a suit that can siphon energy from nearby sources. On the Jackpot strip, that could mean trouble. He's over by the roulette table, betting odds. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he gambles. Draw your own conclusions. I slip the black box out from my sleeve and palm it. The wheel spins. All bets are laid. I move. his eyes are focussed on the ball. Too focussed. I stand RIGHT NEXT TO HIM. I tap him on the shoulder and let my cheap sunglasses slip just enough so he can scope out my indigos.
"Remember me, Mac?" I smile. I put the black box, an Concentrated EMP Disruptor, right on his forhead. Before he can react, the device activates and delivers a stunning blast to the techie. His systems shut down right on the casino floor.
Stay Tuned
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