| From: | chicken@********.net.nz (Jaimie) |
|---|---|
| Subject: | All's far from quiet on the mob front |
| Date: | Wed, 30 Oct 2002 18:32:38 +1300 |
>>>>>[Umm.... problem... assuming that my leap to conclusions about the hit
on the dealership being done by one of my fellow minions. How is your view of the shoot
the messenger school of thought? I recorded this at about 2330 yesterday...
+++++Being footage
The camera is high in the rafters of a half empty warehouse. Anonymous
crates fill the near half of the large building, and over the top of
them, the camera just takes in a card table and three chairs. One is
occupied by a human, or humanoid, anyway - one never can tell in an
awakened world. It's back is to the camera, and it's too far away to
tell even a gender. Four suited men carry assault rifles as they wander
around the floor, occasionally disappearing under the crates. A name
flickers above the head of the seated individual, a cheap graphics
effect that seems to indicate that this is James Calfo.
A door opens in the far wall, and a fifth suited man enters, stepping
aside as more people follow him in. They're a mixed bunch, a troll and
two humans (maybe). The camera starts zooming in as the group approaches
the table, revealing more detail. The one in the lead is a human woman
with plain features and a shaved head - she would look grim even if she
wasn't frowning, which she is. The troll, dreadlocked and dressed in
what looks like a homespun woolen poncho comes second, blocking the
third from view. The woman sits at the table opposite Jimmy the Hammer,
and the camera zooms in closer.
"You got balls, that's for damn sure," says a faintly east coast
accented male voice - the Hammer, presumably.
"I got brains too," the woman replies.
"And you mean by that..."
"It wasn't us."
"By it, you must mean my yard..." says Calfo, slowly, like he's thinking
about it carefully, "In that case, we'll cancel the hit. Call off your
dogs, D-Cup," this last with a raised voice.
"Funny," snaps the woman, "If we did it, why would I even come here?"
"To spin me some cockamamie fantasy story, I expect. Well, I got some
time, let's hear it."
"There's a couple of flaws in this picture you've got," she starts,
"One, where are we going to get the sort of ordinance used in that
attack? You've dealt with us enough times to know that we can't afford
that sort of stuff. Besides, where else are we going to get weapons in
this town? The feds? Two..."
"Outside," interupts Calfo, "You're a local cell, who knows what your
other groups can bring in."
"What? We don't work like that... we can't afford that kind of link...
you of all people should understand the difficulties involved in keeping
clear of the law."
"Apples and oranges... we got a different arrangement to you, omerta is
most of the cover we need. You damn hippies don't have our honourable
traditions."
"So we're even more cautious about creating trails."
"Maybe. Maybe not. You're a resourceful girl, you could have done it."
"We couldn't, and we didn't. Anyway, why the hell would we? You sold
some cars with dodgy emission control, so what. The Saedder-Krupp plant
just up the road is killing plant life in a two kilometre radius, we
would have gone for them if we had the kind of assets used attacking
your place. Somebody else hit you, and they're using us as cover."
"If that's true, then who was it?"
"How the hell would I know," she demands, a note of worry in her up
until now carefully controlled voice. It seems she had expected this to
go better.
"Maybe you should help us find out, make reparations that way."
"We're looking into it, obviously we have an interest... but I dislike
the use of the word reparations, it implies that you still think we have
some kind of responsibility here."
"Maybe you don't, maybe you do. The stone cold killer part of me says
grease you anyway, but that might be... hasty. Let me know if you find
anything out. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind."
"Thanks," says the woman, standing abruptly, "We can still do business
on the handguns? We need them for..."
"Yes! Now, please, go," says Calfo, massaging his forehead in a gesture
that implies an imminent ending of tolerance.
She leaves quickly, and the camera zooms out to cover her retreat. After
they're gone, one of Calfo's men, an ork with gold capped teeth,
approaches him, waiting hesitantly before speaking.
"Boss, you mean dat? I should call off the hit?"
"Yeah," Calfo replies after a moment, "Postpone it, anyway. If it wasn't
them, and we find out who it was, then we hit them and make sure the
relevant people know why. If we don't find anyone, take the hippies out,
and we save face that way. Give them a week, I guess. Have you got any
thoughts on the subject?"
"Not much," replies the Orc, "I know the Gunsmith ain't sold anything to
any out of town muscle, I saw him today and we had a chat about dis and
dat. But if dey were here to hit us, and they were smart, they wouldn't
use our services. I can get the boys going round the usual flophouses
where independant's might crash while they're in town for business, but
if dey're smart, they won't stick out any... I dunno. You thought about
internal competition?"
"Someone making a move on me... no, not in this town. Too many feds, too
much noise. Anything they gained would be tainted. Unless they're
playing a _real_ deep game, I can't see it. Anyway, yeah, get the boys
looking, ears to the street, all that drek. I kind of like that chick, I
don't want to have her killed unless it's absolutely necessary."
+++++End footage
So, if I'm not clutching at spanners, maybe you should get a warning to
the rest of our little gang...]<<<<<
-- XLR8 <01:30:04/10-30-63>
