| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Buying the Bar |
| Date: | Tue, 21 Jan 1997 23:16:37 +0000 |
>>>>>[It went okay. Easier than I expected, in fact.
Now to keep it.
+++++begin trideo
A nightclub, and a pretty sleazy one. Most of the women are Elven,
young, and their dress generally advertises their profession. Music
blares and two girls in G-strings are dancing with little enthusiasm and
less skill on the central runway, the only brightly-lit part of the
room.
Whoever's wearing the camera weaves through the dimly-lit club, ignoring
surprised looks from the people she passes, heading for the bar: walking
along it, the bartender double-takes when he sees her, losing seconds
and having time only to shout "Hey!" as she opens a door marked
"Employees Only" and steps inside.
The office is little better than the club, though at least it's cleaner.
A fat Elven man sits in a RealLeather(TM) recliner behind a plastic desk
covered in printout, chips and scrawled notes, and he looks up in
surprise, then grins.
"Well, well. Ice Cream. Or was it Ice Queen? Can't really remember. What
the frag are you doing back here?"
"I came to talk to you, Hot Dog." Easy's voice. Movement behind her and
the fat Elf makes a dismissve gesture: you hear the door close. Easy
never turned.
"That's _Top_ Dog to you, you dumb bitch. So, you get tired of playing
samurai? Decide it was too high-risk? Want your job back?" Top Dog
stretches in his chair, spreads his legs. "You're gonna have to
audition. I got lots of girls, and you'd need to really persuade me to
hire someone who's _just_ a dancer. My clients see a girl dance, they
figure she's... marketing the wares. They get upset if they have to find
a substitute. So, why don't you demonstrate your 'customer handling'
skills-"
"Can it, Hot Dog, I'm not here to dance." Easy leans over the desk,
looking down at the fat Elf. Either the room is hot, or he's naturally
sweaty.
"Then what the hell do you want?"
"I want to buy you out."
The fat man stares at Easy, then roars with laughter. "Oh, that's funny.
That's _funny!_ A few months ago you were dancing on my tables, now you
want to buy the club. Got to learn to give a decent blow job first,
honeybuns, a few thousand of those should-"
Easy holds a slim, gloved hand up to his face, and her razors glitter.
Top Dog falls silent.
"I said, I came here to buy you out. You should at least listen to my
proposal."
"Okay, okay, siddown and put the claws away. I'm listening."
Easy studies the damp-looking cheap plastic chair with distaste. "I'll
stand, thanks. I have some business plans. This place would make a
useful base of operations. I need it. I'm buying it from you."
"And if I don't want to sell it?" Top Dog enquires with mock politeness.
"I think you'll find my price reasonable." Easy replies calmly as she
wanders around the office.
"What were you thinking of as 'reasonable'?"
The Elven samurai names a sum: cheap for a nightclub, but then this is
Tarislar. Top Dog shakes his head and laughs loudly, though perhaps with
a nervous edge. "No, honey, you want to buy the club, not rent it for
the evening. Now run along and play with your toys, the grownups have
work to do."
"I don't suppose you watch old flatscreen movies, do you?" Easy, still
pacing, turns to face him directly.
"Why the hell would I want-"
"And you've never heard of the Vito Corleone school of negotiation."
"The what?" Top Dog looks puzzled as he mops his receding hairline.
"I didn't think so. It's a good technique, though, some friends
explained it to me, and I'll demonstrate it to you. It works like this."
Easy reaches into her jacket and places a sheet of paper in front of Hot
Dog. "That is a bill of sale, this club for the sum I mentioned."
You hear a soft click, Top Dog gasps in surprise. "And this is a Beretta
92 semi-automatic pistol. In thirty seconds, either your signature or
your brains will be on that document. Capice?"
Running feet and the door bursts open: you barely have time to register
the barman before he's knocked backwards by the coughing reports of a
silenced pistol, the shotgun dropping from his hands as he falls to the
dirty floor.
"Twenty seconds, Hot Dog."
"I got protection. I pay the Yaks to cover-"
"They don't really control much this far south, do they? And I already
cut a deal with Heihachi-san, he'll work with whoever runs the club
tomorrow morning. This business transaction is just between you and me.
Five. Four. Three."
"Okay! You mean it about the money?"
"This is a sale, Top Dog, not robbery. I plan to make this place a
fairly legitimate business. Instead of a fleapit where you can shoot the
barman and walk away with it. My money's good. Clean, certified cred,
drawn on Kingston Finance of Jamaica."
"Yeah. That's good cred. You're not going to just kill me and take it
back?" Top Dog scribbles a shaky signature on the document and sighs
with relief as Easy holsters the Beretta, then the Viper she shot the
barman with.
"It's tempting, but I aim to do a lot more business around here, and my
word needs to be good. Go check your barman. He might still be alive."
Easy's voice suggests she could hardly care less herself, as she hands
the fat man a credstick. "A pleasure doing business with you." Again,
the words lack a ring of truth.
As Top Dog hurries to check the wounded man - who's moaning "that bitch
broke my ribs!" - Easy looks around with what might be satisfaction at
her new property.
+++++end trideo
Why do I have the feeling that this was the easy part?]<<<<<
-- Easy <23:16:52/01-21-58>
